Podunk Meets Paradise

Musings from Central Idaho

Archive for the tag “hockey”

Trolling for Sponsors Pays Off

Gentle Podunk readers will remember that I’ve been trolling for sponsors for a good many years with surprisingly little success.

All that has changed. My hockey team, the Cold Muthas, recently made an appearance in Podunk’s first annual Hoar Frost tournament. And we did so with the support of none other than Sturdy Pine Gear and Repair. Sturdy Pine’s motto is “Badass Bags for Badass Bitches,” so you can see how the Cold Muthas would be the perfect marketing vessel for this fledgling company.

Screen Shot 2018-01-01 at 9.56.34 AM

Plus, the entrepreneurial owner doubles as “Soup Can,” the Muthas’ star forward. To date, sponsorship consists of Sturdy Pine’s labor force repairing my shoulder pads for free. But this is kind of a big deal as the disrepair of my shoulder pads was giving me a shark fin look that I did not entirely appreciate.

Sturdy Pine’s sponsorship of the Cold Muthas has broken the so-called glass ceiling for commercializing the team. Now we’re in talks with a second sponsor — the maker of the Moozie. What’s a Moozie? you ask. Maybe one of the best things I’ve seen since I lugged a Sturdy Pine bag over my shoulder.


See, it’s a hand-crocheted mitten and coozy in one. The Moozie is colorful and warm, and best of all, when your hand gets tired of holding your high gravity beer, you can relax your grip and the Moozie magically holds the can on its own. The Cold Muthas signature version has these googly eyes that opponents find very distracting.

So far, the Cold Muthas only have one of these fine products, but I’m sure that when the manufacturer sees the fame and prestige the Muthas bring to the table, we will be more sponsored. Moozie, proud sponsor of the Cold Muthas.

If your company would like to sponsor the fierce Cold Muthas hockey team, drop me a line. Not you, Vagisil.

Return of the Cold Muthas

A few years ago, we started Podunk’s official ladies beginner hockey club — the Cold Muthas. We had big ambitions, like learning to get dressed and maybe even skate. For the most part, after 4 seasons, we have accomplished these lofty goals. A kneepad occasionally ends up strapped on the outside of a sock, helmets are put on before jerseys are pulled over heads, etc, but we’re getting there.

While I greatly admire the 75 billionish women who marched in capitol cities throughout the nation last weekend, I must note that few things are more inspirational than grown women learning to play hockey.

The tender toughness of my teammates grounds me in this world. For instance, with the combination of a seriously badass winter and the fact that our rink is starkly outdoors, the Cold Muthas new tag line has become, “Try not to cry.”


After 4 years, the Cold Muthas have started to have schwag thanks to our teammate Cruella’s artistic beau. OK, and in addition to “Try Not To Cry,” we also prefer to remind ourselves, “What’s Done is Done.” In stores soon!

Yesterday, practicing with possibly only one degree on our side, one of our star offensivewomen, Absolute Zero, was in grave danger of breaking that one small rule as her fingers turned into rake tines in her padded but uninsulated hockey gloves. McMitty, a delicate skater with a series of hip replacements on her resume, quietly came to the rescue. She compassionately attended to Zero’s impending frostbite with her cure-all oven mitt. In the Muthas’ season one, McMitty’s improvisational oven mitt /hockey gloves kept her hands warm. Warmer than anything, in fact. Absolute Zero accepted the kind gesture, persevered with the oven mitt, and went on to significantly contribute to our weekly scrimmage.


McMitty’s improvisational oven mitt/hockey gloves turn out to be hellawarm.

Today, we face challengers from the north in a 2 p.m. sideshow of the Salmon Lady Rapids U19 tournament. Zero managed to pen this elegant prose with her one cold paw still cradled in her armpit:

“Crazy or not, I’m a proud Mutha. I have suckled at the metaphorical teat of the Den Mutha  [author’s note: that’s me, the Den Mutha. And I guess I have a metaphorical teat.] for two winters. Like Ruth, I say, “wither thou goest, I shall go. Thy tournaments shall be my tournaments.”
Pretty sure that’s in the Bible.
At this moment I think of Eisenhower rallying his troops:  “We are about to embark upon a Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months…Our task will not be an easy one. Our enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle hardened, and will fight savagely. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!”
Muthas, I feel unfit for the task at hand, but my sense of duty and loyalty surpass my feelings of inadequacy. I would skate with you through the gates of hell wearing a gasoline g-string.

Mistaken Identity

The Iron Chef and I recently put another notch in our collective gluttony belts. I have a new job with the U.S. Forest Service, thank you very much, and I was sent to Bend, Oregon for a workshop. I invited the Chef a) because I’m an awesome wife, and b) Bend is the beer playground of the world.  bend-oregon-beer-map-07

We managed to tag on a little weekend beercation, coming home through Hood River. So I’m not saying that visiting 10 breweries in Bend and 2 wineries outside of Hood River impaired my faculties, but something inspired me to jettison my purse at the first brewery we stopped at in Hood River.

For the record, I’m not sorry. The beers we tasted at the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom were worth exchanging your firstborn for, much less a silly old purse with a net worth of my half empty Curiously Strong Ginger Mints.

When I realized my mistake, the nice people at Logsdon cheerfully agreed to mail my purse to Podunk. Problem solved.

Except that I had offered to take Odd Number to Boise for a hockey tournament. In a previous post, I reported on the City of Trees’ new hipster elitism. I even presented a certain unnamed establishment with the Too Big For Your Britches Jackwagon Award of 2015. I found the 2016 winner.

After watching 2 hockey games, I talked an unlikely fellow hockeymom into going to a nearby wine bar for a little nip.


The hostess asked for our IDs, which caused us both to giggle like school girls.

I explained that in a fever of approval for the Logsdon Barrel House & Taproom, I had recently jettisoned my purse. And then I showed her that I had crow’s feet that could legally vote and drink. The hostess moved back as I moved in. And then she called for the manager.

The manager tried to help me understand that Idaho state law requires me to show ID, and does not allow carbon dating or 90s trivia contests to be used as a substitute, as I was suggesting. And then, he turned me away.

The state of the world, and of the union, is in a fairly F*#@!d up state right now. Meanwhile, as surrounding states have legalized pot, Boise’s hipster elite are valiantly protecting civilization from fair-to-middle aged hockey moms sipping a glass of merlot. Congratulations, society, you’ve been protected.


Cold Muthas Rub Out the Icy Hots

Podunk’s premiere ladies hockey team, the Cold Muthas, accepted a challenge to play the Idaho Falls Icy Hots last night. I’m pleased to say that we were able to raise the victory flag with a convincing 4-3 win. The win was “convincing” because we were playing with a dirty goalie, a 14-year-old replacing her night’s babysitting wages with bribes from the crowd.

The refs were also supplementing their income at our expense.

The penalty called in this instance was "Too Many Muthas on the Ice." Bogus.

The penalty called in this instance was “Too Many Muthas on the Ice.” Bogus.

The evening provided me with a few insights. One of the Icy Hots, a statuesque youngish woman, sprawled forward on the ice, and bawled. Like a baby. Three highly trained medical professionals helped her off the ice where she promptly went — not to the emergency room — but to the bench, waiting for her next shift. Now, I don’t know what kind of handbook the Icy Hots have, but the Muthas agreed that if you lay on the ice and bawl like a baby without a compound fracture, you are no Mutha. I’ve got a player with two artificial hips, for criminey sakes. There is no crying in hockey.

Of course our training regimen is probably tougher than our opponents since we are coached by adolescent females. This would be an example of chariot races, where the mean teenage girls force the Muthas to push the already heavy net around the ice while they perch on top of it.

To be a champion, you must train like a champion.

To be a champion, you must train like a champion.

The Icy Hots do not train in this fashion. I could tell.

I’m not going to lie — I’m a little sore today. But I am questioning whether that was due to my performance on the ice or post-victory locker room shenanigans involving my sidekick Lucy (also known by her hockey name 2L Mutha) riding around on my back like I was her personal Shetland pony.

And I don’t think we ever came to resolution on the big question of the day, “Which is the better sports drink — chardonnay or cab?” Ideas?

The Big Questions for 2015


I am not immune to New Year’s resolutions, and this year mine is, “think less, write more.” That might mean counting on loyal Podunk readers to help me ponder some of the quandaries that occupy my mind space.
For instance, the Podunks are in Kalispell again for one of Her Royal Highness’s hockey tournaments. By January, we are already road weary from hockey travel. I start to wonder, “What are the chances that the hotel lotion and the hotel conditioner are chemically one and the same product?”

Winter 2014: I Peaked Early

The Podunks just so happened to be in Mexico admiring the Caribbean Sea when Podunk the town’s first winter deep freeze occurred. That was week 2 of November and I felt smug. But smug doesn’t last, and now that I am on holiday in Calgary, I see that the warm memories of the Yucatan are destined to be covered up by my form flattering insulated Carhartts for the rest of winter.
Her Royal Highness and I left for Canadia at the crack of 4 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving, foregoing proper digestion in favor of puck chasing. We were greeted with a proper trans-Siberian squall.


I don’t know what it means in English, but the Celsius version of weather here is – 22 degrees. Which is complete and utter horseshit. To add insult to injury, HRH’s hockey team played Mexico this afternoon. As in Mexico. As in, next time team Mexico, how’s about we give you home court advantage?

Does anyone have a remedy for scurvy symptoms brought on by chelada withdrawal?

The Stench

Hockey season is firmly underway. I am in Idaho Falls with Her Royal Highness and some other hockey chickies.

The girls are doing Podunk proud on the ice. But I am concerned that our Priority Club Hotel will charge us extra thanks to the odor from HRH’s hockey bag that have permeated our formerly lovely lodging.


Words fail to capture the heinous aroma wafting out of this bag. Little Bird, one of our hockey chickies, moaned, “It makes my nostrils burn.” And she is not kidding. I don’t know whether to leave a tip for housekeeping or oxygen.
And maybe some wallpaper paste to help with the peeling.

I have trolled for sponsors before, but this time I am gravely serious. If you are the maker of an odor reducing substance, I need you man. And Febreze, you need not apply. You do nothing. You are worse than the Glade Tower of Old Jello Smelly.

My Urban Triathlon

I should have spent last week training for one of my favorite Podunkian events — the 12 Hours of Disco mountain bike race. Instead, hockey reared its head again and I found myself taking Her Royal Highness to a player development camp in Salt Lake City. So while my teammates, the Lost Riders, were pedaling away, I was doing a little cross-training as a triathlete in Utah.

When you live in Podunk, finding one’s way in a metropolis is a challenge to say the least. It’s true I used a performance enhancing GPS (complete with Homer Simpson voice), but HRH added layers of complexity to our daily sojourn to the Utah Olympic Oval. IMG_5344She signed up for an AP English test at a Salt Lake City high school, for example, and only wanted to eat at restaurants where a left-hand turn was required. Then, Iron Chef joined us, and assuming I’d memorized the route from hotel to Oval, he “borrowed” Homer. People say Salt Lake was designed on a grid so there’s no way you can get lost. They fail to mention that the interstate system was designed not on a grid, but on a Spirograph. Needless to say, I considered Orienteering as the first event of my triathlon.

Then, there was the driving portion of the competition. I went from “watch for deer” to “holy shit I need to cross 5 lanes of traffic and could someone please ask all these semis and minivans to get out of my way!” I’ve never really considered NASCAR a sport, but I think I do now. The mental agility and the constant physical puckering required to motor amongst the masses qualified Driving as Event #2.driver view

The third and most difficult leg of my urban triathlon was IKEA. IKEAMy mom, the Notorious Babs, joined us for our Salt Lake outing, and we discovered that she had been to Tahiti, Peru, Austria … but never IKEA. “How hard could going into a furniture store be?” I applied my podunk logic. It turns out IKEA is swedish for “I KANT EXIT ATALL.” The IKEA concept, as best I can tell, is to fill a massive 2-story warehouse with futons and book shelves, and then create a funhouse-type path through every square inch of the store. Walking from end-to-end would be athletic, but do-able. But the IKEA maze helped me visualize how a human small intestine can actually be 27 miles long. By the time we got to the drawer pull part of the store’s intestinal tract, HRH had a racehorse-going-into-the-chutes crazy eye and Babs was limping. Unfortunately for all of us, our progress was impeded by the multitude of strollers in our way. IKEA had obviously advertised “Bring your unchanged baby to store day,” and not being locals, we came to the store unaware of this promotional. It was harrowing — I won’t lie — but I do feel somehow a little more prepared for my mountain bike race. The Lost Riders might not take the trophy, but I’ll always have the satisfaction of knowing I got out of that damned store.


Havre, Here We Come

Havre, Montana is an 830-mile round trip from Podunk, so I thought I would go there for the weekend.


Besides, my kid was playing hockey there. So, aided by Snow-o-Rama 2014, I hit the road with two 9th grade boys — Odd and his buddy Goalie. Thanks to a technological mishap allegedly involving Her Royal Highness making off with my music infrastructure, I enjoyed listening to static on the radio and the chatter of adolescent boys. I won’t lie, some of what I heard was disturbing. For example:

“Wow, Idaho is 50th in the nation for the number of kids who go on to college!”
“I wonder who is 49th — Mexico?”

We had a layover in Great Falls.

Great Falls snow storm. www.startribune.com

Great Falls snow storm. http://www.startribune.com

When we arrived at the hotel, staff were unloading piles and piles of luggage from a gigantic bus. The bags were too small for hockey players, too many for a rock band. Mannheim Steamroller? I guessed. But no, the front desk informed me this was part of their steady supply of Canadian tour buses.

What are they doing here? I wondered aloud.

“They are getting a break from the cold,” front desker told me.

Criminy cripes, I thought — internally this time.

Perhaps the Siberian cold, chilled with an arctic wind we encountered was unusual, I considered.

photo(1)But no. So now I’m intrigued about what kind of deep freeze these poor Canadians escaped from. And if they think Great Falls is a nice getaway in the dead of winter, we just might have a new marketing angle for Podunk.

I’m not that great at ad copy, so these are early drafts, but I’m thinking….

“Podunk. 45 degrees north, but if you are in Canada, that’s really south, so you’re almost at the equator.”

“Visit the Salmon Riviera. Our winter temperatures are Fahrenheit.”

“Podunk. When your Canadian megaloads came through, we didn’t protest, just gawked. Tarsands are neat. See, we’re friendly, too.”

“Podunk. Take your tuque off and stay awhile.”

“Podunk. Warmer, on average, than Great Falls.”

Sports Injuries

Last weekend, the Podunks split up — I took Her Royal Highness to a hockey tournament in Bozeman, and the Iron Chef took Odd Number to a hockey tournament in Sun Valley. It sounds glamorous, I know. Aside from the mega freeze in Bozeman that turned my hockey touring car’s battery into a useless rectangle, I was concerned about my hockey players’ health and safety. HRH was playing for two teams, and as luck would have it, her teams played back-to-back games 3 times. This shouts watch out for a sports injury, dehydration, malnourishment, unbelievable hockey gear aroma … you name the hazard, it’s present.

Skating in the Bozone.

Skating in the Bozone.

Meanwhile, Odd Number had been asked to skate with Salmon’s big boy team despite the fact that he is roughly the size of the U.S. Postal Service’s $8 Flat Rate Box, only empty. Watching a competitive and physical high school hockey game is one of the most exciting spectator sports on earth, in my humble opinion, unless your wafer thin son is one of the players. Fortunately, Odd came out of the weekend unscathed.

Her Royal Highness took a nasty spill in game 7 and careened against the boards with an upsetting thud. Still, she popped up faster than most of us can get off the couch after Sunday dinner. I, on the other hand, slept on my shoulder wrong, pinched a nerve, and nearly fainted from attempting to fasten my bra. Some things just feel wrong.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: