There Was Much Screaming, Much Stomping

Here's what I remember about last night: It's Game Two. I am standing on a table. Or the bench to the table. I am considering popping the guy next to me because he had, mere seconds before, turned to yell at me and Amy--"CALM DOWN!" he said as we hysterically screamed things like Oh my God, do not score on us! Do not score on us! Do not score on us in the last minute!--but I don't pop him. I know he was thinking those things, too, but he chose not to scream them in the banshee-like levels Amy and I were using.

I am stomping my kitten-heeled feet on the table-bench, and I am screaming, "SUCK IT, RANGERS!" I am pointing to one of the many TVs broadcasting the Sabres game and shrieking my love for all things hockey. At this point of the night, after too many vodkas thick with lime wedges, I am screaming how much I love my future husband, how good he is, how wonderful, how flexible, how beautiful.



I am watching Amy do victory dances to celebrate. I am watching her pump her fist. I am watching the entire bar high-five. I slap the hand of every bearded man--because almost every Buffalo boy is sporting a playoff beard right now--and I slap the hand of every person at my table. Twice.

It was a good night: