My dog was sick on the carpet too

There's a phrase from a previous post that's been running through my mind the past week:

"Life and joy intrudes."

Only I see now that it is grammatically incorrect. It should be "life and joy intrude." I liked that phrase--I was pleased with it--and now I see the truth in it.

Dear Bloggers, life and joy have intruded.

Last week The Boy got us tickets to see the hockey game at Philips Arena. Having been acquainted from work with the architectural firm that designed the venue, I was really excited to see the building that I've walked by so many times. It was embarrassing to admit that even after The Hockey Player, I've never been to a pro hockey game. I was with a goalie. He took out my front tooth fighting with me over a puck. And yet I never made it to a pro hockey game.

The Boy spoiled me thoroughly with excellent seats. "I think F is a close row," he said as we sat down six rows behind the home goal. Between the second and third period, he took me to explore the building and we walked up to the nose-bleed section and gawked at the difference.

"I'm ruined," I said. From above it resembled the metal hockey game my brothers and I had, where we'd pull a wire and move the plastic players up and down their destined paths. However, from our seats we could see the players grimace as their opponent's stick wrapped around their necks, whipping them down onto the ice.

In our seats I giggled with glee and smiled at The Boy. He was pouting over my college hoodie. I made a silly face and grabbed a handful of his nachos and shoved them in my mouth; neither of us had time for dinner. I turned back to the game but got distracted by the bright red on the giant screen. Look at that girl eat, I almost said.

Then I realized the red was a Georgia color, just like the one on my hoodie. And that girl packing away the food was me. Fatty was eating on the giant screen. Nice.

The boy behind me poked my back. "Hey, that was y'all on the screen!"

Yeah. I saw. Grumble grumble.

Empty nacho carton stowed under our seats, I leaned into The Boy with our second round of beers and concentrated on the game. The Capitals took a slap shot so hard the ref ducked and-

"OH SHIT!"

I screamed obscenities and hid my face in his shirt. The puck, however, slid into the netting in front of us and fell soundlessly back onto the ice. I thought I was going to die. That's how good our seats were.

"I thought the puck was going to break my face," The Boy half-laughed, hopefully feeling as sheepish as I did.

I don't remember anyone around us freaking out quite like I did. It reminded me of a story I had heard that morning: A guy had brought a date home to his apartment in a not-so-nice area of town. A car backfired, but his trained "ghetto ear" had him diving from his chair onto the cement of his balcony. No one else on the balcony even so much as flinched. When asked what happened to the rest of his date, he responded that there wasn't much room for romance after ducking behind her because he thought he heard gunshots. I thought I heard gunshots.

I thought I heard gunshots after gorging my face on the jumbo screen.

So life and joy may have intruded. Doesn't mean I stopped making an ass out of myself.