This evening, sitting at drinks after hockey, I had a moment. I have them on occassion (probably more often than I'd like to admit). Sometimes it's because I miss a family member, or my little big sis, or my dogs... tonight it was the Ballerinas.
I miss you porn stars.
My current hockey dames are cool, in an okayish kind of way. We play hockey, they talk over my head, around me, or occassionally at me, in Dutch. As much as I understand most of what's going on, there's a lot of babbelen that I miss. Especially when they branch off into pairs or groups of three and all have different conversations, which confuses the hell out of my Dutch understanding (because then I hear every third sentence from every other conversation). Sometimes, it's very lonely.
There are no Girls of the Playboy mansion characters. No Peaches, Cracksisters, Nandos or noombies. No goal celebrating "hiep-hiep-SooRAY!" and no banshee cries of "I'm just gonna go CRAAAAZY!" at a random midweek practice.
It's just not the same, you know.
So to the Ballerinas, please will you: flash some noombie, shake some ass - and raise a cane and cremie to your cloggie comrade who's having a nostalgic moment.