Adventures in Roller Derby – Part One

Last Thursday at roller derby practice, we were doing this awesome drill where we skate in a chain, hands on the girl’s waist in front of you. The first flavor is girl in the front pulling the string of three girls behind her. The second flavor is girl in the back pushing the three in front. An awesome workout, and really pretty fun. But…

After I had done my pulling stint, and was one back from doing the pushing turn, the incident happened. We were going around one of the curves on the track, and my wheel caught, I heard a pop, immediately said, “My ankle’s broken,” and sat down really quickly. It didn’t so much hurt, as I knew. Katie, who was behind me, managed to somehow not collide with me, but ended up falling anyway. (She’s completely fine, don’t worry.)

So, I laid down on the track, my foot at the most precarious angle I have ever seen, and the calls to 911 began. Two of the skaters called, and what seemed like everyone else, held my leg and foot steady, put ice on my forehead and held my hands. Everyone was AMAZING. I had met some of these ladies that night, and they all acted as if I was their sister.

First the firemen arrived. They cut off my skate , laces, tights, and sock, and caused the WORST pain I have ever been in; they had to very, very slightly straighten my leg to get it out of my skate (even with the super scissors). It felt like fire for about two seconds. That’s the only time I cried out and that is a bit of an exaggeration; yelped is more like it.

They wrapped me up in a pillow, ice and tape and once the ambulance got there, loaded me into the bus. Side note: While the paramedics and firemen were coming in and out of the skating rink, Gil. T gave me a play by play on the hottness of each of the emergency workers. It made me smile, even in that state, and kept my mind off of my horribly disfigured ankle.  Oh, I wouldn’t look at my ankle, and didn’t again until after x-rays.

Anyway, I was surely in shock because I didn’t have any drugs until well into my visit at the ER, and was still making jokes with all of the hospital staff, because that’s what I do. Everyone that came by had to tell me what a good job I’d done. The folks in the ER were amazing. We were waited on quickly, with humor and expertise. Best trip to the ER ever! I suppose it didn’t hurt that we had three sexy roller girls in our awesome outfits hanging out in the hospital.

Shawna, one of the awesome nurses, made me laugh so much, and she was funny enough even to give me an allergy bracelet with “Cat” and a lovely picture of a kitty, even though that thing is reserved for drugs, generally. I would love for her to become one of my friends as she was just plain old kick-ass.

We got in trouble with the security guard for snapping pics, but how else were we going to share our outing with the world of Facebook? (Which, you should head over to, to see all of the pictures.)

More to follow…

Derby-licious

Tonight after work I changed my skate wheels to a “stickier” set, in hopes of not falling on my ass quite so often. And, it seems to be working. Really getting tired of hitting my tailbone. Obviously, I need to work on the whole falling forward thing.

Last weekend was the last bout of the 2009 season. It was awesome. Though not yet skating in bouts, I did man the beer counter which was excellent. We managed to pull in over $1200 and $89 in tips to boot. And who doesn’t like being a beer bitch! ? (Wish I had an interobang on my keyboard…) All in all it was a great turnout.

I cannot believe that I didn’t join this sooner. It is fantastic. I love it so much! And, it’s making my ass look great too!

Not a Planner

Today I watched an episode of Dead Like Me (which I just found, and have decided I love), and one of the characters described people as being of two camps: bowling balls and pins. I think, for the most part, I have been a pin in my life. I have “gone with the flow,” or “drifted,” or whatever other cutesy name you want to give it. And, I have to say, everything has generally turned out well. I have a great job, great friends, and am generally pretty happy. Yes, there’s the whole love/partner piece still missing, but I think this will be the case for quite awhile. (Side note: I have realized lately that something is different in me, that something has changed when it comes to men, love, relationships. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is. It is kind of like a hole, or that my heart is covered in scar tissue and can’t really feel anything right now, and I’m not really in any hurry to let it feel anything again. So, we will come back to this some other time.) What do I want? I am blessed to be smart and crafty enough to basically have whatever I want in life, so why can’t I decide?

I’ve been thinking that I need a plan, so here are the basics of it. I don’t know where the plan will get me, but it is a start.

Things I want to do:

• Move back to New Orleans.
• Remodel a house in New Orleans (I can see this in my mind, and think about it frequently.)
• Play roller derby.
• Be an artist.
• Be happy.
• Be in better shape.
• Get another degree.
• Save enough money to have a nest egg.
• Pay off my bills.
• Buy a new-to-me Jeep.
• Find a way to do my job from Louisiana, or find an equally satisfying job there.
• Open my heart again.
• Stop wasting time.
• Travel: Mexico, Africa.
• Do more outdoorsy things.
• Not be lonely.
• Go to the dentist and doctor.

Pretty simple list, really. Some of them actually involve planning, and some of them don’t. And of course, this is just a sarting place. I am sure that I will edit/add to/delete things again and again.

I guess the next step is figuring out how to get to each of these goals? I should be pragmatic and plan and save and then move back to New Orleans when everything fits. But, I really don’t want to. I want to jump. I know it will all work out in the end, but I don’t know how I will do with the uncomfortableness that comes with jumping again. I am just now settling from my last jump and would kind of like to not do it again for awhile. But then again, I don’t want to get bored either.

Hmm… I can think on it, awhile, but not too long. Thinking is what makes people never do anything and only dream about it. I don’t want to live a life of regret.

New Writing!!

I woke up this morning with a story going through my brain. I am writing it down so that I don’t forget!  Will definitely have to work on it, as I think it has legs!! Enjoy!

I like frat boys. And boys visiting Bourbon for the first time from Kansas and Colorado. Usually they’re attending their best friend’s bachelor party, here for spring break or simply on that once in a lifetime road trip. And what am I? Well, I’m that local girl that they still dream about even after they’ve sunk back into their everyday life. When they’re sitting in their cubicle, or retelling the story about their trip to New Orleans (they’re all the same); even when they’re lying beside their girlfriend of going on six years now. They still dream about me. About us. About our night together in New Orleans. I’m their story.

I wasn’t always this way. And yes, I still love love as much as the next woman. But somewhere along the line, this way became easier. I always know the outcome this way. I’ll meet a cute guy in The Quarter; he’ll not be able to believe his luck. A local girl is into him. Generally I like to look like a bit of a bad girl, black corset top showing off my Day of the Dead shoulder tattoo, jeans and some funky heels. I usually wear my hair down or piled messily up, and depending on my mood, I may be the sexy smart girl by wearing my nerdy glasses. Boys love this look. Especially the ones with popped collars and too much product in their hair. I am not the girl that they date back home so of course they go for it. I am just about the antithesis.

If I’m not in the bad girl sort of mood, I’ll either go completely prepped out with my own popped collar unbuttoned a little too low with khaki short shorts or a mini and expensive looking sunglasses holding back my hair. Then it’s a nice surprise when the out of town boy gets to see that this girl who does in fact look like someone he would date back home, really is a bad girl when she takes off her shirt.

Like I said, I’ll always know the outcome this way. I’m not a prostitute, or promiscuous really; I honestly don’t get past some flirting and a kiss most of the time. This is just how I fill that need for male attention now. It is so much easier than having a boyfriend; I always know what will happen. We will hangout all night, and maybe part of the next day or so, but he always goes home. Some have promised that they would write, or call or come back to NOLA; whatever. And actually, a few of them do. But for most of them, I am a fantasy. Someone their girlfriend will never find out about. Someone their parent’s will never have to disapprove of. Someone who will not pressure them for a ring, or a promise or a relationship at all. I am just there. In New Orleans, and that’s where I will always be. He can dream about our time together as often as he likes; it wasn’t polluted with all of those relationshipy things that poison passion, lust, love. In that sense, we were perfect. If we were real, we wouldn’t be perfect, so that’s how we like it. It’s that promise of what could have been that is delicious. That keeps us smiling when our everyday life is boring, constrictive, or downright bad.

Boxes

I was shaken a little when I heard, but that’s just it–I was shaken, a little. Not utterly destroyed, not hurt, not really–much, come to think of it. Just shaken. As for you, and me, and US, well, I’ve put that all in a nice little box, wrapped it in kraft paper, using plenty of tape, and tied it all together using string and a neat little bow. Right now, that box is still in the middle of the floor, but soon I will tire of tripping over it and will put it on a shelf. As time passes, I will add more things to my shelf, and eventually, well this box, the US box, will get pushed all the way to the back, with plenty of other boxes in its way. I am sure I will come across this box again one day, probably several times since it will always be on my shelf, but only when I am looking for it.

Obnoxious, “I am Happy” Post

I am happy. As I wrote in an earlier post, happier than I have been in years. Happier than I was when I was with someone. I have ALL of my creativity back, which I am noticing was sorely missing in the last few years. I have been creating art like a mad man. Currently, I have quite a few zombie busts (they really are something; much better than they sound), several gris-gris, voodoo dolls, gangsta rap kitchen towels, and aprons ready to post for sale. Quite the assortment, and all wonderful (but I suppose I am biased).

And what else? I haven’t written much lately, though I should be. I have a ton to say; doesn’t particularly matter that people probably don’t want to hear what I have to say. But, I need to write it. I was actually thinking about offering myself up to the Internet gods and writing a series of essays about online dating. Though, to be honest, I am completely not interested in dating anyone right now. I am completely happy with myself. And, my last date left a lot to be desired.

Work is good. Friends are great. Life is good. Right now, I’m one of those annoying “happy” people.

There is no I in Us…

So, it’s been six months or so (counting back to around Christmas) since the breakup. And guess what? I finally feel happy. Not just better. Not okay. Not over him, but happy. In fact, happier than I have been for as long as I can remember. And this is the real stuff–this time it isn’t because of love, or lurv, or lust, or anything involving a boy. This is because of me.

I do think that it took one final nail in the coffin to get over him, or really my dependence on another half in the broadest of terms. And what was that final nail? Well, it was a wedding. No, no, not mine.

Two of my bestest friends were married a few weeks ago. They have been my f0undation here in Boston. When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I was thrilled, I had never been part of one before. And the fact that these were my friends, that liked me, that didn’t find me awkward or embarrassing helped a lot. And he had only met them once. These were MY friends. At the wedding, I met a lot of their friends from out West, and they liked me. They thought I was interesting, funny, and generally a good time to be around. I really, really needed that. I had it driven into my head for far too long that I was socially awkward and an embarrassment to be with in public. None of these awesome people seemed to think that.

So, I danced. I drank too much. I flirted with boys. I felt pretty. I curled my hair. I smiled a lot. I met people. I wore a lot of makeup. I had a flower in my hair. I was confident. I slept with someone else. I was hungover for days. I made friends. I did all of these things on my own, and was happy doing them, experiencing them with myself. I didn’t feel like I needed someone there to share these things with. It was enough that I was doing them. Oh how I’d forgotten the importance of I…

Elise and Anne, with Tim lurking in the background

Oh the Places You’ll Go… (Part I)

I have moved across the country three times for a boy — twice for the same one. Yes, three times. What does that say about me?  I don’t know, and am trying to figure it out.

The first boy was Jeremiah. He was on his way to Bible College (really.) in Seattle when I met him. He had stopped in Idaho to visit family. I met him at a party at his aunt’s house, and we fell in love quickly and completely. We were utterly unsuitable for each other. I am/was much more like the Bible School attending person he thought he wanted to become than his real self. Falling in love quickly and completely blinds you; you are only able to see the other person through a filter — not that I am saying anything new here at all; I realize that countless things have been uttered on this theme for as long as there has been love.

Anyway, as happens in all relationships, our true selves began to show through, and we weren’t at all what the other person needed/wanted. But, I (maybe we? I don’t know) was too stubborn to let go when I should have, and kept up the relationship for entirely too long.

Jeremiah bounced between jobs, was sometimes homeless, and generally unhappily searching for his place in the world. I was living at home, working a dead-end job, and trying to go to school at a second rate university. At one point in our relationship, Jeremiah had a breakdown. One of his best friends died, and he lost it. He went to the funeral, and spent the better part of a year following Phish around the country, even dabbling in selling weed to pay his way. He was gone. Somewhere in the Midwest. No cell phone. No email. No contact.

Instead of letting go (because we were obviously so well suited for each other) I tracked him down at his friend Jason’s parents’ house in North Dakota. He told me he was in trouble. That he had cheated on me, not then, as we were apparently not together then, but before — God was I dumb. That he was at the worst point in his life. So what did I do? I went to him. I finished my last week of classes, and met him in Minneapolis. Here, he was practically living in a van (I know; so weird that I got mixed up in this), and “living” with his friend Allison, who I am pretty sure made her living as a full fledged drug dealer.

Good God, what was I thinking? All I could see was love (which wasn’t even really there, the more I look at it), and it didn’t matter to me that I was putting myself in danger — drugs (not just weed, and not just using it either, though I swear I never touched ANY of it, still, just to be around it …), alcohol, so many illegal activities a thousand miles away from everything I had ever known. WHAT WAS I THINKING? How did I believe in the fairy tale so much that I could do that to myself?

Luckily, I didn’t last long. All I would do is hide in “our” bedroom while Jeremiah did whatever with his friends in the basement. One night, Jeremiah was gone, and Allison came home and started throwing things; I swear she broke everything in the kitchen. So I left. I got out of the house, and went to the park behind the house and hid until I saw Jeremiah come home in his van. Then I ran out and told him what happened. It just wasn’t working. This life wasn’t me.

Then next morning I called my grandma and she bought me a plane ticket home for that day. I think I was about 23, and I suppose that is an age where you are supposed to be messing up royally as I had done, but it still makes me mad that I let that happen to myself.

So was that it? Was that the end of Jeremiah? Of course not! A few months passed, and Jeremiah and I talked again. I had finally moved out of my parents’ house, and had found a great place in downtown Boise. It was pricey for me (at $500 a month!), but I knew that if I had a place then Jeremiah would come back (again, what the hell was wrong with me? how degrading is that?). Not that Jeremiah was a completely bad guy. I do believe that he loved me; he just wasn’t the right one for me.

So, Jeremiah came back to Boise (I bought him a ticket). I remember going to Savers before he got to Boise and buying him two new outfits. He literally didn’t have a thing. So, he moved in. It seemed like we were happy again. But, eventually our true selves showed through everything again. Jeremiah decided that he wanted to become a country music star (and guess what? he has.) and I wanted him to be something more suitable, say an accountant. Anyway, Jeremiah was embarrassed of me when we were out, and never wanted me to come and see him play (this seems to be a theme in my relationships — I embarrass him when we are out). Things got bad. I broke (okay, smashed, destroyed) his Martin. He wrote an album full of country songs about me. I moved to Louisiana. And that was that with Jeremiah.

A Bit of a Book Report.

I can’t think of anything super creative to write, so I will do this book report style tonight; at least it is writing! Have you read the Ladies No. 1 Detective Agency books? If not, I highly recommend them. I am an admitted book snob, and the series looks, feels, and the public likes them at a level that makes me want to turn my nose up at them. But you know what? They are actually very, very good.

I don’t necessarily know how to describe the why behind this, but the books generally leave me with this peaceful feeling, they make me see that everything is going to be okay. How does the author do this? I am really not sure, but I love to read these books immediately before falling to sleep. They put a smile on my face and generally make for an awesome night’s rest.

So what’s the premise? Well, I’m glad you asked. The series is about a detective agency (duh.) in Botswana. At first I thought the series took place in the past, but it is set in current Africa. The detective agency is managed and operated by Precious Ramotswe (who is traditionally built, i.e., heavy; I love that phrasing!) and Grace Makutsi. Not a whole lot really goes on at the detective agency (not that that is a bad thing, and yes, they do solve some fairly big cases now and again); this probably adds to the peaceful feeling I get from the book. Also, the ladies drink a lot of tea, and drinking tea is always thought of as the best way to think.

Bad things happen in the book. Deaths, AIDs, poverty and hunger to name a few, yet the positive, respectful attitude of all of the characters definitely gives the reader hope. No matter what, things will be okay. Simply beautiful.

Okay. I feel like I have done enough of a book report for now. More later; maybe.

Bob Dole and Hurricane Kartina

The week is almost over again. This weekend, I HAVE to move the rest of my things, and repaint my old bedroom. I am not looking forward to it, but once I am done, I won’t have to go back to my old place EVER again! Hooray! Then I can be completely in my new place.

I was thinking about Africa again today. I think that I have to go there at some point, or will dream about it for the rest of my life. But, that brings up an interesting thought, well to me anyway. Do we always need some dream to hold onto? I think this is how I have lived my life for the most part; I have only experienced a few moments actually in the moment. Most have been through hindsight or looking forward. Is this unique to me?

I remember being maybe seven or eight and realizing (I can see exactly where this happened too; on 10th Avenue in Caldwell, Idaho, in the backseat of my parents’ gold Impala) that it was so much better to look forward to going to the fair, and remembering the fair than it was to actually experience the fair. This theme repeated itself with dances, vacations, and the other moments of youth.

One exception to this that I can remember is the Republican National Convention in 1996. I can honestly say I lived every moment of this. I can remember exactly how it felt to get sunstroke in the harbor while waiting for Bob Dole’s boat to arrive. I can remember the temperature outside, and the way it felt to have Jeff’s arm around me when we were evacuated from the dorms at 2am. I can remember seeing a picture of Jeff and I asleep in a hammock in the sunshine, in the LA Times the morning after it was taken, realizing that we were a part of this huge event.

So what was different about that one event? I can’t put my finger on it–exactly. Though I do know there were differences. I was extremely excited. This was one of the first times I was ever away from home. This was the first time I had ever had slept in a bed with a guy (not that we had sex mind you). I took everything in. I hardly talked to my parents. I didn’t know anyone. And I had an amazing time. And it was crazy–something that most of the other people in the country were not experiencing for whatever reason.

Volunteering for Katrina was like this at first; eventually it got to be very routine, but in the beginning, it shared the same energy. The similarities between the two are pretty obvious. I was untethered–I entered both experience without knowing another soul. It was a BIG deal–one was a political convention that only comes along every four years, and the other, well, the greatest natural disaster our country has seen. During both experiences, I was a part of something so much bigger than myself, yet I still felt like I was a part of history; sound strange? That’s how it felt.

I also got quite a bit of attention from boys at both; something that generally doesn’t happen in my everyday life. What was it about me during those times that guys seemed to like so much? I liked me more during those times; maybe it is as simple as that?

I want to think about this and dissect it a bit more later. Something good to sleep on.