Finding My Skate Legs

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut

In case you haven’t heard, Wenatchee is starting a roller derby league. The Gonzo Mama can’t resist becoming a public spectacle, so I’ve signed up with Apple City Roller Derby.

The pre-registration packet said I’d need skates, insurance, and a commitment to learning a new sport. I love learning new things, and Obama’s cronies promised I’ll have health insurance. Riedell makes a vegan skate. (A bit pricey, no? Have I pointed out my PayPal donation button lately?) When I found out I’d be wearing hot pants and fishnet tights, it pretty much sealed the deal.

Nothing highlights cellulite like hot pants.



Did you know the nearest skating rink is in Soap Lake? Well, it is. I’m sure nothing pleased the proprietor more than the prospect of a herd of adult women in leg warmers descending upon the rink every weekend as they endeavored to find their “skate legs.”

Sure, we have some young ones – and by “young,” I mean under mid-thirties – but a large percentage of the girls are, well, like me. Thirtysomethings with kids, spouses or significant others, the occasional gray hair beneath the most recent application of L’Oreal, and some of us can even remember when all hair spray came in aerosol cans.

You know, girls who learned the facts of life by watching The Facts of Life.

Incidentally, I’ve noticed I’m beginning to get wrinkles around and under some of my facial features. I’ve also developed one deep crease between my eyes, which tells me I worry too much, and no wrinkles across my forehead, because nothing really surprises me at this point in my life.

The point of skating on weekends is not to learn the sport of roller derby, but to get us used to being on wheels. Not just wheels, but two-in-the-front and two-in-the-back wheels, because most of us were also alive for the inline skate revolution, but it’s really not the same. A lot of us haven’t been on quads in twenty years.

I assured myself of utter humiliation by taking my teenaged daughters to the first skate night I attended. Nothing makes you look like a stumbling old broad like being flanked by two agile teen girls who may as well have been born with wheels.

Nothing, that is, except a six-year-old dynamo who’s training for the national speed skating championship. This little tyke celebrated each corner by crouching down, grabbing her outside skate, and cornering on one foot. “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” I said. “Can you show me how to do that?”

The wee wheeler looked me up and down. “No... I don’t think so.”

For the rest of the night, she gave me the stare-down every time she turned a corner. I could read her thoughts: You can’t do it, you stumbling old broad!

Suddenly, I understood derby lust. That night, I learned what it really meant to want to send a girl home with rink rash. So what if she was only six? We’ve all gotta start somewhere.


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Skating with the Apple City Roller Derby Girls

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut

So, here's a quick update on my Year of YES:


1. I jumped into the freezing waters of Lake Chelan during Winterfest 2011. Dunked my head and everything. It was raining. The beach was ankle-deep mud. It sucked. But - I did it!


2. I've been skating with the Apple City Roller Derby girls. We're currently traveling an hour-plus to the nearest roller rink, just to get used to being on wheels, because we don't have a rink in our 'hood. I don't totally suck on skates, but there are a lot of derby-specific moves and techniques I'll have to learn before taking the skills test to compete.


Did you know there's a skills test? Well, there is. And it's going to be hard, if my current skill level is any indication.


I haven't had any major wipe-outs. In fact, I haven't fallen once! Which is why, I think, I have a false sense of mastery.


Perhaps the best part of skating with the derby girls is the excuse to wear all the cute skirts I've been hoarding in my closet. (See photo.) Plus? I can totally get away with wearing leg warmers for no reason other than they're badass when paired with a short skirt.


The worst part is definitely wearing rental skates. Ugh. I changed skates four times last night before finding a pair that were moderately structurally sound, and that was before I started thinking about the potential for athlete's foot, toenail fungus and perhaps even hepatitis lurking inside the boots.


I must get my own skates. Pronto.


3. Stand-up comedy is still on my list. I'm thinking I still have about eleven months to make good on this, so I'm keeping my ears open for an open mic comedy night, but not aggressively pursuing it at this very moment. After all, I have a cookbook to write and fishnets to buy, right?


How are you all doing on your resolutions?


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Shop Gonzo for the Holidays!

Do you have a reader on your list?

Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House is riotously funny, and at just $10.00, it's perfect for that office gift exchange. Or, snag a few copies and dole them out to your favorite mommies and daddies.

Front cover (click to enlarge)

Back cover (click to enlarge)

If you're in Chelan, pick up a signed copy at Riverwalk Books.

In Leavenworth, stop by A Book for All Seasons.

Somewhere else? Order online!

* * *

Every Gonzo Mama fan needs some swag. That's why the super-cool folks over at Zazzle are stocking The Gonzo Mama's gear this season.

Something for your beer lover? It's here.

For your little bow-wow? Check these out.

Key chains and flair? Yup.

How about SHOES? Yeah, baby! (Anyone shopping for me can just give me Zazzle gift certificates, because I want a pair of each of those shoes - even the "boy" shoes!)

We have tote bags, including organic-fiber.

Shirts? Hats? Neckties? Get 'em here.

Mousepads!

Covers for your iPhone and iPad? Yes, yes, yes!

Remember... by shopping Gonzo, you're supporting a worthy cause - and by "worthy cause," of course, I mean keeping The Gonzo Mama's Starbucks and Southern Comfort budget in the black.

Baby Booties… and Spare Me the Cracks!

Be sure to check out Coppertone.com
so they don't sue me and stuff.

It wasn’t too terribly long ago – in fact, it wasn’t nearly long enough ago – that I finally broke down, stopped shopping in the Juniors’ section, and asked for directions to the Misses’ section. The impetus, besides my hatefully widening hips, was the rising popularity of plummeting waistbands.

A whale tail! (Photo source)

Suddenly, pants for every female under the age of 50 were cut down to the pubic bone, thong chonies became mandatory, and the world became a sea of “whale tails.” In a country where the average female’s dress size is a ten or larger, it wasn’t a pretty sight.

Women stocked their lingerie drawers with strips of fabric to wedge between their butt cheeks. As if a pair of underwear that could double as an eye patch wasn't ridiculous enough, these were embellished with rhinestones, cut-outs, metal charms and beads dangling down the tiny back triangles.

Yup. You can get your own here.

If there’d been enough fabric, I’m sure every single pair of those chonies would have sported the slogan “GOT CRACK?”

I was desperate to avoid the entire fashion fiasco. There, in the middle of the Misses’ section at a “discount name-brand” store, I found a line of denim that promised to preserve my dignity. I’m not going to name names, but it rhymes with Dee Kay En Why. The perfect pair of jeans waited for me, over in the grown-up clothing section. They fit like a dream, covered all the junk in my trunk, and sported a discreetly beautiful “4” on the tag.

I’m not stupid. I know when someone is stretching the truth – and the denim. Still, if my husband or a designer tells me my butt is a size four, I’m going to hold on to that dream, and rip to shreds anyone who might suggest I’m closer to an eight. Dee Kay En Why, indeed. I’ll tell you why… I love her because she has the decency to lie to me. Calvin who?

When Cosmopolitan trumpeted the death of the thong and celebrated the birth of boy shorts, I rejoiced. No more perma-wedgie! No more whale tails! No more butt cleavage!

Now, the problem is my kids.

It’s not my two teen sons with the slouchy pants. They have the good sense to wear boxer shorts and, as unappealing as that is, it saves the world from witnessing their still-developing can crevices. Let’s face it – there’ll be plenty of time for exposure during middle age.

Doesn't this sight make you wanna shoot someone in the butt?
Seriously... read this story at the photo source.

It’s not my teen girls who, thankfully, had the modesty to cover their posterior décolleté fashion mishaps with extra-long layered tees.

Order this one here and cover that tush!

No… it’s my four- and five-year old daughters who are rockin’ the booty cleavage these days. Their birth mother is a tiny twig of a thing, and my poor girls were born without the benefit of hips, a “bottom shelf,” or any other physical attribute that would hold up a pair of pants. Kids’ pants are often made with adjustable elastic fittings inside the waistband these days, and even those don’t help. It’s like trying to get a Cheerio to stay up around the middle of a dry spaghetti noodle.

Summers are easy enough. The girls live in sun dresses for the season, effectively covering their peek-a-booties, but when colder weather sets in, it becomes more difficult. We’ve tried overalls and found them not only ridiculously complicated during potty time, but also ill-designed for my long-bodied babies. To get the tops of the one-piece monstrosities to fit, the legs have to be about four inches too long.

Perhaps there’s still a market for tiny, bejeweled panties. They’ll just have to be much, much smaller...

Perhaps We've Been Married Too Long

A few days ago, I found myself with some extra time. Instead of contemplating the rose garden I never intend to plant, outlining my next novel, or polishing my shoes, I decided to take a shower.

That's right - it was before bedtime for the toddlers, and I managed to steal away into the shower. I even shaved my legs and washed, rinsed, and repeated. When I emerged, smooth-skinned and sweet-smelling, I realized I still had time to spare.

So I plucked my eyebrows. Well, maybe eyebrows - plural - is stretching the truth a bit, since the area above my eyes was beginning to resemble a closely-planted crop of mohair.

After that, what the heck? A little makeup couldn't hurt things, right? And my wet hair could be sculpted into something resembling a "style," if I wiped the dust off my Aussie Sprunch spray and applied it.

Glancing in the mirror, I almost didn't recognize the woman staring back at me, with her lined eyes and mascara, blushed cheeks and glossy color swept across her lips. She was kind of hot - certainly not the same haggard mommy who hides in my reflection in store windows as I slouch around town in yoga pants and sweatshirts with flour smudged across her face and her hair tucked under a denim baseball cap.

No, this woman looked like she had a life! A life, maybe, that wasn't spent in front of a strangely-lit computer screen or, alternately, in the kitchen.

I felt so confident, I pulled on my skinny jeans and a soft, fitted top. I slid on some fashionable flats and spritzed both of my wrists with perfume. I couldn't wait for Mr. Wright to get home! The feeling of accomplishment at taking a shower, plucking my eyebrows, applying makeup and putting on clothing that didn't involve an elastic waistband or a drawstring - all in the same day! - made me mad with confidence and femininity.

Wouldn't he be surprised?

Gosh... I hoped he noticed.

What if he didn't even notice? What if he didn't think there was anything noteworthy of me accomplishing what most women who have "real" jobs do every single morning, and before 8:30 a.m., at that?

A few hours later, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for Mr. Wright to arrive home. I checked my lipstick, freshened my fragrance, and met him at the door. I needn't have worried that he wouldn't notice... he did.

Taking in the vision that stood before him, he asked, "You've taken an afternoon lover, haven't you?"


Photo by Dean's Photography. Thank you, Dean... Our photos were perfect!

The Chonies I’ll Be Wearing When I Die

With all the excitement and travel, I almost forgot to post this week's Gonzo Mama newspaper column! No worries, readers. Here it is:

If I’m ever involved in a tragic accident, I’m pretty sure I won’t be wearing the lacy black Victoria’s Secret panties that always find their way to the back of my drawer. Even worse, it will probably be Laundry Day, and I’ll be wearing some sort of faded cotton granny panty. The waistband, its elastic long popped and ineffective, will be held together with nothing but a prayer and maybe a safety pin or two.

I have a near-clinical fear of flying or riding in any vessel that travels at extreme speeds or altitudes. In ten hours, I will be boarding a plane to Japan, where I will embark on a journey that begins with a bullet train.

For precisely this reason, I’m packing only my best chonies.

Yesterday really was Laundry Day. Not only were we preparing to leave the country for a week, but we were also preparing for the housesitter who, under no circumstances, should be forced to live for a week with the mountain of laundry I should have done two weeks ago.

I was upstairs, cleaning the toddlers’ room (because our housesitter must also not be led to believe that we allow our children to raise livestock in their bedrooms) when my keen eye and excellent perception helped to discover the mountain of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. I’m a great detective like that. With my arms full of pink textiles, I trotted down the stairs to the laundry room, where I saw Mr. Wright folding a load that had just finished in the dryer.

And that wasn’t all I saw.

There, in all his glory, was a naked Mr. Wright. Well, almost naked. A swath of powder blue cotton/Spandex® blend stretched over my husband’s nether region, and I couldn’t help but notice it was a small swath. I mean, bikini-small.

“What are you wearing?” I asked my strictly-boxer-brief man. “Are you wearing… bikini chonies?”

He looked at me, as if to say, “Clearly, I am. It’s Laundry Day,” but remained silent. Suddenly, I became extremely curious – okay, obsessed – about where the pale blue offenders had come from. Was Mr. Wright carrying on with some trollop who told him, during nights of steamy romance, that he would look mighty fine in a set of micro-shorts?

Well? Was he?

No. He assured me the chonies in question were circa 1988. Why he hadn’t tossed them by now is anyone’s guess. Maybe he hasn’t worn them often enough in the last 22 years to feel he’s really gotten his money out of them. Always the spendthrift, that husband of mine.

My main concern now is ensuring that the light blue bikinis don’t find their way into Mr. Wright’s luggage. They are precisely the type of chonies that invite disaster, and if our plane starts plummeting into the Pacific or the bullet train jumps the track at 200 miles per hour, I don’t want to have to check Mr. Wright’s pants to see if it’s his fault.



Photo credits:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/barbietron/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27923176@N02/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Toddler Fashion

This morning, Snugglebug brought me my old beaded headband. "I gon' wear this, okay, Mom?" she informed me.

"Well, sure," I answered, excited that she was interested in the headband. "I think that's a great idea. Put it on!"

Snugglebug's sensory integration dysfunction manifests itself in different ways at different times, but some of her preferences are consistent. For example, before she even gets both feet over the threshold of the front door, my little darling strips off every last stitch of clothing when she gets home. She understands that she needs to wear clothing in public, but it's really uncomfortable for her, and she throws her clothes off the second she's inside the house.

One of the most severe aversions she has is anything (hairbrush, barrette, rubber band) touching her hair. So, it was with great delight that I encouraged her to put on the headband. Progress! I thought. This is a huge thing.

Well, um...

It turns out I've been wearing it wrong, all this time!

Belts Are the New Lace Panties

I’m not one to admit defeat easily, but I must confess that I am still unable to comprehend the fashion sense of today’s teens. Chalk another point for the generation gap.

The jeans boys must – and do – wear are loose enough to hang halfway off boxer shorts-clad buttocks. When I first saw this startling spectacle on a young man, I thought, “How sad that his parents can’t buy him pants that fit… Look how loose they are! Either they’re hand-me-downs, or he lost a lot of weight recently.”

Little did I know, the saggy kid labored over finding a pair of pants with just the right amount of droop and a pair of underwear with colors just bright enough to make any passerby unable to tear his or her eyes away from the absolutely tragic collage of flannel, denim and bare boy butt.

Fortunately, the long, baggy t-shirt is frequently added to the ensemble, so most innocent bystanders have a chance of missing the “fashion flashin’,” unless the boy happens to be reaching high overhead, bending over, flying through the air on his skateboard or raising the back of his shirt to scratch his behind. Let’s face it – boys are typically engaged in one of these activities a majority of the time. That’s why The Belt is so important.

Picture it: School shopping, 2009… Pockets is thrilled with the belt he’s found. It’s black. It’s leather. It’s… covered in white metal studs?

“Um,” I begin, then stop. “Uh…” I try again. “Huh,” I manage. “That’s a wide, white belt. I haven’t seen one of those since Herb Tarlek from WKRP in Cincinnati made them the signature item for the tackily-dressed man. Metal studs, eh? You know, I could have B’Dazzled you a belt, if I’d known you wanted one…”

Pockets and The Dude launch their synchronized eye rolling routine. It’s really a spectacular feat to achieve the perfect timing, and I’m sure they’ll go pro, eventually. I’m their mother, so naturally I’m a huge fan.

“However, I am thrilled that you’ve found a belt that you like, so your pants won’t hang around the bottom of your caboose anymore,” I say. “Put it on! Let’s see!”

I see the belt poke through each belt loop. I see the buckle get buckled. Strangely, it does nothing for the elevation of the waistband. What a disappointment. Then, I watch as my fashion-savvy kid pulls his long t-shirt down, completely covering the embellished belt.

“What? You get a blinged out belt, and then you cover it up so no one can see it?” I don’t even try pretending I’m not confused.

Again, the eyes roll. Their timing is getting even more precise and – dare I say it – they’ve even added a little flair to the act. Impressive. High marks for artistic expression!

Sighing, The Dude explains, “Look, you get the blinged out belt. You wear it under your shirt, and if your shirt happens to hike up, people will see it. Or you can tuck just a bit of your shirt in… in the front. Like this.” He demonstrates. There’s a little tiny flash of shiny white metal showing. “See? Just a hint. It’s cool.”

Well, I never! Who would wear a piece of clothing that no one sees, except in cases of an accident or when discreetly flashed? That makes no sense at all! Does it?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/revjim/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Gonzo Mama Goes Au Natural!

Well, not exactly... but I'm feeling all sorts of natural in my spiffy new tee from ProMom Couture!

(Yes, they're real!)

Check out the cute logo, and it's so soft you can wrap a newborn in it (but who would want to, when you could be looking hot in it?). Promom sent me this shirt to review before they send one to my Hot Mama of the Month, and I put it to the test. I can report, with confidence, that this is the perfect shirt for:

Hanging out at the park,


scouting great organic coffee blends,


shopping for natural flours for homemade bread,


selecting the perfect local wine,

and last, but certainly not least...

...making out with Mr. Wright.

Congratulations to this month's Hot Mama of the Month, Christy Cuellar-Wentz, who will receive this fun tee to wear when she's not milking goats... or even when she is!

Did I mention that ProMom Couture loves the planet, and has pledged to use only water-based inks on their designs? How cool is that?

Get your natural-lovin' self over to ProMomCouture.com and do a little shopping! You'll be a hot mama, and the planet will thank you!

Who knows what delicious ProMom swag next month's Hot Mama will receive? Nominate your hot self or your favorite hottie mommy today!

Recession Got You Down? The Gonzo Mama's Do-It-Your-Damn-Self Guide to Couture

My friends over at LipstickDaily.com are much more in tune with the season’s hot, must-have fashion elements, for some reason. Maybe because, unlike me, Kate and Elaine actually have jobs which call for a style of dress that does not include pajama pants, kids’ t-shirts and ball caps.

Maybe because, unlike me, Kate and Elaine have jobs, period.

Kate’s post, “The ‘It’ Shoe for Summer 2009,” featured, in all its glory, a gorgeous Prada sandal with a cork platform and a darling bow. I suggested that, given the recession, I might just hot-glue some wine corks to the bottom of last summer’s flip-flops (incidentally, the recession has not affected the influx of new wine corks into my home).

In the spirit of adding some glam while tightening the belt – so to speak – I am attempting the following alternatives to selling off one of my seven darlings (who all dress better than I do, by the way) to finance my image update:

1. Instead of this Fendi keychain, I will be commandeering my cat’s identification tag, adding a dab of superglue, and affixing an artfully folded gum wrapper. Photo taken from thisnext.com.


2. Instead of this Marc by Marc Jacobs belt, my luggage strap will be doing double duty. Photo from Teen Vogue



3. Instead of this 3.1 Phillip Lim dress, I will be stapling my café curtains around my body... somewhat artfully. Photo taken from theinsider.com

4. Instead of this trendy, fur-trimmed coat by Versace, I will be bedecking my bathrobe with remnants of shag carpet, left over from the last time my husband’s office was redecorated. Yeah, it’s been that long. Photo taken from kaboodle.com



It’s tough staying at the height of fashion on a budget. The nation is, after all, in the throes of economic crisis; and my family is no exception. Think about it… my husband is married to a woman who relies on print media to pay the bills.

Are you reading this on the Internet?!

Shame on you, taking food out of the mouths of seven children, and depriving their mama of her Prada platforms! Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.