Derby Gear Rundown: Fresh Meat Mama (guest post by Mia Feral!)

Guest blogger/derby girl Riot Mama/Mia Feral

Please welcome back guest blogger Rose Norton! You may remember Rose from previous posts like these. If not, go ahead and read. I'll wait.


Finished? Read on to glean her words of wisdom about derby gear for the fresh meat mama...

* * *

Gear...

Okay, there are a TON of options when you are just getting into roller derby as far as gear. But what to get first?

First off--don’t break the bank when you’re just starting out. You can roll around a rink for thirty years and think that you are made for derby, go buy 1,000 dollars worth of gear (believe me, it’s easy to do) and then after your first hit decide that it’s just not for you. If you sell your gear, you’ll maybe get half of what you put into it back.

So, here’s what I suggest:

Fresh meat: If you are just starting, you’ll be rolling slow, hitting slow, and falling hard, so you’ll need the gear.

-Helmet*

-Wrist Guards*

-Knee Pads*

-Elbow Pads*

-Mouth Guard

-Skates (duh)*

(*) If you are a conscientious (or in my case, cheap) consumer, you can pick up some pretty nice pads/ helmets at re-sport shops like Play It Again Sports, or even Goodwill or Value Village. You do have to be mindful that you want some good pads, but they are up to 85 percent cheaper in these places. If you end up getting derby fever, you WILL need to re-up, but your rookie pads can always serve as a back up or a loaner pair.

Skates can be bought on Ebay or Craigslist. Again, you may just want to get a cheap-o pair (Like GT-5000s) to start with. Then you can save up for the I-just-rolled-over-your-mom-pair once you get really serious. The GTs break down after about three months of skating everyday. By the end you may be duct-taping them to your feet like I did, but then you know that you are ready to roll with the big girls.

A few notes on skates-

*Get at least ABEC-5 bearings to start with. Move up when you get comfy.

*Have someone at the rink check the spin on your skates and your trucks.

*If your skates start sounding like an off-balanced laundry machine, you have a busted bearing. Replace.

*Always check to see if your toe stop is on tight. Yard sales on the track can be dangerous.


Helmets-- I have seen many a head bounce off of the floor. If you can make speed trials (26 laps in 5 min) you are in need of a brand new (not just brand-new-to-you) helmet. Then all you’ll have to deal with is whiplash (like my sisters Ariel Onslaught, Anita B. Cracken and Kat Scratch Fever) and NOT scrambled eggs for brains.

Wrist guards-- Do you like your wrists? Are they useful? Then get guards that cover the whole top and bottom of your wrists. They should fit well, and you should not be able to bend your wrists at all.

Elbow and knee pads-- The bulk of the matter. I have seen girls crack kneepads, and it’s a bloody ordeal. I wear sleeves under my wrist and elbow guards (a little extra support, and something you can wash every night). Triple Eight, Pro Tec and 187’s are the best. They are bulky, but keep you safe.

Mouth guards-- Some mouth guards are insured up to a point. You can buy the cheap ones at Academy or Big Five for a few bucks, but the Shock Doctor mouth guards are great, and they stay in your mouth a little better, too.

Optional gear-- Many gals pickup knee gaskets that are like a sleeve under your knee pads that help stabilize the kneecap and provide an extra neoprene padding. If you knee fall a lot, sometimes the bottom edge of your knee pad can wear.

Crash Pads! Yes! Learn from the gal that’s out this year thanks to a broken tailbone that didn’t set right. These will protect your hip bones and tailbone. Our coach made them mandatory.

Nylons-- I know it’s super cute skating in short shorts and fishnets, but you need some little extra to provide the slide you’ll need. Nylons are the best fight against rink rash.

Toe Guards-- just a little toe guard does a lot of good. Put them on your skates before you hit the track. All of the one-knee slide stops will have your front toes of your skates getting worn and sore. PLUS, they come in really awesome colors.

Here are a few websites for gear:

http://www.xsportsprotective.com/protective-gear-value-packs.html

http://www.rollerderbydepot.com/

Okay! That’s all the gear info I can dish now. The more you go, the more you’ll love it. These are the boring logistics, but essential. Once you get acquainted with all of them, though, you can get pretty hot and heavy at the mere mention of Poison wheels or the Siren package (drool...pant...).

Best of luck and just keep rolling!

Derby Love,

Mia Feral

* * *

Rose Norton is a mom/writer/derby girl living in Spokane, WA. She's known as "riotmama" on the blogger, "Mia Feral" on the track and "food, now!" in the home. Rose writes stories about her fantastic voyages to the grocery store, and other reasons she's crazy.


"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

A Derby intro for the Quad Curious: Fresh Meat Mama (guest post by Mia Feral!)

Guest blogger/derby girl Riot Mama/Mia Feral

Please welcome back guest blogger Rose Norton! You may remember Rose from previous posts like these. If not, go ahead and read. I'll wait.


Finished? Read on to glean her words of wisdom for the quad-curious...

* * *

In the roller derby world, the new-to-the-game girls are known as “fresh meat.” Think Rocky Balboa verses the slab in the cooler.

Yeah...the slab.

Derby veterans are excessively kind to fresh meat for two reasons: 1) They want more girls in derby, and 2) They can’t wait to beat the hell out of you.

All vets have a smile that is both sweet and unnerving. To them, you look delicious with your porcelain-soft skin, supple thighs, unmottled shins, and unshredded fishnet tights. To them, the average fresh meat looks like the perfect little doll, scared and curious.

The sight of fresh meat takes the derby diva back to a time when she was a knobbly-kneed freshwoman on over-tightened rookie wheels, getting the beating of a lifetime. She will pass along these gifts to you. She will throw blocks your way, and she will make you fall...And then, she’ll offer you advice on the best ways to fall or pull you to the side for a little one-on-one tutorial.

My first practice ever was in Florida, in a sports complex, in the middle of a heat wave without air conditioning. It was rough. It was exhilarating. It was educational.

“First things first, sweetie,” Xanmunition a tall, beautiful blonde derby vet said, “Tits and ass. It’s all about the t-n-a for tall girls like us. That will get you as low as you need to be on the track, so you’re not eating track the whole time.”

This has been my credo ever since that day. I still eat track plenty, but at least I have something to remember on the way down to the ground.

There is a reason for this “survival of the fittest” mentality. Derby is a rough sport. The rink rash, the sprains, the contusions. It’s not for everyone. The ratio of fresh meat to vets is something like 15:3. That means that only a fifth of the girls that try out, stick with it. Remember: If a vet doesn’t remember your name after the first practice, it’s okay. If you stick with it, they’ll stick by you forever.i8u7

However, if you haven’t ever experienced a tight bond with strong women, be prepared. There are so many women that are crass and goofy and you will love them once you get going. Derby is a sport for those sadomasochistic women that more often than not can’t afford therapy.

Soon, you become obsessed by the thrill of flying through the air on eight measly pieces of rubber with your choice of hardness. You become accustomed to, and almost look forward to, the adrenaline rush after a good, clean tumble on the track. All of a sudden, work becomes merely a means to afford this amazing new habit.

There are a few signs that you are in love with derby: You will begin spending late nights on E-bay searching for the perfect Triple-8 pads. You will begin to exhibit Pavlovian-like reactions, and drool at the words “China Bone Ceramics” (should you find this vague, don’t worry, you’ll catch on quick). You will begin throwing shoulder blocks to the people you pass in the grocery store aisles.

If you are showing any of the aforementioned symptoms, you are one of us.

Welcome to the ranks, sister.

You may just want to invest in the good skates, say goodbye to your kids, and kiss your spouse one last time. Your kids will miss you, but they love cheering at bouts. They will love picking out their own names. “Smack-n-Cheese” and “Ham Slamwitch” are my two favorite fans.

As far as spouses go, they will think it’s hot. Unbeknownst to them, however, they have now joined the ranks of the derby widows--the love of your life before you met derby. But they will bow down to your derby goddessness when they see you hip-check a jammer into submission and recycle her into the back of the pack--in hot pants and fishnets, no less. After watching their first bout, it’s only a matter of time until your manimal (or womanimal) wait hand and skate--er, foot--on you after a vicious derby day. Yes, derby is certainly a way to shake things up with your significant other.

I suggest that the quad-curious should at least check out a bout in your local area, and talk to the girls on the teams or hit up the after party. Most derby girls hunger for fresh meat.

* * *

Rose Norton is a mom/writer/derby girl living in Spokane, WA. She's known as "riotmama" on the blogger, "Mia Feral" on the track and "food, now!" in the home. Rose writes stories about her fantastic voyages to the grocery store, and other reasons she's crazy.

P.S. - She'll be at the Lilac City Roller Girls training camp on February 19th! Who's with me? Road trip!

"Like" The Gonzo Mama on Facebook, and don't forget to see what's cooking with Sexy Vegan Mama today!

The Gonzo Mama Guest Blogs for The Wittery

The Wittery is a new venture started by some folks who wanted to put together a marketplace for publishers to find humor writers - and for humor writers to find jobs. The service is still in its infancy/beta, but I offered them a post for their blog to help get things rolling.

Stubble Trouble was a piece I originally guest blogged for the now defunct LipstickDaily.com. Since the site is gone (R.I.P., LD), I wanted to find a new home for the piece.

Anyway, you can read it here. It's about the not-so-pleasant realities of hair removal, and asks the question, "Did the badass women of history actually shave their legs?"

Enjoy!

I Can't Take Her Anywhere: Guest Post by Mr. Wright

What's it like, living with a troublemaker like The Gonzo Mama? Why not ask my guest blogger, Mr. Wright?

I can’t take her anywhere.

If there is one thing I can say about The Gonzo Mama, it is that I cannot take her anywhere, at least without her causing a scene of epic proportions.

I know you all will find it hard to believe that the mommy blogger extraordinaire with something to say about everything in her writing is the alter ego for a mommy extraordinaire who says something about everything in real life.

Now, I am not saying that going out in public with The Gonzo Mama is going to mean getting into a fight with her, or because of her. I am saying that it is always exciting.

To put it in perspective, she has actually only incited one riot resulting in physical violence, and me having fight off not one, not two, but three douche bags over her calling to their attention that their drunken slurring of a British slang term for a cigarette was inappropriate and offensive.

A strike for political correctness and sexual orientation sensitivity, and a strike that left my eye swelled like a blueberry on Major League steroids.

Now, I am not talking about making a comment to creepy lurker dudes, or telling off drunks in a club who place an errant hand on her backside. Those are not even in the same league or sport.

The typical norm is much more along the lines of brutally honest critical opinions that, by comparison, make Simon Cowell look like a patronizing butt smoocher.

I must admit, many people must find it helpful to have their grammar corrected in public.

And who would not want to know that the root beer they are drinking has most likely been filtered through fish guts?

Even the finest chefs could not object to the constructive criticism of having their work compared to hamster vomit.

I would find playing an extra in an off-Broadway production of Brokeback Mountain preferable to having to relive Gonzo Mama’s frequent inquires about other people’s fashion choices.

I will share one time, lobbying at the capitol, we passed a lady exercising her right to free speech by standing silent, holding a sign promote valuing the sanctity of life for unborn children. Not a shock sign, showing pictures of a disfigured fetus, but a tasteful picture of a baby. A rather large gentleman was badgering her and pelting her with obscenities. As we walked by he yelled a derogatory comment about the Bible. The Gonzo Mama interjected, “Well, I believe in the Bible.” His response was quick. “If you believe in the Bible, then you are a firetrucking idiot!” (Please see other writing of The Gonzo Mama for the back story on “firetrucking.”)

At that point, I instructed The Gonzo Mama to keep walking. I drew this outspoken individual close, looked him in the eye and in a low voice calmly discussed his options with him. He looked at me. I assured him, “I am serious as a heart attack.” He quietly chose the option of turning and walking away, as opposed to having his guts stomped in by a kilted tassel loafer worn by a man in a rather smart three button suit.

On our most recent trip, we found ourselves in a convention tradeshow and at a booth offering free CFL light bulbs (the twisty kind). They were promoting helping the environment. The Gonzo Mama pointed out these twisty buggers contained mercury that ends up in landfills and anywhere these things are broken. They are, in fact, much worse for the environment than traditional incandescent bulbs. Not withstanding they make some contribution to the environment, in that they lead to less power consumption of electricity generated by use of coal of fossil fuels.

The Gonzo Mama powers her abode with power that is CO2-free, from renewable hydroelectric power, so even that is not an issue. Twisty bad, old-school good. As I faded into a side conversation with another attendee, the Gonzo Mama entered into an increasingly heated discussion with the sales representative, moving to the topic of veganism. When the rep offered, “Well, in college I tried being a vegetarian for awhile, but it was just a phase,” The Gonzo Mama’s reply was, “Well, in college many girls are lesbian for awhile.” I took my cue and ushered The Gonzo Mama hurriedly away with the promise of a venti soy chai.

[The Gonzo Mama MUST interject here. The woman was saying, "But you haven't always been vegan, right? I mean, people don't RAISE THEIR KIDS LIKE THAT, do they?" I was responding, "Sure, some people do, and CPS even lets them keep their kids, sometimes..." when she busted out with the "it's just a phase" thing. What was I SUPPOSED to say?]

Life is meant to be lived to the fullest. One thing that I can count on is I can’t take her anywhere, and expect it to be boring.

No Longer a Birthday Princess

Why do mamas always get the short end of the stick when it comes to birthdays? We bust our butts, making sure our offspring have MTV-worthy celebrations, but who is throwing us rock star birthday parties?

My guest blogger, Rose Norton, recently had a birthday. She's taken time to reflect on how we mamas get ripped off when it comes to birthdays. Check out her hilarious blog... I promise you'll laugh!

*********

When we think of birthdays, we think of that magical day when we are the 'special princess‘. It is a day of pampering and love and gifts and smiles and booze and sex. People go out of their way for you just so you can live the day in bliss. The mere mention of your name should send people out for chocolate and perfume.

For one day, you are a goddess. And all you do is sit regally and look down at the nimiety of gifts at your feet. And you’re drunk and sexy. And everything you eat has the calorie content of celery. And kittens purr louder just for you.

For some odd reason, this doesn't happen for me!

I admit this is a little disappointing. Even still, every year I hold fast to the hopes of being gifted a bottomless bucket of love and booze. Instead, there is an overflowing toilet to deal with and play practice and sobriety, thanks to the tandem tantrums the babes are having. The duties override the carnal need for debauchery.

It's mommyhood.

There were times when I didn't have responsibilities on my plate, as I do now, and I had some great birthdays. If we went chronologically, I think I was super happy for the first three birthdays, and from about the age of four through eighteen I was grounded on my special day. I was trouble.

Imagine, if you will, being grounded on your birthday at Disneyland. Yup, it happened.

My two favorite birthdays were my 20th (where I tripped around the Gorge for three days, never sleeping once) and my 23rd (where I finally fell in love with my hometown, as I skinny dipped and walked around naked with 15 dear friends). After that, it sort of went downhill.

At the time of my 24th birthday my then-boyfriend , now husband, gave me a gift. It was the last gift he ever gave me. I came home from work and upon arriving, he asked me to close my eyes and walk outside, down the steps, around a corner (by this time I was thinking if it wasn’t my palomino pony I’ve been wanting for 20 years, I would leave him) and then he said, “Okay! Open your eyes!”

Certain people express disappointment in different ways. Some cry and crumple, some curse the heavens and beat their chest. I took the logical approach.

Me: Interesting. Hmmm. Tell, me have I ever told you how much I like goldfish?

Eric: No

Me: That’s because I don’t, Eric. I don’t like goldfish.

Eric: But I like goldfish! And I like you, so I just assumed you would like them.

Me: I can see how your train of thought would lead you to that conclusion. Permit me to derail it, though.

Eric: But, see! When I put the fountain in it, it’s really cool, huh?

Me: Exactly what possessed you to think of getting me feeder goldfish in a pond that is now taking up the crafting table?

Eric: Well, they were right next to the cake at the store……

I’m going to stop this right here. I don’t think I need to elaborate any further. I went to the refrigerator and took a look at my cake. “Happy rthday ose” is all that I could make out, due to the fact that a slice had already been dislodged.

From there on, birthdays took a turn for the mundane. The mother’s burden is never lifting, regardless of the date. You get the birthday song when you are cleaning up your children after they do their biz-nasty on the john. But rewards are simpler and more worthwhile. The cards I got from the kids were dripping with love and toothpaste (how else would you stick sequins on?).

But virtually, I had a great birthday! Thanks to social networking sites, people sent me birthday love in bundles. I even got a Youtube video of Paul McCartney singing the birthday song. Computers knew it was my birthday. I went to the gym for a birthday-air-conditioned-run and when I swiped my member card, instead of a melodious, “welcome” calling over the speakers, a demonic voice garbled a sinister, “Happy Birthday.” It was like I had the devil himself chanting underwater, which scared the hell out of me, but I was nonetheless touched.

Now I have to pose a question; if you only have a virtual birthday, do you actually age?

I’m 29 this year! I’m officially a grown up! After this birthday, the only thing that’s left is anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I bet I could get at least another fifteen years of my 29th birthday anniversary. Well one can only hope.

So, here’s to us! All mothers that never really had the birthdays of our dreams. May we forever be 29 years old! May our thighs stay skinny, may our children give us foot rubs and feed us dark chocolate and mimosas all day. May hot men fan us and give us stripteases, and may our husbands wash the toilets and feed the dogs.

Viva la mama!

Virtually yours,

Rose

Photo by Pink Sherbet Photography

Best Breast Forward

Since I'm deliriously and deliciously busy in Washington, D.C. at the moment, and because I know that each and every one of you will miss your regular dose of humor from TheGonzoMama.com, I've asked my dear friend and fellow humorist to write a little something for you.

So... without further ado, let me introduce The Gonzo Mama's first guest blogger, Rose Norton. I like to think I discovered Rosie back when she was in fifth grade and I recruited her to write for my high school lit mag. These days, she can be found hilariously blogging over at OpenSalon. Rosie's "Best Breast Forward" made me laugh out loud. I hope it makes you pee your pants!

* * *

It is a well-known fact the shape of your breasts generally reflects the kind of day you are having. Now, it's a lot easier to read a gal with a huge rack than a chick with raisins for tits; but there are a vast assortment of breast moods, and we shall look at a few today. Scenarios, that is.

Interview day, tits are at full attention, only slightly lower than the eyes, which helps to distract the interviewer from noticing the sweat moustache that just seeped out of your makeup after the questions about your previous employers.

Let's play "Choose your own Adventure: the Secret of the Coded Chest." You wait nervously by the phone, your chesticles are still acute, yet nervous. A call comes in. It's the Human Resources Dept. If you get the job, read the next paragraph, if not, skip down to the one after that.

You nailed the interview and they want you to start training on Monday. You are so excited that your breasts are bouncing around, giggling with glee on their Victoria Secret water trampoline. You put on a sexy shirt and waltz down to the nearest ‘tini bar to join your girlfriends and their 'just got off work, but happy to be able to afford getting hammered' breasts. "Life is good, and my boobs were spectacular!"

The interviewer calls. He says he's sorry but they hired someone else, but you were definitely second and if you would be interested, could he take you out for dinner a drink? (Lord knows, you'll need it, as it might be the last non-PB&J meal for a while.) Before the end of your conversation, you have already freed your downtrodden ta-tas, allowing them to wilt with emotion. You hang up the phone. "Life sucks. At least my boobs were spectacular."

After nursing for a little over four years of my life, I find my breasts much more histrionic than the next gal’s. If I want them high, then my cheekbones are going to have competition. If I'm feeling low, I just might trip. If I'm feeling strong, they can melt together to form one mighty giant mass of chest that is no stranger to punching me in the face during jumping jacks - the sports bra uni-boob.

The ladies with less endowment seem a bit more understated to me. The average B-cup comes along with a type-B personality. Don't get me wrong - there are shades of grey here; but from observations, the average librarian and Sunday school teacher often possesses the breasts to go along with the temperament. They seem a lot more emotionally stable.

However, there is a distinct cup size personality similarity. Yep, I'm talking about A-cup-personality traits. These women are usually have a perky little rack that looks like they have had one too many shots of espresso. That woman involves people with her little daily tragedies, with angry, irritated mosquito bites that can't help but point at you. This kind of personality/cup size paradigm takes claim to the term, "titterpated".

Now, we can't forget the plastic ones. But what would you expect? These are just fine all of the time. A severe lack of emotion. But if your eyes can manage to venture north, the majority of the time, their spray-on faces reflect the mood: Just fine. In the magazine section of the Porn Super Store, you can look at some of these breasts and see the thought processes that their owner, or maybe just lessee, have. A painfully blonde woman standing in nothing but a skirt and a blank gaze has these odd, perfectly circular bowling balls on her chest. Then you look at their nipples, on the emotionless masses. One is staring blankly at you while the other drifts off looking at the floor. The lazy eye of nipples.

I can't help but wish that everything was just fine, minus the lazy boob. I'd just rather experience the slings and arrows (or rather, poking underwires) of life and then get it off my chest an move on. I can't fake perky in my best breast upward bra, no matter how hard I try. They'd only assume the fetal position, curling up in the bottom of the bra, waiting for the miserable day to be over. You have to respect your state of mind and your emotional well-being as well as the state of your mammaries. May you forever think a little differently when someone utter the phrase, "tits up."

Other Places to Find the Mama

It's okay to admit it. After all, denial is a sign of addiction. You want more of me, and that's okay.

Savoring the Thyme
The amazing foodie at Savoring the Thyme linked to my Vegan Double Chocolate Chai Cake recipe in her International Chocolate Day post.

Pittsburgh Parent
August 2010 print issue.

Kids VT
Kids VT published my humor piece, "Someday, I Won't Be Here To..." in their July 2010 print issue.

Edmonton's Child
Edmonton's Child published one of my humor pieces, "Wife, Mother... Exhibitionist," and I rather enjoyed emailing with Kerri, the friendly editor. You can find my piece in their humor (they're Canadian, so it's "humour") section, here.

Hip Mama magazine (print)
My essay, "Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House," was published in Issue 45. You can order it here.

Askew Reviews
Denis Sheehan printed my "Letter to..." in Issue 14. (Rated R for language and adult content!) You can order it here.

Reality Mom
"Parenting + Politics (results may vary)," published in Volume 6, Issue 1. Info and ordering here.

The Wittery
The Wittery commissioned me to do a humorous piece on real estate. Find my piece, "The Dodgy Real Estate Agent," in their sample works section, here.

Jaren's Blog
Sometimes, I guest blog over at my friend Jaren's place. Find my stuff here.

GonzoParentingZine.com
I'm the publisher/editor of Gonzo Parenting Zine. It's a funky little self-published magazine featuring stories by and for real parents who are raising real kids. Gonzo Parenting Zine is not going to give you advice on how to potty train your toddler in three days. Instead, it's more likely to share stories about parents who have survived three years of potty training. Each issue is laugh-out-loud funny and lives up to Gonzo Parenting Zine's motto: "Sometimes, parenthood is all about surviving it."

Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between)
I am proud to be a columnist for Motherhood: From Egg to Zine (and everything in between). It's a veritable Mamapalooza of mamas, grandmamas, soon-to-be mamas, and would-be mamas! We are a literary performance tour. We are an online zine. We are a voice for all mamas, and we're taking over the world. Read my contributions:

• Stirring the Great American Melting Pot
• Step-Wives: The Good, the Bad and the Butt-Ugly
• Education Limbo: How Low Can You Go?
• Epilepsy Meds: Not Just for Breakfast Anymore!
• How the Phone Thwarted My Birth Control (Or... Why Disconnecting the Phone is 95% More Effective Than Vasectomy)
• People for the Ethical Treatment of Riflemen

LipstickDaily.com
I adore Kate and Elaine, the funny women behind LipstickDaily.com! Sadly, the site is now defunct, but they published two of my pieces over there:

• Stubble Trouble
• Makeup Sex

Mommy-Muse.com
I was completely honored when Christy, the Mommy-Muse herself, asked me to guest blog for her. Read my "wisdom" here:

• How to Survive a Road Trip with Your Kids