Derby Conditioning: Torturous Like Childbirth. Where's My Baby?

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After last night, I'm secretly longing for the debilitating illness of last week to return so I can miss tonight's derby practice.

Last week was the official start of practice, but I was so sick I couldn't do anything at practice besides bring the Derby Gurlz Double Mocha Cupcakes. Which, by the way, shall now be known as Typhoid Cupcakes, because everyone else is now sick, as well. (Incidentally, my cupcakes are entered in a Valentine cooking contest. Please do your part to help me kick asparagus by clicking "I Like This" by the little heart under the photo here. You don't need to register. Just click. Thank you!)

So, I really had no clue that last night's two hours of conditioning were going to constitute the fatigue equivalent of thirty-nine hours of labor, plus two more squeezing a 13-centimeter baby head out of a 10-centimeter hole. Was that too much information? I, frankly, don't care - just like I didn't care when the doctor came in during my twentysomethingth (YES, that's a word!) hour of contractions and tried to make small talk by asking if I wanted a girl or a boy. I replied, in all seriousness, "I don't care if it's a game of Parcheesi. Get it out of me!"

For those of you who haven't actually given birth - or have only done so under anesthesia of some sort - it sort of goes like this:

• Excruciating contractions begin. The sensation could be likened to the abdomen simultaneously being fed through a taffy puller and a cement mixer, while spontaneously imploding. Some experts may argue, but in my experience, each contraction lasts about twelve hours.
• Somehow, amazingly, the contraction finally subsides. Having endured, the woman falls back, closes her eyes, breathes exactly one sigh of relief, has time to be astonished she can still breathe, and...
• The next contraction begins.
• This continues until the woman positively knows she's on the brink of expiration. At that point, someone (a doctor, a midwife, or the impatient baby) decides it's time to push the kid out. 
• The woman says something to the effect of, "You've got to be f***ing kidding me... You want me to PUSH?" (Or, in my case, the woman says exactly that.) She's exhausted. She can't get through one more contraction, let alone push something the size of a bowling ball out of her hoo-hoo. And then...
• The mother pushes. And pushes. And pushes again, until the glorious, blessed moment she's been waiting for. She's tired. She's sore. She aches, she's sweaty, she's crying, and there's plenty of mess in and around her body, but she's received the most amazing gift, and she suddenly knows it's all worth it.

Last night's practice was pretty much exactly like that, except I didn't get a baby for all my blasted effort. The last time I put my body through that much torture, I got a human being out of it. Last night, I didn't even get a goldfish. Psssh... whatever.

Our guest instructor last night, Miss Attila, made us contort into something resembling a prayer squat, which is intended to "open the hips and improve balance, memory and concentration." In my opinion, it could be better described as a guaranteed post-traumatic physical flashback of your repressed labor and childbirth memories. After all, it's often said it hurts to bear children, but it's "the kind of pain you forget."

If, in fact, you forgot, try this pose for a few minutes. You'll remember.

Attila scared us all into assuming this pose, then instructed us to shift our weight to alternating sides, a rocking technique I can only assume is intended to distribute pain equally to both sides of the body. She called it prying. I wonder why.

"Any questions?" she asked, as we all rocked and grunted.

"Has anyone ever died from prying?" I gasped.

"Ha, ha! I like that question!" she laughed. She "likes" that question? As in, That's one of my favorites... hear it all the time!

The worst part is, she never gave me an answer.

The entire practice, like labor and childbirth, was a systematic torture designed to push us to the point of collapse, when we were sure we couldn't do one more plank, lunge or contraction... and then make us start over again. And we did. No one died; no one quit. No one let anyone quit.

During childbirth, not finishing isn't an option. That baby's coming out, one way or another. (Actually, I begged for "another" about an hour or so into pushing. "Can't you just knock me out and do a C-section?" The doctor shook his head. "Could I change my mind about this natural childbirth bull, and get an epidural? What do you mean, too late?")

But this is derby. It's different. I can quit. If I don't want to finish, there's going to be someone else who will... and what's more, she wants me to finish with her.

Together, we're getting stronger. Together, we're learning we can do one more circuit, even though the first one nearly killed us. Together, we're creating something great.

That, my friends, is our "baby."

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File This Under "Insanity Defense"

I make no excuses for being a stickler for good and proper use of the English language.

I like to think I am pretty tolerant of strangers using words improperly or using "non-words" in what they think is an intelligent way, but hearing those close to me do the same is like driving four-inch nails into my skull.

Yesterday, someone close to me said, "irregardless." Can I just say that that "word," more than most, irritates me to no end? It's actually defined as NONSTANDARD. That is, not a proper word.

Someday, someone will be earnestly trying to make a point and spew, "...irregardless of the fact..." and I will go on an intercontinental grammar mercy killing spree.

I groused about the "irregardless" nonsense on Facebook, and found that my friends have similar peeves:

• People mispronouncing "superfluous"
• "Supposably" instead of "supposedly"
• "Freshly squozen orange juice"
• "Fusstrated" or "flustrated" instead of "frustrated"
• "Taunt" instead of "taut"
• "Bedroom suit" instead of "suite"
• "Window seal" instead of "sill" (okay, that one is mine)
• "Valentimes" instead of "Valentine's"

What's going to drive you to copping an insanity plea, grammatically speaking?

Photo by publik15

A Crash Course in Satire and Why Sterilization Doesn’t Work

Someone named Judy Brezina of Carlton, Washington thinks I have no business calling myself a writer. She said as much in her May 14, 2009 letter to the editor of the Lake Chelan Mirror.

I have more than enough publishing credits to claim otherwise, but to each her own opinion. Speaking of which, a Google for “Judy Brezina” revealed a pretty impressive list of publishing credits for her, as well. Of course, they were all enraged letters to the editors of various newspapers, but I’m no snob. They totally count! Perhaps Ms. Brezina should write her own column, although satire and humor are clearly not her strong points.

For those not possessing the extensive vocabulary that Brezina does (“imbecilic,” “ignorant” and “insensitive” are all pretty big words, and nicely alliterative, to boot), the word “satire” is defined by Merriam-Webster’s (Brezina’s dictionary of choice) as: 1: a literary work holding up human vices and follies to ridicule or scorn; 2: trenchant wit, irony, or sarcasm used to expose and discredit vice or folly.

Did my column on Guantanamo Bay and bikinis not hold up the human vice of vanity and the follies of the detainee situation to a high enough standard of ridicule, Ms. Brezina?

Let’s take a look at the “gonzo” definition Brezina plucked from Merriam-Webster’s: 1: idiosyncratically subjective but engagé; 2: bizarre; 3: freewheeling or unconventional especially to the point of outrageousness. Brezina asserts that The Gonzo Mama column fits only the “bizarre” definition. I say she’s not giving me enough credit for living up to my name.

1. “Engagé” sent my spell-check feature into fits. I went back to Merriam-Webster.com to make sure I’d spelled it correctly and—I must admit—to get a proper definition. Ironically, Merriam-Webster failed to locate a definition. Dictionary.com, however, gave me this: (adj.) actively committed, as to a political cause.

What’s my cause? Drawing attention to human rights issues. Denouncing the laissez faire attitude of those who think the activities at Gitmo are of no concern. Shining a spotlight on societal standards which pressure women to fit an unrealistic ideal. It’s all in my piece, and it’s too bad Brezina lacks an appreciation for the satirical delivery. Make no mistake – I am serious about human rights. I don’t wear diamonds. I seek out fair trade companies. I cried when Converse was acquired by Nike, and I’m holding on to my circa 1990 Chuck Taylors until they disintegrate.

2. “Bizarre?” I plead no contest.

3. “Freewheeling or unconventional… to the point of outrageousness.” Excuse me, Ms. Brezina—are you not outraged?

Perhaps it’s inaccurate to say Ms. Brezina suggested I should be sterilized, but that’s the implication I took from her statement “…we should be extremely careful about overpopulation. Ms. Wright seems to be very proud of her ability to procreate. Personally, I don't think it's such a hot commodity. That's why God gave us the brains to control ourselves.”

Of all the barbs contained in Ms. Brezina’s letter, that particular statement incited the fiercest responses from The Gonzo Mama’s fans. The supportive replies flooded my inbox, popped up on Facebook, and planted themselves on both TheGonzoMama.com and LakeChelanMirror.com.

Most leaving comments denouncing Brezina’s letter are people who actually read my column – a credential Brezina herself clearly cannot claim. That’s why my regular readers were able to cry foul on her statement: They know that I gave birth to only one child.

I am, in fact, very proud of my ability to “procreate.” That is, the ability that allowed me to birth my son almost fifteen years ago. I’m proud, too, of surviving cervical cancer and other health issues that make my birthing another child a medical improbability. Does Ms. Brezina mean to vilify me for producing a single child?

I am equally proud of my four stepchildren, to whom I have been the full-time mother for about nine years. Ms. Brezina, do you begrudge those four children the benefit of a consistent mother? Should I have refused to marry their father—who had a vasectomy even before we met—because it would make me the mother of five children and subject to snide comments about “overpopulation?”

Know what else I am proud of? I am proud of my two youngest children; two beautiful little girls with special needs that we are adopting through the Department of Social and Health Services (DSHS).

Come to think of it, a certain level of population control could arise from the abolition of DSHS. With DSHS no longer in the picture, children would remain in homes where they were subjected to abuse and neglect, and we’d see a rise in child death rates as a result. Is this what you were getting at, Ms. Brezina? Should I stop adopting children who have been removed from dangerous homes? Am I failing to do my part for population control because I provide a safe, loving home for children who don’t have one?

I suppose you’re right, though, Judy. God actually didn’t give me the brains to control myself. When a child needs a mother, I just can’t seem to say, “No.”

Frankly, I think striving to give children a better life IS a pretty hot commodity.

Photo art by Gonzo Jenny

Forget Gitmo… I’ve Been Bikini Shopping

So… they’re closing Gitmo. Rumor has it United States government agencies have been engaging in some pretty inhumane tactics at Guantanamo Bay Detention Facility in the hope of extracting information from detainees about alleged terrorist activities. Why does a leading world power like the United States waste resources on questionable physical and psychological tactics, which may or may not elicit confessions from detainees?

Wouldn’t it be cheaper and more effective to force prisoners to try on a never-ending collection of bathing suits that just don’t fit right?

Hmmm? What’s that? You say The Gonzo Mama’s finally showing the strain of mothering seven kids? You say she’s finally severed the last tiny thread of sanity she’s been clinging to?

Take my word for it. Choosing to try on bathing suits is the single most masochistic act a woman can engage in. In fact, the psychological torture is so great, we don’t even bring it up when conversations turn to the topic of human rights. It’s simply too shocking for those who have not experienced it themselves.

Imagine the horror of being repeatedly subjected to intense ridicule and evil laughter from dressing room mirrors as you try on, in exhaustive procession, every style of bathing suit offered in every department store in the known universe. Not terrifying enough? Imagine that all the designers of the world conspired each year to make you look fifteen pounds heavier than your actual weight by using the most unflattering cuts possible. Still not scared? Add another five pounds to your image, courtesy of “ulgy-fying” fluorescent lights in the dressing rooms.

Times are tough, though. Our economy is faltering, and our national deficit is unfathomable. I’m willing to break the code of silence for the greater good. Let’s talk about what is allegedly happening at Gitmo, and let’s talk about how we can accomplish the same thing with Lycra® or Spandex® swim attire.
If my program is successful (and it will be), it could be expanded to simplify interrogation processes for kidnappers, AIG officials… Martha Stewart.

Sleep deprivation. I’ve lost many a night’s sleep worrying and dreading an upcoming shopping excursion for the purpose of finding a bathing suit. Just knowing that I will be trying on suit after suit and succeeding only in accentuating my cellulite and stretch marks is more than enough to cause insomnia. Why make it someone’s job to keep a prisoner awake all night? Why not just hang a dozen bikinis over the door, with an attached note reading, “Tomorrow morning you’ll be giving a fashion show!” The payroll savings alone would be staggering.

Isolation. Prisoners at Gitmo are not allowed to have contact with friends and family. I suspect they are also not allowed to attend pool parties or beach barbecues. Ha! I guarantee, if those same prisoners were wearing an unflattering “tankini,” they’d be happy to stay indoors and answer a few questions.

Food deprivation. Seriously, this is a no-brainer. Most women willingly self-starve prior to bathing suit season. Enough said. Next topic.

Look, I’m not saying that things don’t need to change at Gitmo. I’m just asking if closing it down is really necessary. I mean, Guantanamo Bay sounds really pretty. In fact, I’ve heard it’s a great place for waterboarding.

That’s like surfing, right?