Skate or Die? Um… When Do You Need My Decision?

Photo by Hayley of Hayley's Horror Hut,
a.k.a. Prima Donatello, the webmistress
of Apple City Roller Derby

I should be skating right now—or, at least, wanting to skate. At the moment, I have no idea where my skates are, and I’m wondering how long I can claim I “can’t” find them.

Did I mention I’m moving? Maybe those skates will get lost in the move. I should be so lucky.

Back in January, I determined there is no room in the Year of YES for a derby girl dropout, but the prospect is becoming increasingly attractive. Every week, fewer and fewer girls show up, and everyone understands when a derby sister says, “I can’t roll with you girls anymore. I have to put my job/family/marriage/whatever first.”

I have seven kids. I’m not doing an excellent job of meeting the contract deadline for my cookbook. I just launched a new business. Did I mention I’m moving? If my mighty list of why-nots aren’t adequate, I also have The Foot.

The Foot is currently the bane of my existence, and the primary reason I’m finding all sorts of excuses not to skate.

Derby tracks turn left—always left. No one blows a whistle or announces over the loudspeaker, “It’s time for… reverse skate!” Sadly, like Derek Zoolander, I can’t turn left. For Derek, not being an ambi-turner meant losing runway contracts. For me it means wide, sloppy turns that make me a prime candidate for being forced off the track—or worse, rolling off it myself.

It’s all The Foot’s fault. My left foot turns inward at an angle so slight I lived 35 years before noticing it. Of course, I wasn’t on skates, with more protective gear than an NFL linebacker, trying to squat and navigate a hairpin on skates for even one second of those 35 years. When I roll forward, The Foot gradually “snowplows” into its straight counterpart on the right, ensuring I’ll learn to eat track. A lot of track.

I called my derby friend, Mia Feral, for advice. Mia suggested padding the inside of my skate to force The Foot into alignment, allowing me to skate in a straight line and “deftly leftly” cruise around the turns. Brilliant!

Sadly, The Foot didn’t buy it. Learning to eat track with a queen-sized pillow shoved into the front of my skate was neither fun nor effective. I tried loosening the front truck (it holds the front wheels in place) on my left skate to give my wheels a little more “play” and transferring my weight to the outside of The Foot, but only ended up with blisters and a bum ankle.

Now, I’m looking into structurally modifying my left skate by offsetting the plate (which holds the trucks in place) to the same degree as The Foot’s angle. That means drilling new holes in the bottom of my skate, and finding a huge protractor to stand on to measure The Foot’s degree of defiance. It will also mean a bit of drag when I skate, if I can skate at all, so I’ll be working my left leg harder than my right, which will probably give me a really interesting physique, in time.

I’m pretty much ready to quit. Except...

A couple weeks ago, I got a ride to the skating rink in Soap Lake with a young woman who had two canes propped in the back seat of her car. I didn’t ask any questions until my driver used those canes to make her way through the parking lot and into the rink. Readers, you know me—I’m a nosy mama. I asked my new friend what the deal was with the canes.

She had an inexplicable stroke last year. Her therapists were doubtful she’d walk again. Now, all she wants to know from her doctors is when she can SKATE.

There’s a reason our league motto is “Suck it up, Princess.” No matter what challenges I face with kids, moving, work, or The Foot, there will always be someone out there, showing me what it means to truly persevere. Now, I need to establish whether The Foot will simply defy me, or remarkably define me.

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

Photo source

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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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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Cheesecake is a Privilege, Not a Right

Do any of you parents have wrestlers?

While I'm pretty sure I'll pack on an extra fifty pounds before this cookbook is done, I feel super-sorry for The Dude. He's borderline for his weight bracket and Mr. Wright (former state wrestler) has been training The Dude hard and serving as the food police.

So sad... The Dude didn't get any of this cheesecake.

I'll have to recreate everything after wrestling season is over. Oh, darn.

Mighty, Mighty Mountain Goats! Yeah, I Said "GOATS."

I live in the best place in the world. It's a small community, but one that believes in its kids and goes all out to support our school sports teams. I have to admit I don't watch many sporting events unless my kid is playing. (The exception, of course, being hockey, because hockey kicks puck!) As you can imagine, I still get my fill of venues... The Dude is wrestling, Pockets plays football, GirlWonder started middle school volleyball this year, and - even though Princess's four-year varsity soccer career ended with her departure to college - we now get our soccer fix through Curlytop.

As you can imagine, this mama is constantly running from one gym/court/field to another. Maybe that's why I didn't get a chance to see the Lady Goats in action during this year's volleyball season. Looking back, I regret missing all the action, though, because our high school girls took state this year!

Today, we're off to the football quarterfinals against our nemesis, the Connell Eagles, who knocked us out of the playoffs last year, after a nail-biter of a game last week against Goldendale. This year, I'm betting our fierce Mountain Goats (Yes, I said "goats" - we're terrifying, no?) will dominate.

GO GOATS!

Logo by 7seasscreenprinting.com

Bad Gratitude Monday: Family Treasures, Poetry & Cutter Racing

Did y'all know I've written a little poetry in my time?

Well, I have. You can stop laughing, now.

The thing is, I never had a gift for rhymed verse, though I wanted to. I totally wanted to rock that ABAB or ABBA or ABCBA rhyming scheme, but I actually sucked at it. I like to think I made up for it with my free verse, but only my English teachers and the few editors who actually published my poetry will ever know the truth.

My great-grandmother, though - she's amazing. She's darn near 100 years old and she can spout off verses she wrote sixty years ago. From memory. We should all be so blessed when we're nearing a century on this planet.

While tidying up my bookshelves today, I came across a slim pamphlet titled Madison Cutter Association Sixth Annual Winter Carnival: Saturday, February 14, 1970 - 12:00 PM. The cover features a photo of the championship team. I couldn't help but smile at the find, for two reasons: First, my great-grandpa Charlie was a cutter racer. I knew his name would be found inside the program as one of the racers. Second, Great-grandma Nellie was the cutter association secretary and poet laureate, so I know I'd find one of her written treasures inside.

I wasn't disappointed.

What is cutter racing? Go ahead; you can ask. Don't be shy. Cutter racing looks something like Roman chariot racing, but with weird little one-man open carts. Great-grandpa Charlie bred and raced horses for this foolhardy sport, and Great-grandma provided the color commentary with her writing.

Inside my antique program I found two poems attributed to Great-grandma. Dear Granny has macular degeneration, so she can't see that I'm going to share them with you, here. Let me preface the sharing by saying that I'm as protective of her copyright as I am of mine, so enjoy, but there will be positively no stealing - if you know what's good for you. That being said, here we go:

Cutter Fever

When the wind is getting chilly,
and there's snow and fog and frost --
There's a bug or virus comes to life,
and cutter men are lost.


They get the chariots and harnesses out
and oil and clean them up,
And start trying out their horses
to pick the very top.


They meet in Associations
and start setting up the rules,
So that every man will know them
and when to pay their dues!


A day is set and agreed upon
for the racing season's start.
And every driver feels elation
and quick beating of the heart.


"Will I go to World Meeting,"
is what every mind will say,
"or be eliminated as we race
each Saturday?"


No day too cold or snowy for
these NUTS who cutter race,
And you wonder how men and animals
can stand the grueling pace!


Then when it's finally over
and the finals have been run,
And the trophies are awarded,
then we know it's all been fun.


All the drivers that were losers
make a promise to their pride,
"Next year I'll get some horses
to take me to World Wide!"


(c) Nellie Hall 1970


A Cutter Racer's Prayer


God grant that I could own a team
A snappy pair of colts,
That can run their race in 23.0
And never try to bolt.


I'd have them with a nerve of steel
But gentle as a lamb,
If I could have a team like that
I wouldn't give a damn.


When I put the harness on
To race and go out on the track,
I'd want another picture
For my winning picture rack.


I think the sire should have some 3 bars blood
Or Joe Reed or maybe Dial
With a record on the Dams side
That is bulky in their file.


I'd like to win each race I run
To put me at the top
So that when the World Wide Days are held,
I wouldn't have to stop.


I'd like to win a few there, too,
And I would be so proud;
A trophy would be nice, dear Lord,
While we pose before the crowd.


This is my prayer to you, Lord
And don't think me out of line;
I'd settle for some horses
That win part of the time.


Amen.


(c) Nellie Hall 1970







What family treasures do you have to be grateful for, today?



Photo credit: All American Cutter Racing Association

Fillies ROCK!

The Gonzo Mama is reporting live from the Preakness, where Rachel Alexandra just became the first filly to win since 1924.

I say, "About time!"

I never doubted you for a moment, Rachel. Way to show the boys the way it's done!

Part Time… No Problem!

Fall is always stupid-busy for the Wrights, and it’s not just the beginning of the school year… fall also means the beginning of Princess’s soccer season, Pockets’s football, and—for me—teaching journalism to fourth- and fifth-graders for six weeks.

Add to the usual chaos these new twists for 2008:

• Mr. Wright was elected President-Elect for the Washington REALTORS®. appointed to a presidential advisory group on climate change for the National Association of REALTORS® and appointed as a trustee for the Center for Real Estate Research and Development at WSU
• I decided, in all my wisdom, to begin publishing an independent parenting magazine
• Pepper started volleyball
• Curlytop started her preschool IEP at a public school in Douglas County
• Snugglebug started group therapy/preschool in south Chelan County

Naturally, the five oldest kids go to school in north Chelan County, so I’m driving all over the state every day. I openly laugh at whoever created the “10 Year/100,000 Mile Warranty.” Get real! I drove over a thousand miles this week alone.

What better time for me to take an additional job, right? I love my local librarian to the extreme—which must explain why I offered to sub for her while she was on maternity leave. Without much thought as to the impact, I became a part-time librarian. Why not? Part-time… no problem!

I knew things had changed for the kids and me when I found myself at work, stricken that I’d forgotten Pepper had a volleyball game. Mr. Wright was out of town and wouldn’t be able to attend. Someone had to go to her game! But, who?

In desperation, I sent a text message to Princess:

can u go to pepper’s game after practice? pls?

Her response?

um, i am @ my soccer game ... sorry!

Worst. Mother. Ever.