Rose Norton's Open Salon Blog

A Derby intro for the Quad Curious: Fresh Meat Mama

Wed, 4 Apr 2012 16:04:19 -0400

We have a new batch of fresh meat at Methow Valley Roller Girls, and I can't wait to sink my teeth into them. This is for those brave women.

In the roller derby world, the new-to-the-game girls are known as “fresh meat.” Think the 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.

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--while you’re wearing hot pants and fishnets, no less. After watching their first bout, it’s only a matter of time until your manimal (or womanimal) waits 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.

This article was previously published on the blog Gonzo Mama where I was guest blogger last year. You can check her blog out here.

Photos courtesy of Hornbrook Photography, Laura Gunnip, and Sharen Ross.

Bathroom Confidential: Shower, Interrupted.

Fri, 22 Jul 2011 01:07:41 -0400

*knock, knock*

Me: Yes?

Tweeny: Moooooom, hi. Whaddyadoin?

Me: I’m knitting a sweater.

Tweeny: IN THE SHOWER?

*knock, knock*

Dude: MOM! I want to watch Netflix!

Me: No TV today.

Tweeny: Can I shave my legs?

Dude: But, MOoooOM!

Me: No, squared.

*slam*

Tweeny: But my legs! They are sooo hairy! I need to-

*knock, knock*

Dude: MOM!!MOM! MOM!MO!MOMOMMOMOMO!

Me: WHat!

Dude: Angry Birds?

Me: NO!

*slam*

Tweeny: Mom, if I don’t shave my legs than I will never wear shorts again.

Dude (sans knock): Stupid Zombies?

Me: NO!

Tweeny: Mom, you don’t understand. Shaving my legs would make me a better person-

Dude: Pocket Tanks?

Me: Dude, I’m done with your questions. Go to bed.

Tweeny: But it’s still light out!

Me: I don’t care!

Dude: But I haven’t had breakfast yet!

Tweeny: I really feel that you are being a little too harsh, lady. What’s next?

*SLAM*

Me: For you? I’m thinking you should clean the kitty litter.

Tweeny: Would that be before or after I shave my legs?

Me: AAAAHRGH!

Tweeny: Relax, Mom, you’ll blow a gasket. It was just a question.

Me: No....shampoo....eyes.....tweens.....stupid zom--

*knock, knock*

Hubby: Hey, hon, I’m going to the store.

Me: for what??!

Hubby: Pants.

*scratch, scratch*

Dude: I’m gonna flush....

Me: NO! PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GO--

*scratch, scratch*

Hubby: Where’s my hair gel?

Tweeny: Dad, you’ll let me shave my legs, right?

*scratch, scratch*

Hubby: I’m out. The dog’s wanting in.

Me: Sure, let the dog in the bathroom, and while your at it, just let the cat in, too.

Tweeny: Okay (heehee).

Me: NOT IN THE SHOWER!!!!

Dude: Oh, MOM! I’m gonna fluuuuuush.

Me: NO!

Dude: Angry Birds?

Tweeny: So when do you know when you are starting your period, Mom?

Dude: The dog rolled. He smells like poo. He needs a shower right--

Me: DON”T YOU DARE! OUT OF THE BATHROOM ALL OF YOU!!!!!

*grumble, grumble*

**SLAM!**

*knock, knock*

Tweeny: It’s okay it’s just me, Mom. I’m not starting my period, aren’t you glad?

Me: Excessively.

Tweeny: Soooooo...

Me: WHAT!

Tweeny: Can I shave?

Me: All right. Stick your leg in here and I’ll do it. This way you won’t bleed out all over the floor when I cut you.

Tweeny: Um, I think I’ve changed my mind. Thanks though!

*SLAM*

(Silence.)

Me: HELLLO?

(Silence.)

Me: Anyone?

(Silence.)

Me: Can somebody bring me a towel?!

(Silence.)

Photo Credit: http://chztotsandgiggles.files.wordpress.com (Icanhascheesburger.com)

Mahjong's Clandestine Signs and Cosmic Wanderlust

Sat, 16 Jul 2011 12:07:53 -0400

All my life I have sought adventure through strange occurrences clandestine to all but me. Perhaps I was born under some transcendental gypsy sky or bit by some rare rambling bug early on in life; nevertheless, I have always been an eager and willing traveller.

I like to change scenery quite often. This is by no means a confession, but more a stated fact. I move around a lot and having children didn’t really change that at all.

Once I eavesdropped on a man talking about following a band on its West Coast tour, and I went--with nothing but a skirt on my hips, a bandana around my chest, and a bicentennial quarter in my pocket. After holding hands with a strip-mall psychic, I left my boyfriend and headed to Alaska with Ishmael, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, and my 6 month-old daughter. Since then I have lived in 18 different places spanning thousands of miles--and every time, on a whim (or at least with confirmation through etheric insight).

I have gained a few more in my troupe: A husband, our son, a three-legged dog, and a deaf cat. Now I sit on my father-in-law’s stoop, challenging the heavens for a sign and hoping my cosmic compass will lead me toward the next great adventure.

But now my children’s needs supersede my wanderlust. I MUST become consistent, my logic says. Yes, my cravings compromise. The next place we will stay.

But where?

The globe on the bookshelf calls me like fruits to Tantalus. Spin me...close your eyes....land anywhere...

My I-Ching book is still in storage getting musty and out of shape. My tarot cards have become warped and convoluted.

So, I sit at my computer, idly plucking away at digital tiles, I play Mahjong while I wait for a sign. I lose a lot. Pretty much always. And every time the computer laughs at my loss, scrawling my defeat over the orphaned and mismatched tiles, “No More Moves.”

I try again, frantically. In some way, perhaps by aligning the cosmos and finding lovers for each tile, I keep hoping that an e-mail notice will chime and alert me to a job available in London or Morocco or Duluth and I’ll whisk the troupe away to consistency.

“No More Moves,” flashes onto my screen with harsh and unpleasant tones.

Perhaps this sign is not the most elusively seductive course of action, I would prefer that my losing streak with Mahjong would say, “Move to Rio” or at least provide a path. Unfortunately, the sign is painfully clear. I should stay put.

As a mother, this would seem a natural desire. To create a home and develop a long-term sense of place should be every mother’s greatest hope. The notion of living years in one single place should not send a person crawling out of their skin. But the idea petrifies me. I’m afraid that I will never again experience new places, new people, and breathe in a new life. I’ll go stale.

But, the sign is apparent. I am staying put. The Mahjong tells me so. The troupe needs it, and I’m sure, in some dark and unused corner of my psyche, I need it, too.

So here I will stay. I will wriggle and fidget like a 4 year-old in Sunday’s best and maybe pout for a while, but I will not budge. Perhaps there is adventure in consistency. We shall see.

Photos provided by MIT (senseable.mit.edu) and 3drenderstuff (3drenderstuff.wordpress.com)

How Harry Potter Changed My Life.

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 10:07:37 -0400

The final Harry Potter movie comes out tonight, so I figured I'd offer my two cents. Before I began reading the Harry Potter series, I was damned-near illiterate. I now have a BA in English.

When J.K. Rowling’s world of Harry Potter collided with the world of Barnes and Noble, a surge of children raced out to buy the book. And the world was quiet. The TV’s, Nintendo’s, and computers gathered dust. Children no longer played in their back yards. They were all too busy learning the proper way to enunciate Wingardium Leviosa in their own magical minds.

Little did those aspiring wizards of the suburbs know that late at night, when they dreamed of gigantic spiders and patronuses, the parents of the world stole away into the closet…to dive into the magical world as well.

That’s right. I love Harry Potter. And I know I’m not the only grown-up to fall in love with the book series. Harry Potter found its way into many grown-ups' purses. At my daughter’s playgroup, the mothers would pass around the different books and squeal with excitement each time a new book would arrive.

Every time a new Harry Potter book came out, it seemed as though the world stopped. Time stood still. The real world seemed to fade away. At least for me.

“Mom! I’m really hungry!”

Apparently, my non-reading toddler thought otherwise.

“Ten more pages, sweetie. Ten more pages.”

Harry and I walked through Hogwarts for the first time, hand-in-hand, awestruck by the new fantastical world of magic that surrounded us. I wanted to say that I hated Malfoy first, but I think we came to the conclusion at the same time.

There I was, a twenty-something when I read the first book, having a pack of eleven-year olds as my best friends. I relied on Ron to tell me the ways of magic. I tasted a “bogey-flavored” Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Bean. I held my breath through the tri-wizard tournament. Yes, I was vicariously living the greatest pre-adolescence ever.

Throughout reading the first few books, I lived each day looking forward to my daughter’s naptime, when my Harry Potter book would come out. I would soak every page up, loving each experience Harry, Ron and Hermione would go through.

When my daughter would wake up, the book went away, but the images still flitted in my mind. If I needed a diaper I’d mumble, acio diaper to no avail. I’d giggle at my silly incantation.

I suppose it was when I began casting spells on my husband that I realized that I might have had a problem.

“Muffliato!” I’d shout, staring ominously.

“What?” my baffled and non-plussed husband would ask.

Hmmm, wrong inflection.

“Muf-flee-a-toe!” I’d shout again. My husband would groan.

“When you finish up that Harry Potter book, will you ask me to turn down the TV like a normal person?” He snorted.

I turned my gaze toward him and focused. “Muffliato!”

It worked. He rolled his eyes. Silently. Maybe Howarts does exist!

Everytime I ended a book, I cried. Not because of the book, mind you, but for the loss of a friend. I’d feel lost and separate from the world around me. It was the bleak acceptance of reality that was the hardest to realize.

The truth is, I hadn’t been much of a reader until Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone had found its way on to my lap and into my mind. I had forgotten the complete joy and exhilaration I experienced when I took the first steps into a new book, and into a new world. I had forgotten how easy it was to become immersed within a story.

After my emotional recovery from a lack of new Harry Potter books, I began to dive into other worlds. I was part of a Leprechaun hostage scandal in Eoin Colfer’s Artemis Fowl series, I traveled to strange and obscure American landmarks in Neil Gaiman’s American Gods, and strode the Piazza San Marco in Cornelia Funke's The Theif Lord. The experiences continue to this day.

My daughter, now 9, has started to read chapter books. The first “big kid” books I brought to her nightstand were Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone and Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. At night, just before I tuck her in, we take turns reading. We are half-way finished with The Goblet of Fire.

There is something completely wonderful about sharing this world with her. With every page, she giggles with anticipation, and I giggle with anticipation for her. Now I'm given a whole new experience in seeing my daughter learn to love reading. Now I’m no longer concerned with living vicariously through the characters, but I’m more involved with living vicariously through my daughter’s experience. Her first gasp at he-who-shall-not-be-named, her first loud burst of laughter at the Weasley twins. It feels like I’m reading an entirely different book.

Yes, I believe that Harry, Ron and Hermione have found a new buddy. I’m sure my daughter will fit in to Hogwarts quite well.

The Shrink (Wed. Fiction)

Thu, 14 Jul 2011 02:07:29 -0400

Here's my Wed. night (late) fiction. It's a story from the point of view of an object.

“Hi there. How are we today?”

“Do you mean ‘we’ in the royal sense or the you-and-I collective, because the former is ridiculous whereas the latter isn’t very sensible considering I have issues--issues which you can base your entire living upon.”

The polished man looked down into his lap and fidgeted for a moment. The crinkling of a wrapper represented crickets among the silence. His unwavering calm unnerved me. He popped a dum-dum into his mouth and smiled a smile that suggested i should spew my troubles.

We sat in silence. I’m a stubborn individual. Unfortunately, so is he.

He plucked his dum-dum from his mouth and held it to admire its glistening red character. The dum-dum apparently had troubles of his own. But dum-dums can’t talk (hence the moniker).

“I’m under appreciated!” said I, conceding the battle of will.

The shrink smiled, popping the stoic lollipop back in his mouth. His eyebrows urged me on.

“I’m constantly being used. Constantly! I do my job, and I do it well. Very little kvetching. And I like my job well enough, but does anyone ever thank me? No!”

“So, you would like some praise?” slurped the shrink, still reveling in his hard cherry bounty-on-a-stick (poor fella).

“Well, now, not all the time, I mean. I’m a strong specimen-”

“-Appliance.”

“Appliance. I stand corrected.” Jerk.

“But I maybe would like a little consideration now and then. I mean, I work hard--hell, I’ve worked down to the blade for these people! And I try. God knows I try. I do, but after the knife-”

“-How long has it been since the incident, now?” He looked down and flipped through my file.

“Four months now. It hurts. It hurts real bad, doc. Not really painful. It’s just..”

“Are you still having problems performing?”

“Hell no!” I straightened up. Pftt. Performance. “Of course not! I’m solid...It’s just..”

“Yes?” The shrink looked over his glasses at me.

“It’s just...Last week, okay? I’m given a whopper. Half a cabbage! And I think, ‘I got this,’ right? And here, I’m grinding away and I think, ‘Yeah, baby! I can do this!’ and then my bum blade gets all caught up and they have to stop the works and pull the bastard up.”

“That must have been hard for you.”

“But here’s the thing, doc, here’s the thing: I hadn’t even thought about it. I thought the blade was there the whole time! I thought I was invincible! But I’m not, doc. I’m vincible.”

“There’s no shame in breakage. That’s why there are warrantees.”

“I don’t WANT warrantees. I want my blade.”

He pulled the dead soldier, bitten and white, from his mouth (Gaw’blessum), and began writing a scrip.

“Okay, I want you to take this cleanser weekly, and we’ll see how you take to it. All of my other garbage disposal clients have been quite pleased with its effects.”

“Okay,” said I.

He stood up, dead soldier in hand. I winced instinctively, thinking the shrink would drop him in.

I could have taken him, though. I’m tough.