and just like that, i'm a jeerleader

Yes, my friends, the mood's been heavy lately. But in the midst of all the loss, the man & I managed to miss only one Gotham Girls Roller Derby bout all season. But we did make it to the latest bout, September 27th, an amazing double-header. The Brooklyn Bombshells barely edged past the bilingual all-star gals of Montreal Roller Derby, the New Skidz on the Block, & had the crowd on our feet, screaming, clapping & stomping ('cause that makes the most noise). Then the Manhattan Mayhem beat the living snot outta the Rhode Island Riveters of Providence Roller Derby.

While there, I was recruited by my friends in the world-famous Gotham Girls Jeerleaders to become a member of the hottest group of pom-pom-toting bitches in the Big Bad Apple. Come next season, yours truly will be trackside as one of Manhattan's Jailhouse Rockettes.


Now, some of you might ask, "Why Manhattan? Why not Brooklyn, you treasonous lech?" Well, because my friend Lizzie Warden claimed me for her very own, & how, my friends, could I fight someone named Lizzie Warden?

Some others of you might ask, "Why a Jeerleader & not a skater? I thought you wanted to be a rollergirl." Well, yeah. Even a year ago, I would've said "Hell yeah, I'm gonna be a rollergirl!" But after trying out & being rejected twice, I started playing soccer to get in prime condition & enjoy the camaraderie of a team sport in the meantime. Turns out, I really dig it & I get plenty hurt (just check out my bruises of the week) kicking balls & ass on McCarren's soccer fields every Friday night. Hell, I even got stitches (about which I really meant to blog)!

So Fifi Fleshwound might never skate on the flat-track, but I will be an official member of the supporting cast next season. If you haven't yet been initiated into the wonderful world of women's flat-track roller derby, or if you've got a hankerin' for another fun- & blood-filled bout, the Championship Bout between the Bronx Gridlock & the Queens of Pain is October 25th. If you can't make that bout, you'll have to wait for next season when you'll get a load of my fantastic jeering skills along with the uber-amazing action of the derby.

In the meantime, I have to come up with a sexy, bad-ass Jeerleader name -- preferably with Fifi, of course, but I'm open to any suggestion. So, help me out with a jeering moniker & earn my undying devotion. Do it. Do it now.

dear rasha

It was a month ago yesterday that you were taken from us, decades too soon. In that month, those of us you left behind have become closer than ever. I guess you can be happy about that. Many of us have said, "I hope I take on some of Rasha's patience, acceptance, zest for life" in order to have truly learned from your example. Sadly, all I can say so far is I've taken on some of your eating habits. Maybe that's just a step in a more tolerant direction.

You've left some pretty stunned people in your wake. Those of us who didn't know each other before have clung together to try to glean more of you from each other. We've celebrated your life, your birthday, your boyfriend's birthday, several other friends' birthdays & the Punk Rope DVD release. We've attended each other's plays & games, gone on 2 beach trips, picnicked, bowled & dined together. At every event, there was a huge void -- something making us all tear up, that we don't have to explain. There's never a smile or a laugh without the wistful thought, "Rasha should be here." You are greatly missed.

Even though it's been a month, it still feels unreal. None of us truly accepts the truth of the matter. And as I sit in an ICU waiting room for the second time in a month, I keep asking, "Why?" Why not the redneck sitting across from me who's obviously never met a fried vegetable she didn't love, a cigarette she didn't smoke or a beer she didn't chug? Why not the enormous lady from the other day who kept stuffing french fries down her gullet, apparently trying to make a quick transition from the Cardiac ICU waiting room to a semi-private room? Why not the little shithead who took your life, instead of you? None of it makes any sense. Maybe none of it ever will.

You are forever missed.

crap -- i've been labeled

All this time I'd been saying I didn't want a lavish wedding, or even a wedding per se -- because I don't want a froufrou dress, DEFINITELY no family & no attendants (because that always seems to devolve into a popularity contest & I couldn't do that to the people I love the most) -- it turns out that I'm an "anti-bride."

With all my anti-consumer-religio-corporate-marriage leanings, I've been pegged as my very own tidy demographic. Damn it all to hell.

bruise of the week (3 installments in one!)

bruise week uno

Our 1st candidate for glory tonight is from my first soccer game, April 25th. I took a cleat to the inside of my right knee -- from a guy who probably had a good 50 lbs. on me. It's just kind of amazing that he didn't break my leg.


bruise week dos

Our next beauty is from the last week of May. I wish I had a really cool story to go with it -- like I knocked out some Amazon woman's teeth when she shoved her way on the subway one morning. But it ain't so. I stepped out of the way of a woman in my office & ran my hand into a metal hand railing. This one was hot & lasted a long time.


bruise week tres

Our current contender is a swollen, ugly knuckle that makes it painful for me to even walk. That's right, this bitch is my big toe knuckle. I did this 2 weeks ago in a soccer game. I kicked the crap out of a guy, trying to get the ball from him. He was totally asking for it.


We also have a runner up for this week -- I took the full brunt of a hurtling soccer ball to the...wait for it...RIGHT knee. My poor right leg has really taken a beating in soccer.


So, how does your black & blue look this week?

it's thurs...wtf, it's friday already?!

This week has come & gone like so many others -- swiftly & without enough chocolate.

With the week's end, there are a few things I have to get off my chest.

1) Strapless dresses should never, under any circumstances, be acceptable office wear. Not even for ladies. If I see another girl tugging to keep her boobs covered during a meeting, I might just call her out for dressing like her mom when she's working the corner. And it's just now June, for christ's sake. I have several more months for this.

2) People with hooves in place of toes should not be allowed to wear flip-flops, sandals, mandals or any other type of open shoe. I almost threw up on a lady this morning, switching from the G to the V at Court Square. Her right big toe was so gnarled it was like a tree stump became human.

3) I'm still at work while everyone in my office packs up & leaves. I need to go mourn Tim Russert's passing -- what an amazing political reporter. He will be greatly missed.


So, I'm heading out to prepare for my last regular season soccer game. We're tied for 2nd going into the game, so wish us luck, bitches. If you can't make it to cheer on the Badgers tonight, next week & the week after are the playoffs. In case you're gonna miss those due to previous commitments, outrageous airfare costs or that restraining order, here's a picture our very own precious Bitch Cakes took of yours truly (from May 23rd).

Tomorrow, look for a new post -- that will hopefully be a regular installment: bruise of the week. I have a few weeks of glorious black, blue, purple & green to catch you up on.

the unspeakable power of knee socks

Living in NYC & being a Vag American, I often get cat calls. Some days, more than others. But the biggest reactions I get are on days when I wear knee socks...and they're visible.

Last Thursday: I put on a simple black dress -- nothing fancy, just cute (P.S., ladies, if you don't already own one of these, buy one now, as they're unbelievably flattering & forgiving). But, apparently, when I pulled on black/grey/white/red argyle knee socks (with red skulls & crossbones at the top) & some black patent pumps before walking out the door, I became a total vamp.

So many male heads turned my way you'd think I was wearing nothing but bacon. Suits, tourists, bike messengers, old men. Even asexual, girls' jeans-wearing hipster boys. A construction worker screamed "wow" from the top of a scaffold. A couple of men walked into doors and other sidewalk impediments. I was walking mayhem.

But when I've worn that dress before, reactions were mild at best. So I began to wonder, is it the knee socks themselves that melt men into googly-eyed little boys? Is it the sex-appeal I feel, and surely exude, when I put them on? Or did I just look particularly hot that day?

To test my theory, I rocked grey & black striped knee socks today with a grey long-sleeved boxy t-shirt, black capris & the same black patent pumps. Again, heads have turned, cat calls have emanated from trucks & parking garages. Seas of tourists have parted in my path. Other women looked on jealously.

However, I left the house this morning in my rain boots, which covered my knee socks completely. Not a head turned. It wasn't till I got to work & changed from the boots to the pumps that I got noticed. Without the visible knee socks, I had on a cloak of invisibility. As soon as people could see them, they could see me. One of my account girls even said, "It makes me proud to walk into client offices with you like that, 'cause you're obviously creative."

Obviously.

mooing the ol' party line

If you’ve never seen it, there’s a fun little page in every New York Magazine with photos of celebrities & non-celeb-camera-whores in their natural habitats—partying. It’s called —‘cause that’s clever. Now, I, as a woman who couldn’t care less about the comings, goings, self-service-gas-pump-
sightings or love interests of most celebretards, find this page particularly intoxicating. But not from the catch-up-on-gossip-&-OMG-see-what-they’re-wearing viewpoint. Nope, I’m there purely to make fun of them, & I’m sure I’m not the only one who does it.


You see, each week, they feature three big soirees in NYC & Photoshop a handful of the beautiful together in one neat little horizontal grouping. One of the “famous” people’s bigger than all the others, like King or Queen Cutout, ‘cause he or she deigned to speak to the press & be quoted. Usually, the quotes make me sad. ‘Cause they’re out of touch. Or just plain ignorant.

Anhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifyhow, the super-fun game I like to play with these celebrescapes is to try to deduce the event with the collection of names & faces in attendance. Anytime there’s an Olsen twin, my gut reaction says it’s either, “2nd Annual Eating Disorder Ice Cream Social at The Hog Pit in the Meatpacking District!” or “Marc Jacobs’ Fundraiser to Buy Pullover Sweaters for Absurdly Large Headed People, Hosted by the Society of Disproportionately Giant Heads at Trump Tower.” I’m rarely wrong.

So, play along with me on this one—from the February 14th issue. Let’s see, I see people much younger than me…who get paid too much…to do something meaningless…typically not very well…dressed like homeless people…though those rags probably cost each of their stylists a small fortune….

My guess is, it’s “The Biennial Tacky Clothing and Accessory Swap Meet for Talentless Youth, hosted by J-Lo & Mark Anthony’s Placenta, at Washington Square Park.”

What do you think?

oh, sorry, sorry

Ladies, why is it that we cannot approach the same door, simultaneously, from either side without apologizing to each other?

Here’s a handy reenactment from the office.

As I approach the ladies’ room door, as I do, sometimes dozens of times everyday, the door is pulled open before me. The woman who begins to emerge says, “Oh, sorry,” as I immediately breathe out, without thinking, “Sorry.”

Here’s another reenactment. Similar, but with a slight variation. Still at the office, because I pee there a lot.

After yet another gallon of fake-tea-flavored water, I approach the ladies’ room door. This time, I turn the handle & begin to push the door in. (I rarely push very hard, as I am extremely sensitive to the fact that there is often another person smack-dab on the other side of it, just praying for me not to send them sailing into the wall or ass-ending them onto the floor.) Typically, before the door is fully open, I’m face-to-face with whoever was trying to exit the bathroom before I arrived to open the door & fuck everything up for her. I immediately spit out, “Sorry,” as I’m met with, “Oops, sorry” from my now-blocked-into-the-bathroom peer.

But why? Why do we apologize because we’re both trying to use the same door from different directions? Is it dick to not apologize, to merely open the door & say nothing, or stand aside as they open the door & say nothing?

I’ve decided to take a stand beginning today. I will not apologize for being on the other side of the door. Let’s see how the ladies of my super-cool ad agency respond.

time of new life: 6:57 pm, march 2, 2008

That's the moment the first needle pricked my skin and changed my body forever. At the age of 34 and a day, I was finally getting the tattoo I'd dreamed of for years, nay decades.

As I'd told my other half & Bitch Cakes, I'd felt for most of my life like I'd been missing something -- something integral. My body felt naked without a piece of artwork. And I'd decided years ago that it was my right arm that really needed it. My left arm is my man's territory. He owns my ring finger & has a long-term lease on my wrist, on which I wear an elegant little watch, a gift from him.

So if my left arm belongs to my man, then my right arm -- my write arm (ba-dum-bum) -- belongs to me. And being a right-handed writer, I can't wear bracelets on my right arm -- they're irritating & get in the way. So the right arm was just a natural for ink.

The tattoo itself is my personal logo, as interpreted by Alex, my tattoo artist. The pin up girl first appeared on the cover of Flirt magazine in the 40s or 50s, & when I was in ad school, I fell in love with the drawing & adapted it for my own -- one important facet of which is her left hand, which I fashioned into a perfect Hook 'Em Horns.

I wasn't sure how well I was going to fare during the inking process. I don't typically do well with needles. I don't give blood. I don't like having it taken at the doctor's office. And the notion of immunization at my age is rather horrifying. But the tattooing process was completely different. It wasn't just pain for a loss of blood, a dot & band-aid (& possibly a bruise) on my arm, some orange drink & cookies in the event of donation & the ability to travel in malaria-infested areas in the case of immunization. It was going to result in something of great beauty.

I watched as Alex, an amazing artist in any medium, began outlining, then shading, then coloring my pin up girl. In fact, I actually enjoyed watching it. Even as I saw myself beginning to bleed, I enjoyed it. Even as the needles scraped over bones and nerves, I enjoyed it. (Check out the entire process on flickr & leave comment, if you haven't already.) Three hours went by faster than I could've ever expected. The shop, East Side Ink, full when we arrived, & bustling for the first hour or so, was empty except for Alex, my man, the shop manager and me. We paid our tab -- cash only, kids -- and walked off in the direction of the L train.


Unveiling my girl at work wasn't as dramatic as I'd expected. People I didn't expect to enjoy it responded really well, even asking about my artist, as if they might plan a visit themselves. The next hurdle, of course, is my future in-laws, but if they balk, I can add that to the list of things they don't need to understand. But it's not about whether people like it or not. It's about whether I like it or not. And, damn it, I friggin' love it.

on dream jobs & derailment

Generally, I’m one of those people who would rather dig out my own kidney with a spork than do personal stuff on company time, especially blogging. But as I’m paid to write, sometimes I have to write to get through a block. This, my precious readers, is one of those times, so please bear with me as I write through the pain.

As I write, all the synapses in my brain are firing promptly. However, they’re not firing with great accuracy, or with any accuracy at all, really. See, I need them to be firing over management training, which is what I’m trying to write about (for what will be my first ever print ads, thank you very much). But they just want to talk to you, dear readers, and tell you how they’re doing and how much they’ve missed you.

Here goes.

I greatly apologize to the entire world, but to you most, dear ones, for having dropped off the radar. Seven weeks ago Monday, I started working here, at one of my dream shops—one of every creative’s dream shops. And not only is it one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world, but as a freelancer, I constantly have to prove myself in order to be offered a real, full-time job at one of the top ad agencies in the whole wide world.

So there you have it. I’m not ignoring you. I’m not trying NOT to keep up with all of you through your blogs. I’m just trying to get through daily writer’s block and impress some of the hardest people in my industry to impress. I’ll do my best to poke my head up more often so the whack-a-fifi game is actually fun. Perhaps I’ll even invite some guest bloggers onto the scene.

In the meantime, enjoy my birthday tomorrow in your own way. You know where to mail your sacrificial souls.