Go, Meteorfights!

“Yikes, Holla. That’s a bruise.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Have you taken a picture of it yet?”


“You need to. And put it on the Internet and tell people to come to the bout.”


Right now I’m staring at my uniform which is hanging from the doorway to my kitchen. My gear is by my side, brand new helmet already scratched in the places where it saved me from harm. And I’m stoked. Continue reading

Called Out (or: soup and Vicodin for breakfast)

I am hurting. Hurting, people. My body is bruised and contused. I am kind of a hot mess, and I think I have about ten minutes before this Vicodin kicks in proper, so let me try and get these stories out. Our little rookie game needs ticket sales. It’s a cheap game, it’s all ages, it’s on a Saturday afternoon, and it’s way more fun if you are there.

Please buy tickets to the Baby Doll Brawl. Send your friends, grab a group, make an afternoon of it. Something. Because there’s been a tremendous amount of blood, sweat and tears (no really, all three) put into this bout. Ticket sales pay our rent. We skate for you and we can’t skate without you. And thanks for those of you who have been supporting us all this time, coming to our games or buying merchandise.

So, three quick stories.

I’ve learned that while I normally bruise extremely easily, my face seems to be the exception. I’ve taken a few accidental blows to the head over the past couple of weeks — an elbow to the temple, and elbow to the other temple (same girl, one week later, opposite elbow), a skate to the chin, a shoulder to the cheek, a full-on forehead-to-forehead smack that seemed straight out of a deleted scene from Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and lastly… oh, man. Continue reading

This is how I roll.

For almost four months now, I’ve been living a bit of a double life. It was a secret at first, mostly because I didn’t want to talk about it, I wanted to just do it. Plus, a lot of people weren’t going to understand. They were going to judge me. Not that I care about that, I mean, not too much. But I didn’t want to be a poseur. I wanted to wait until I knew I was really in it. Until I was sure.

I’m not the only one who does it, and from what I understand, more and more women are doing it every day. I wanted it to be just mine, just for a little while. But people have been asking me to write about it, and as much as I liked having this secret, it’s time for me to go public, because it’s about to become very public, whether I like it or not. Continue reading


It wasn’t a hallucination.

It just feels like it was.

Almost two weeks after the marathon, I’m now sort of completely healed. The nasty blister on my foot has been drained of blood, so it looks sad instead of angry. There’s still a bruise on one of my toenails, which I didn’t know about until I took off my nail polish. (I ran with red toenails. I’m extreme, but i’m girlie!) The cut on my chest from my sports bra (Thanks, Oprah), has healed, but still has left a bit of a mark. But my feet, which were in so much pain — the tendons just under my ankles — are now letting me walk again. But I was a bit limpy there for a while. It turned out the only shoes that didn’t give me extreme pain were high heels. Ironically. Something about keeping my weight on the balls of my feet made it so the tops of my feet were no longer screaming in pain. Lots of Motrin, and about three days with an ACE bandage, but I’m okay. No sunburn. My hip was fine. But my feet are so sad-looking, I can’t even treat myself to a pedicure. I’m going to wait until they’re less embarrassing.


I’m covered in bruises.

Not little tiny ones, but the kind where people grab my wrist and go, “Oh, my God. What happened to you?” It started with just a couple, but now there’s a rather large one on the inside of my left elbow that’s getting uglier every day, and one on top of my left forearm that actually hurts. This morning stee pointed out little ones along the back of my left arm. There’s a scratch on the inside of my right arm. I don’t know where it came from. Continue reading

my shortcomings

I’m in the middle of cooking dinner, and by that I mean I’ve put water in a pot and I’m waiting for it to boil, which means I have a few minutes for an entry. It means I have just enough time to talk about the weird things going on with my own body, because… well, why not. If you’d rather hear about other people’s bodies, Tara and Dave have been examining their poo. Seriously. So quit your bitching. Continue reading

Beastie Boys: Check Your Head

Song: “So Whatcha Want

We were recapping the VMA’s for TWoP last night, at a certain point, probably in the middle of hearing a Ying Yang Twin shout “Haaaang” or when I’d heard the millionth whistle as a way to keep a beat, I just… I just lost it. I got so sad for music, and how hard it is to find something good for free. For free, you know what I mean? Turn on the radio, and the sound coming out doesn’t suck. This is a very difficult thing to do. Continue reading