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
There’s no order of importance here, but in the last week or so I’ve had a package lost at the post office, a letter returned because it didn’t reach the recipient in time, my computer stolen, and my tailbone broken.
I’m not sad or pissed off, but I am getting impatient with living my days balanced on one hip and my nights splayed across ice packs. And I’m really tired of calling the post office. Other than that, it’s work-book-work.
Mostly I’m nervous, because in a couple of days I’m teaching a class where I’m not as worried about being funny as I am being fun. Ages 8-12?! Yikes. I am a very old lady to them.
Speaking of, last weekend I got carded buying a bottle of wine, and the mohawked dude behind the counter looks at my ID and goes, “Whoa. WHOA.” Then he looks at the people in line behind me and goes, “I thought she was WAY younger than that. I mean, that’s a like, a baby face compared to how old you–”
“ALL RIGHT,” I shouted. “It was flattering at first, but that’s enough. I’m not THAT old.”
And then he did that head bob that means, “Kinda you are.”
That story has nothing to do with why I haven’t been updating my blog other than I proceeded to drink that bottle of wine, talking about how I’m not old, and then I was in no condition to write anything to anyone.
…I will probably not tell that story to the eight-year olds.