And then I broke my ass....

This weekend was a doozie. I had a terrible, no good, very bad, mess of a day on Friday, and then quite possibly the most epic day of parenting/adventuring/derbying ever the next. 

It was my favorite derby bout. Ever. 

Not for the fact that it was in the Toyota Town Center, a 10,000 seat venue, nor the fact that we came out victorious. Nope. My kids were there and they watched the whole damned bout. But it was more than that--they were completely engaged. After returning to the bench after every jam, my children, face full of smiles and blue sunscreen, yelled "Brass Chuckles!" at the top of their little lungs and gave me the approving don't-kill-this-gladiator thumbs up. 

They said they loved it. They said they were proud. I doubt I've ever been more happy. 

I showed them what a mom can do. They saw me fall and fall and fall again and constantly get up so that I might get to fall once more. I showed them what a strong body could do. After multiple hits and face plants and helmets to the nose, I was victorious with my kids....and all of my limbs strongly intact. 

Eff. Yes. 

The next day we walked out the front door and dropped our tubes into river and took a float into town. We relaxed in the freezing-ass water with the sun glistening on our wet legs and faces. We paddled as we meandered. It couldn't be more relaxing. 

Then it happened. 

The river (or rather a jagged rock forged in hell) sat there, eagerly awaiting my victorious ass to careen into its unforgiving mass. 

I did not breathe for an unknown amount of time. Stars invaded my vision. My stomach and its contents waged war and threated to cause spillover agression on my lap. It was very quiet. 

"Hey Mom! What are you doing falling over into the water like that?" My daughter asked. 

The mumblings I offered in response were akin to the Pentacostal tongues on Sunday, though I'm afraid they may have been a bit more accessible to the random sailor. I remember not these words, ergo, they must have been divine. Divine pain. In my ass. 

For the next hour and a half, I shook in the freezing water, thankful for its numbing effects. The river seemed to slow to a halt, and taunted me all the way. Rocks jutted out of the water in a threatening manner. Ducks, sitting idly on the bank, laughed cruely. My children laughed and sang and delighted in the most painful river float in my recorded history. 

The next day I filed for divorce and kissed my kids as they went to their father's for a whole effing fortnight. Oh yeah, and there was a huge-ass fire. 

But in all of this crazy and potentially emotionally disturbing chaos all I could think was, "man.....my ass hurts something fierce." Standing up, sitting down, standing up, yadda yadda (worse than Catholic mass, I tell ya) for the lawyer kept me focusing not on the actual sad thing that was going on but the standing up and sitting down bits. I have never been so in touch with my body as I was in those moments. 

Now I feel fragile. F-R-A-G-I-L-E. It's Italian. There are many opportunities for saddness right about now, but all I can think about is "get that foot forward without making your ass cramp and spasm out so that your face doesn't pucker up like you've just eaten 35 sourpatch kids and 86 lemon drops." 

So, in a way, I'm kind of glad for my tailbone's chronic reminder that I'm a broken woman who now walks like a constipated geriatric. It keeps me present in the moment. I guess that's all I can ask for. 

Cats, Cups, and Crappy days

Warning: Cranktankerous rant ahead. There are swear words and badittudes amok. 

Still here? Okay, but you've been warned. This is an LLB (limited liability blog).  

Life can sometimes be great. You're on top of everything, or--dare I say it?--even ahead of tasks and all that. Then there are days that start crummy before you have even gotten a night's sleep under your belt. 

Randomblings....Then there are days when you're the statue. Er, bird shit. Er, something. Last night I walked past the front door and a bird flew out. I almost shit myself, but then I realized the bird had done that for me. Yeah. Statuesque. 

These days find you lost in a sea of stuff and tasks that feel like they will never get done. 

There is a floating island far off the coast of somewhere that is made entirely of garbage. It just floats hither and thither. We have one of those just of the coast of my bed. We call it "Laundry Isle." Whether it is clean or soiled has yet to be fully determined. The domestic archaeologists will sort it out later...when they can find it. It is said to be migrating east toward Couch in Livingroom. 

The dishes have miraculously created their own boidiverse habitat. Like a lost city after a major catastophe, they sit naked and empty, strewn about every surface. They will not be moved as they have grown roots to their tabletops and have began to sprout dirty silverware. 

Those few glasses which are actually holding some form of liquid or alike often suffer a more tragic fate than their sticky an immoveable brothers. They must suffer the asshole cat. 

Ozzie Who has taken to playing, "topple." Full glasses are checked for fullness. If they fall on the ground, they were probably full. 

My children, to my surprise, found two completely clean cups today, which they beat on the tables (after a broad sweeping motion rid said horizontal plane of bills, legos, puzzles, and raisins) whilst accompanying themselves in song. It's glorious. 

This beautifully choreographed and delightful video is to blame. 

It sent shivers up my spine as well. 

But there are a few noticeable differences between these beautiful adolescants and my own spawn: 1) Where these teens tap and clap in a well-mastered synchronicity, my children beat their fists on the table like a drunken Jackie Chan unsuccessfully trying to break boards made of something real hard and real loud, and 2) Where this quartet of culturally diverse youth marry their voices in a way that only angels would, my children scream over each other like angry drunk white girls trying to outkaraoke eachother at 2 am. 

At least it's not country music. 

Speaking fo country music, it was country music day at work today. I love my bosses almost as much as one should love their wacky aunts/uncles, so I attempted to tolerate the country music. But let's get one thing clear: I do not care for country music. At all. I don't know what it is but the thought of twangy rednecks talking about guns and hearts and kisses and hugs and "rain makes corn and corn makes whiskey and wiskey makes my girl feel pretty durn frisky" that gets my gourd flaming. 

Or it may be the fact that I'm getting divorced on Monday. Whatever the case may be, my poor bosses had to deal with this shit. All. Day. Long. 

Bitchy resting face is a very real thing. 

Right. The big "D" on Monday. The big "B" tomorrow--oh shit! I have to do laundry for my roller derby bout tomorrow. Y'see how I did that? That whole forgetting about something merely hours in advance?! I'd be more impressed if I were on top of this stuff. Right. Derby. Had a fantastic weekend of derby just last. BomberCon Deuce was a major success and brought 100 PNW roller derby participants to my little middle-of-nowhere and we learned a heap of--

--I'm telling you this now, because I feel that it is a metaphor for my existence at this, this right now very moment. Instead of placing a single scoop of laundry detergent into the washer, I just placed a single scoop of kitty litter into the washer. Shall we get existential about this right now? Sure, g'head. You fink, I'll grab a beer.--

Anyhow, I lost where I was going with that whole thing. Oh right! I'm totally off the ball. Right. 

But I guess I was warned (as were you, you fearless blog reader-still here? Damn. You're good.).

My horoscope did tell me there was a moon or something in Virgo....I should probably figure out what the hell that means...it could be serious. 

Oh well. In the meantime, I'm going to stare at this picture of serenity, get my hands into mudras till they cramp, criss-cross applesauce until my ass goes numb and recite my new mantra: 

Namaste, bitches. xo

Small Town Pride

Life in the Methow Valley is not like life in your other parts of rural America, and it isn't just our beautiful landscape that separates us from the rest. In most of the small towns I have travelled to in the last few years I have noticed a distinct marginalization of the LGBT communities that dwell quietly within their population. 

But here, in the Methow Valley, we celebrated today. And in this celebration, Winthrop, Washington, made a statement today: Small towns do not have small minds. 

On a perfectly sunny morning, over a hundred people gathered on Riverside Avenue to march in honor of Methow Valley Pridefest. Kids hopped around on pogo sticks and rode scooters and were held by their loving parents. Rainbows wafted over the crowd and smiles gleamed from both marchers and spectators. The crowds cheered and waved and hollered as they ambled past the Tenderfoot General Store and Three-Fingered Jacks--the "oldest" saloon in the state of Washington. 

These were the folks that own businesses, raise beautiful and intellectual children, run non-profit organizations and produce and support art. These were the couples who see that our chamber of commerce runs smoothly, our utilities are maintained, and our bellies are full of sweet treats. This march was not solely done by those who are gay/lesbian/bi-sexual/transgender. This march was for one basic purpose: to celebrate love. 

Yes, we celebrated love and companionship in all its manifestations. 

Love in all its forms is tolerated, however it is not always accepted even here. Over the last year and a half, I've seen my friends blush and beam at their wives or husbands yet resist the urge to hug and kiss them in public. They walk side-by-side without holding hands when walking down the street. It's true, Washington state (specifically the more rural eastern Washington) has a lot of growth to make, but on days like this I think we get one step closer. 

Perhaps the most beautiful thing I saw was my friend April and her wife Sam (who were engaged one year ago today) head the march along with their fur baby, Vinnie. And they were holding hands as a married couple. My heart damned-near exploded when I saw them so happy together. They are love. 

So is Vinnie. 

And then there is love like this: 

My dear friend Mo makes Christianity look real good. She is one of the most supportive people within this community (or anywhere, for that fact) I've ever seen. She and her husband have served the world well with their gift of community service and love. I thank the universe/what-have-you every day for positive role models like them. Our children need people like them. 

And the kids! 

The children present at Methow pride were given a lesson today that all people are to be treated equally and respectfully. These are the kids who stand up for the marginalized and bullied. These are the kids who will stop a student and say, "Please don't use the word 'gay' like that. It's not a kind use of the word." 

They are a gentle and hopeful nudge toward progress. 

But it's not enough to dump the responsibility of progress onto these children. We must cultivate the notions of tolerance, acceptance, and respect every day through our own actions. Their progress is contingent upon ours. 

And today, in the Methow Valley, our group marched step-by-step onward. 

Photos provided by Mo, by awesome buddy, me, and the Winthrop, WA facebook page.

Mama Shame: The Body Love Battle

I opened up the newspaper last week to find me and my daughter in a large photo on the back page. "Rose and Magnolia hula hooping at the art opening," the caption read. 

At first, I did not notice the beautiful way our skirts swayed in tandem, the green grass, or the art installation I had just finished helping with in the background of the photo. No. There was only one thing that I saw in that image, and there was only one horrendous thought. 

My stomach. You can see my stomach skin. Everyone can see my stomach. 

It was only a small sliver of flesh--a pale strip where my tank top had slid up about an inch on my left hip. 

I wanted to hide. 

Not that anyone could see the stretchmarks that had invaded my once smooth flesh, but I knew that they, and the pregancy drapes were there. I was completely humiliated that I had allowed my body to be shown in public. I cried in the bathroom, ashamed of my body, ashamed of my vanity, ashamed of it all. 

I gained 100 pounds with each child. My body looks as though it was made from far too much fabric which hangs about in the most intimate places. There are not enough ab routines or lotions to undo the warzone that is my body. 

And now, as a single mother, the body-image challenge is even harder to overcome. Who would/could love a body that resembles a wasteland. Standing naked in front of a mirror, Vonnegut rings through my ears: "It was like the moon." 

A link arrived in my inbox today. It was a kickstarter for  'A Beautiful Body' Book Project done by photographer Jade Beall. The kickstarter sight features some of the images in the book. One in particular shook my everything. 

"That's me." 

Photo via Huffington Post. 

The image shows a woman with a body like mine. A body that looked like the moon--only it was beautiful. I lost what little composure I had. That is my body, and it is ravaged and I honestly couldn't keep myself from feeling shame for her. But it wasn't this beautiful and brave woman's shame, it was my own. I wear the extra-long tank top under my everyday life in hopes that no one will know. I keep my shame concealed. 

But there, on the computer screen, in from of the world, was my shame and fear of being alone for the rest of my life because of it. 

And it had nothing to do with the photo. 

Jade Beall is rattling the cages of society. Silently through joyous images of visctorious mothers, she is shouting,"wake up! You are beautiful and there is nothing wrong with the way you are!" 

She is activism through truth, and I thank her for it. I just wish I could believe it. 

I stretched out on the carpet and thought over the images of mothers--these women-goddesses in their flesh. My son, now seven, jumped on me, pulled up my shirt and played with my belly. My children always play with my belly and pull and prod my skin like taffy or putty to which I squirm and fight them off. Tonight was no different. "Stop!" I squealed in laughter and embarassment, "Why do you always play with my belly?!"

He stopped, patted my loose gut and then rested his head on it. "I love it. It's just so good. It's my favorite place of you." 

My daughter, eleven, came over and kissed my stomach in the same way she had kissed it when it held her baby brother. "It's where we came from. It's comfy. It has that 'safe' feeling." 

I grabbed them tightly, squeezing them toward my stomach. Holding on to my two babies I realized that I would take a thousand more stretchmarks just for this one moment. I may not be able to overcome my shame yet, but there, on the rug in a cluttered bedroom with two wonderful children, I took a big step forward. 

 I love them and I am loved, I thought. How lucky can you get?