Never Mind

Remember last week when I was all excited about my most recent bout? Yeah, never mind.

I skated in about five jams before I was ejected. Yep, that's me...the low block. That low block was actually a swift kick to a skate. Just what you'd expect from a mature, experienced skater.

Instead of going into the history of me and my former league (which is already documented here), I'm going to delve into the ancient history of me and my uncontrolled emotions. It all started when I was called into the office in fifth grade for laughing at a classmate during a school program. Yes, my class was on stage in front of the entire student body and parents, and I laughed out loud when somebody forgot their lines. Mostly because I knew everybody's lines. I was a smartass punk when I was ten. Anyway, our principal caught me afterwards, told me to come see him in the morning, and spent what seemed like an eternity explaining how I should learn to control my emotions. Either that was too much for a fifth-grader to comprehend or I've spent the past thirty years rebelling against that first trip to the principal's office.

In high school, my emotions often got the better of me on the basketball court. I can't tell you the number of times I was ejected from games from technical fouls. I remember most clearly throwing the ball directly into the stomach of an opponent because I was tired of her rubbing her flab all over me. I mean, really, that's just disgusting. When you enter my egotistical world in such a fashion, you get what you deserve.

Surprisingly, there weren't any outbursts during my tackle football stint. Maybe I didn't feel as noticable. I wasn't the smartest or the fastest or the best rebounder or the best blocker. I didn't stand a foot taller than everyone, for the most part. When I go unnoticed, it's easy for me to stay that way. When I stand out like a sore thumb, it gets a little dicey.

So as you can imagine, my derby career has been one lesson after another in controlling my emotions...lessons I usually fail. I don't regret anything, and I don't see any reason to apologize for being myself. I do wish I wouldn't have let my team down, but I have a few more chances to redeem myself this season before I decide to move on yet again. Maybe I was born in the wrong roller derby era, and my heart really belongs to the spectacle it was thirty years ago instead of the sport it's trying to be now. Does anybody know where I can get involved in that? ;) Yeah, never mind.

Am I Right, or Am I Right?

I still may have overreacted, but still...


Oh, and it doesn't stop there...


At that point, it looks like I warned her, but then on second thought, here comes those free lessons in destructive criticism...

Free Lessons in Destructive Criticism

I was waiting for a picture of me, with glowing eyes, actually jumping on the back of a poor, innocent opposing skater, but Death By Chocolate commented me with this lolcat gem that just hit the spot:



I was ejected from the Brawlers' amazing victory over ACRD's Bombshell Brigade for fighting. I decided to take matters into my own hands when one of their skaters decided to block me with an elbow from out of bounds completely around the rink. Maybe constructive feedback would have stopped at jumping on her back, but I guess the stressful week of derby I had just lived through convinced me to take a few jabs at her face after ripping her helmet off. I crossed the line into destructive. At least my team didn't self-destruct.

Sunday night was a crowd-pleaser, and boy, did HRD need one. The home team worked on a slight blowout (Brawlers 123, Brigade 100), and the underdog won the second bout by one point (Betties 77, Sirens 76). The fans raved over the showmanship and the suspense. My ego loves it when the fans rave.

Then Monday morning comes bright and early as it always does after bout nights, and Sharon Stone couldn't have asked for a better example of karma. When your shower caddy falls and leaves a six-inch contusion on your calf muscle after your fist put a knot the size of a quarter on a derby girl's forehead...now that's karma. You should have seen what I did to that caddy. Beware of the Catazon, inanimate objects and sloppy skaters!

Is This What Intervention Feels Like?

Sometimes I wish that my experiences in roller derby were more like my husband's experiences at the deer lease. If one of the guys isn't pulling his own weight, showing up for work weekends and whatnot, then they get cussed for being the low-down, dirty SOBs that they are in that instance, and everyone moves on. No drama allowed.

Instead, I get to deal with emergency meetings where girls wear their feelings on their sleeves and you can see on everyone's face how they would rather be anywhere but here. It doesn't end when the bitch-fest is over either. Some girls will hold grudges from that meeting until the day they die. Drama will prevail!

The Brawlers lived through an intervention last night. As their new co-captain, I must now take some sort of responsibility to ensure that we never have to suffer through one again.

Burlesque Brawlers vs. Psych Ward Sirens

The Brawlers are no longer undefeated, and Catazon can no longer say that she won't start a fight.

Final score: Brawlers - 56, Sirens - 90.

That's all I have to say about that for now.