Save a horse - ride a cowboy

My dentist is a dirty old man. If you tell him this, he'll respond by saying "I'm not old". Now that I'm all growed up his sense of humour is perpetually in the gutter. This is slightly disconcerting because I've known him my whole life. He's a good dentist though. His grindstone filed down my chipped tooth. It's very odd to see a drill go into your mouth and for there to be no pain. There was no anaesthetic. Now my tooth is un-chipped. It's very confusing. My tongue got used to avoiding the sharp edge (or seeking it out). Habits are funny things.

Continuing the summer of pain, I took a softball in the thigh on Wednesday. My bruise is a thing of beauty. At first I could see the imprint of the braiding on the ball, but now the broken capillaries have bled into one another, creating a gorgeous swirl of purple. I like sports injuries, they make me feel tough.

In the Waiting Line

Apologies to Matt: this post will likely be entirely about Ultimate.

I played six games with the Disciples of Love this weekend. I haven't played much competitive Ultimate this summer - my heavy drinking schedule and other sports get in the way - so I had some trepidation. More of the Disciples are becoming touring players, and despite my brief foray into varsity Ultimate I don't think of myself as being at a Tier 6 level. Captaining my rec team has given me some bad habits, especially in handling: I have a tendency to look for the deep passes more often than I should.

While there are a million things I could have done better this weekend, I definitely learned a lot about myself as an Ultimate player and the headspace I need. My game depends so much on my attitude. If I'm having fun and working hard, I will make plays. It's not about how often I touch the disc or how many passes I complete - it's about whether I'm fully committed to the game. If I get down (get down and move it all around) I will obsess about how badly I'm playing instead of looking for the green space or giving my all on D. Instead of getting into a funk, I need to bring the funk. The funk is my Ultimate mission.

I don't understand how my body and my brain relate when I play Ultimate. I made a decent pass today without thinking about it at all. I have no idea what the stall count was - 7 maybe? - and while there were cuts there was nothing I felt I could make. The next thing I knew the disc was on its way upfield. The pass completed and we scored the point. When did that happen? My eyes and my hand seem to be connected without my brain getting in the way.

It's the same when I'm properly focused on defence. My opponent becomes my whole world. The only thing I care about is shutting her down and I will find reserves of strength to get me there. My rec team has given me a tendency to play lazy and I am resolved not to do that anymore, ever. I took so much away from this weekend - my team was inspiring to watch and play with (not to mention fun as hell) and I know that I will be chewing over plays in my brain for weeks to come. I'm playing the London Calling tourney and I am determined to bring the game I played this weekend, with even more focus. I'm also determined to start working my legs again properly, and doing suicides a few times a week. My body hates me right now - but it also didn't let me down too much this weekend, which means that somewhere I'm doing something right.

If any of the Disciples read this your feedback on my play would be appreciated - this tourney has rekindled my motivation to improve at this game.

Once again, apologies to Matt and everyone else who dislikes reading about frisbee. Oh yeah, we started the tournament seeded 13th. We finished 7th. We were happy.

Baby Got Back

On Sunday there was an emergency call to arms. The signal of the triumvirate lit up the night sky and, like good little superheros, we ran to our friend's aid. Nothing can go wrong when TryHard, FemRage and Deadpan are on the case. There was a mandate for man-hate, and eating of feelings. Feelings taste like Butterfinger frosties and chili & cheese nachos. They're delicious. If anyone ever needs to eat their feelings, please call the triumvirate. We are superheros of eating, and we'll stick out our bellies afterward for your amusement.

(I have a baby in my belly. It is made of chili cheese nachos. It is quasi-human (as all babies are) with gills - an addition from all-you-can-eat sushi.)

The skills of the triumvirate are myriad and varied. One of our skills is redundancy. We specialize in the funk, inappropriate humour and solidarity. We are too masculine for our own good (but the testosterone helps with the nunchuk skills). Mysteriously, however (I am not at liberty to reveal too many secrets), we combine our man-talents with sex-kittenish ways.

The emergency mission is still underway. Phase One was the eating of feelings. Phase Two was optimization of our man-talents, replete with wifebeaters, sweats, beer, wings and Dodgeball. Phase Three will be completed tonight, with the implementation of Tailgate 2005 (bring your own Old English and lawn chairs). There will be ridicule and objectification of men without shirts, and general mayhem.

The triumvirate is always on the case.

Pony

Dear Equality Low Fat Caramel Rice and Corn Cakes,

You smell like feet. I'm sorry to break it to you, but you do. If I inhale as I bring you to my mouth, I gag. My relatively healthy combination of muesli, skim milk and a smattering of Nesquik cereal happened a long time ago this morning, and I am hungry. I hoped that your sweet caramel goodness would sustain me on my long hot walk, but then you smelled like feet. I had to throw you away. You have turned me into a food-waster whose hands are coated in feet-smell. I will never buy you again.

Yours in disgust and disappointment,
Lessa

Hard Candy

Saturday was a nice night. It was dusk and there was to be intoxicated bowling. I had fallen asleep on the couch and awoke in a funk, debating with myself whether it would be worthwhile to leave the house. I convinced myself that a girl-date was in order and strapped on my rollerblades. There was beer in my backpack and a song in my heart. There was also a rattle in my right skate, but I ignored it.

As I pumped my way along Talbot the rattle intensified. I suspected that there had been sabotage but dismissed my paranoia - after all, who would want me dead? If my dreams were prophetic at all I would have died by gunshot when I was 16 or so, wearing my maroon choir uniform and quaking in terror in a gas station alley. My mom would have been driving a yellow Buick and we would have stopped for gas. The lights would be dim and my companions would scatter when the gang showed up. I would have stood against the dingy brick wall with my arms and legs spread, ready to make a snow angel. There would have been shots through each of my palms, my elbows, my knees and finally the center of my chest.

That's the only dream I've had where I've actually died. I woke up as the bullet exploded into my sternum.

As I skated I wracked my brain, making a list of my enemies. I could think of nobody so I continued to work my glutes with abandon. I came to the top of a hill with relief and settled in to coasting. As the decline increased I picked up speed and applied my brake more vigourously. It fell off. My cat-like reflexes sent my arms windmilling as I rolled onto the hard brown grass. My weight shifted forward as I tried to snowplow and I entered a glorious superman dive. My hands stretched out, my body taut, lunging for a prize that didn't exist. This is how I need to lay out.

We filled our munchies with the munchie platter, a delightful mix of deep-fried cheeses. None of us bowled well but we gloried in the rental shoes. I called it an early evening, knowing that being too full to finish my beer was a bad sign. I had scrapes and bruises to attend to, and a list of enemies to compile.

The Collector

My body has a new habit of falling down. I suspect it's the fault of my brain, subliminally trying to teach me how to lay out. Falling down doesn't hurt that much (and that's on concrete). I suspect that laying out wouldn't hurt that much either, but I can't seem to do it. I need to learn to play a little harder (sing a little sweeter, love a little longer, shoot less with more care) but the laziness is overwhelming.

When I was 7 or so I fell down Naomi's front steps and landed on my forehead. I came up laughing so hard Naomi's family thought I was crying. It was hilarious. Have you ever had gravel embedded in your forehead? Trust me, you're missing out. And gravity is fun.

I used to think I had superpowers. I thought that I could run between raindrops and jump as high as my head (when you're 3.5 feet tall, it doesn't seem that hard). I jumped off a wall holding an umbrella, trusting in the Mary Poppins powers to send me gently to the ground. The ground was hard and I was concussed.

When I was 13? 14? I fell on my head and broke my glasses. I don't wear glasses anymore, I think the fall fixed my eyes. When I was 10? 11? I was watching the ground. I had a theory that the more you look at the ground, the more money you find. I walked into a lawnmower. I haven't had a nosebleed since.

My imagination for happy things seems to have dissapated, but I have a newfound ability to envision terrible things. I can't generally climb things because I have visions of flinging myself off them (or falling). I also can't launch myself at the ground at top speed, even to keep possession of the disc. I need to stop growing up.

again, no headphones

My life is mostly out of boxes now. When did I accumulate so much stuff? My apartment in Toronto is still full of furniture and books and dishes, I'm not looking forward to that far-off day when I turn into some semblance of an adult and finally get my own semi-permanent place. I'm a bit torn as to the future, actually - I'll be living at home next summer (assuming I get a job in Toronto) because it's rent-free and I have too much debt. But then what? If I ever do get a real job (which isn't unlikely, since I seem to be travelling some kind of career path) when does the need for complete independence outweigh the crushing debt? I don't especially want to be 26 and still living at home... but I also don't like the thought of my mom rattling around alone in our big old house. She's doing that now but one of these days she'll retire, and then what?

If I worry this much about my parent, I don't know if I can ever have children. The anxiety might kill me.

I worry about my shiftless absentee father as well, of course - but my worries are slightly different. I used to think that his crazies were the result of being an opium fiend - which is possible - but now I worry that he's actually crazy, and that I might have inherited some of the imbalance. I also worry that he's running drugs or smuggling guns. Or that he's a hit man. Or that he's training an army of feral cats in his gooseberry bushes and is plotting to take over Tottenham. If you ask me nicely I'll write him a letter and make sure he spares you from the plague of felines that may overrun Canada - and then the world! - at any time.

Gotta love family.