Egg Salad

According to a U-City fireman, nobody eats egg salad sandwiches. The fact that I placed just such a sandwich down on the supermarket conveyor belt was cause for eight to ten exclamations of , "Egg Salad!" followed by a baffled shaking of the head. Let me just say this, you can find damn near perfect egg salad sandwiches (with tomato!) in London drugstores. Almost every sandwich in the STL is hoagie-sized, especially the fancy schmancy gourmet ones with their seven different kinds of meat and mayo and spices on gigantic, lip tearing bread. Don't get me wrong, as a sandwich fan these BIG sandwiches are fine and sometimes even craved. But most of the time when I want a sandwich, I want it on nice soft sliced bread with three ingredients or less. Again, in London there were actual restaurants dedicated to this very brand of sandwich, all lined up in neat triangular packages. I know gas stations here have similar packages, but from my experience these triangle packages encourage staleness and bellyaches. I was thrilled to see the egg salad sandwich ready-made at Schnuck's puffing up its chest against the Poor Boys and King of the Hills. I'm going on and on like this because I think I want another one.
Those of you who are "adults" will probably wonder why I can't just make my own simple sandwiches at home. Well, I can, however things are vastly more satisfying when you don't have the residual guilt of leaving a mustard covered knife setting in the sink in a pile of crusty forks and peanut butter caked spoons. I am bad bad bad at doing dishes even though we have dishwasher. The effort of remembering to rinse and place utensils in this machine is too much for my brain which is filled with other vital tickings such as "Where did I leave my keys?" and "I miss Ari Fleischer."

Alert to My Five Readers: I will be heading to North Carolina to spend the holidays as they should be spent: laughing with my mom until we cry and crying with my mom until we laugh. I might post, but it is unlikely. Computer time is hard to come by as there are two teen girls chattin' it up 75% of the day. If I don't see you, remember nothing suits Christmas better than passing out on someone else's couch.

Derby Does a Number

As evidenced by this photo, derby is slowly permeating every corner of my life. At no time in my life would I ever have been trolling EBay for gifts and used Vespas and thought, "Nifty rainbow stripy sweatshirt with puffy tie-up sleeves. Must own. Now." Never in my life would I have received said technicolor sweatshirt and paired it with fuzzy maroon pants and little pig-knots in my hair. Not that I haven't fussed with funky fashion often, but more in the boots with skirt, giant hole in sweater, drawing on tee shirts, forgetting to shower for a week vein. Not so much the, "This kicky sequined bolero will match my shoelaces" school of shopping. Yet I am indeed armed with a kicky sequined bolero-ish/shruggish thing that looks like maybe it belongs on a 12-year-old jazz dancing her heart out at her year end recital to "Pump Up the Jam." Seriously, there's something about the dusty maple-wax odor of a rink that does crazy shit to your brain. As far as my skating prowess goes, I'm getting stronger and faster but suck balls at things like technique. Like backwards skating. Also stopping is a little dicey. Also every so often I lose my balance a little, like I do when I'm wheel-less. It sort of feels like what I imagine drunken-style fighting would feel like if I gulped down half a bottle of Jameson and decided to beat up our garage door. I just concentrate on building speed and try to ignore the songs I want to dance to, but shouldn't, lest I lose my footing completely.

Just a few more things derby has reaffirmed:
1. I have to meet people about thirteen times before I can actually make successful small talk.
2. All my shoes should be Velcro due to motor skills less developed than a four-year-old's.
3. I'm not very competitive with girls. I only compare myself with the best male in the room. Even if there's a woman who's better than he is, I applaud her ability and want to surpass his.
4. My face gets red with little to no exertion. A gorgeous shade provided by a combination of being horridly out of shape and fair-skinned.

You're my best friend

When I'm crabby you are there to lighten the load, to soften the blows, to perk up my ears to the good things in life.
When I'm lower than a double-jointed Jamaican dippin' beneath the limbo pole, you're there to lift me back up on eagle's wings and raise me up so I can stand on mountains.
When I'm banging my head against my desk at work, just to stay alert and interested, all I have to do is think of you and I know how to get through.
What can't we face if we're together? What's in this place that we can't weather? Apocalypse, we've all been there...er...

Coffee, I know we've been best friends for a long time, but I think it's time we move it one step further. I'm really fuckin' in love with you. Please say you'll be mine for always.

I'll give you five good reasons.

Five Good Reasons
Originally uploaded by BozAphra.

Poll is closed and the results are in...

Say goodbye to quiet and demure April, because as Lucy Van Welt I anticipate a dangerous derby career as everyone's favorite eight-wheelin' fussbudget.

Venom: Enlongated Butt Crack

I went to the Ram's game on Sunday (painful as it was). Two rows in front of us was a middle aged woman with high-waisted pants. Every time the Rams made a play (which thankfully was rare), she'd lift her arms, and as a result her shirt, revealing her ass crack which I swear was a good two inches above the waistband of her pants. Which, if you'll recall from two sentences ago, were HIGH-waisted pants. Like Katherine Hepburn would wear with a smart blouse and perhaps a sweater vest, not low-riding jeans in which even I have flashed a little crack while wearing. Thing is I can't get her long butt gap out of my mind. In general I try not to harp too much on people's physical deficiencies or oddities, in the hope that no one will notice my own. But I still can't quite understand what exactly was going on with her butt that I could see so much of it when so much of it was covered. If ever there was a candidate for plastic surgery, I think she might be it.

Ephemera: Arch Rival Rollergirls=Roller Derby for the People

I need help choosing a Derby name, please participate in the poll at right to help me select one! (I know some are a stretch, but a girl's gotta try)

Venom: Sunshine and Roses

I used to hate myself.
A lot.
But no more.
I don't fit into this world very comfortably, and that has always been this huge festering ego-wound. I mean, I don't even fit into counterculture so good (drug-free since 1981, etc.) and I see straight through people (usually), which leaves me friendless (often). But fuck all that, because today I realized that A) I'm pretty awesome and B)I am, in a sense, exactly who and what I want to be. I have no frigging idea what I've been whining and bitching about for so long.
I want to type all of this out right now while I'm feeling it, because I'll probably shrivel into a crumb later. Also I know many folks who follow this blog also struggle with the same grinding self-loathing that I do, and maybe it will give someone a moment's pause to consider me actually liking myself. Maybe, just maybe, that person will reconsider their self-opinion. Because honestly, the only way life is going to be worth living at all is if we stop harping on the fact that we piss, and shit, and that we piss and shit at our shitty jobs, and start living in the good bits, extending their exuberance into enough of our lives to match and tackle the dulling work week.
I'm resolved. Poke fun all you will, I am determined to find satisfaction in this life.