Arrgghhh!

In my eternal search for the real me, I have stumbled on a few interesting alter egos. The latest was a pirate wench, which, if you know me at all, is not that far a stretch. This picture is of me (with fake hair, of course, but authentic wench cleavage) and the other two Lushkateers: Jules (surprisingly not in costume) and Rach (who was a hoochie pirate). It was taken at the annual Blackbeard Festival in Downtown Hampton which is not as much to celebrate the history of pirates but more of an excuse for otherwise normal adults to dress up and drink copious amounts of grog.

My pirate crew (which included a piratized Hockey Boy even though it was Game 3 of the Stanley Cup) decided to skip the Grand Pirates Ball which is both hoyty and toyty. We opted to do the two things pirates do best: hang around the docks and drink rum. Apparently it is also appropriate for pirates to do jello shooters though I don't recall reading that in the history books. There was lots of "arrrgghh"-ing but minimal pillaging and almost no plundering.

As the evening wore on and the rum bottles emptied ("Why is the rum always gone?"), the dock party moved inland for our own safety. Saturdays Downtown the main street is cordoned off for the block party and there are at least 4 bands. Little known fact: Pirates LOVE live music and drunk pirates LOVE dancing to live music. I have pictures to prove this but they are not pretty and are currently locked in a vault in case Rach ever decides to run for public office. Hockey Boy found a TV showing the game and I found a bartender who believed my theory that pirates love Cosmos. Jules remembered why she doesn't come home from Georgia as often as we'd like.

Alas, even a pirate has to call it a day at some point and, in the misty early morning hours, a certain pirate wench and her Hockey Pirate could be seen following their own verson of a treasure map back home. It was time to de-pirate and pack it all away until next year. As far as my alter-egos go, Pirate Wench may well be one of my favourites. Afterall, I'm a girl who likes a little booty.

BONUS: Go to www.piratequiz.com to find out your pirate name!

Hockey Boy

What does it say about a middle-aged girl (I just assume I will die when I am 88 so I am middle-aged now at 44) who agrees to go ROLLERBLADING on a date to impress a wine guy who turns out to really be a hockey guy?

His wine guy profile includes a picture of him in Rollerblades on the boardwalk. (Yes, ladies, that's him there.) I recall that I OWN Rollerblades. I may have, in an attempt to impress him, mentioned that to him at some point. He remembers and asks me to skate on my newly paved street with him. Now, I know what you girls who read my blog are thinking and yes...I certainly tried to use new relationship sex as a diversion and convince him that we could skate another day. It didn't work! So there I was...sitting on the front steps... lacing up my skates... trying to figure out how the buckles work...wondering if my decision to skip wearing pads in favour of looking cute was a good idea after all....and still trying to talk my way out of it.

Here's my background: I ice skated on a pond in my backyard until I moved south at age 11. I roller skated when I was a teen at the local roller rink. I am a former ballerina AND a Libra -- balance should not be an issue , dammit!

Here's his background: He came out of the womb with hockey skates on (OK...maybe not...that sounds painful for his poor mom!), he was a hockey star in high school and in college (some little school in Columbus, Ohio) and, apparently has skated EVERY DAY OF HIS LIFE!

He will not let me fall, he says. In fact, I think that's what he was saying as I slide off the end of my driveway, flailing my arms, completely airborne and landed on my ass. It was a beautifully executed tumble and even the Russian judges would have given me a 9.85 for it. I bruised my butt, pulled something in my shoulder and damaged my ego. He did not laugh at me. He skated over, looked at me with those amazing blue eyes, smiled at me and pulled me to my feet even though I was pretty sure that that was not where I wanted to be. It was that smile that made me try again. He jumped over sticks and stones and I tripped on pollen particles and flattened pine needles. I grabbed at cars parked on the street to keep from crashing. I skated like a toddler learning to walk and he circled me in figure 8s and other higher numbers. And the whole time he just smiled at me. The neighbors came out on their porches for the evening's entertainment and while I was certain I would embarrass myself, I was grateful that someone watching might dial 911 for me.

The second fall was less spectacular. The bruise, however, was larger and today is blacker, bluer and sorer. I just laid in the street looking at the sky and wondering if I could make gravel angels if I fanned my arms and legs out. Again, he didn't laugh. Again he helped me up (and again, I wasn't so convinced that I wanted to be up.) He held my hand. He skated backwards and pulled me along. He was a patient and gentle teacher and when I declared myself done with my first lesson, he didn't call me a pussy. He made me cosmos to dull the pain and let me snuggle up with him later even though I smelled like IcyHot (which smells oddly like those little pink Brach candies).

So...will I do it again? Absofreekinlutly! I have something to prove to my middle-aged self (and my neighbors)... besides, ladies... how could I resist that smile?