Tramps, Dishes, and Bins o' Sin

When the Tri-City Roller Girls put out a heartfelt plea for volunteers, I simply couldn't resist. "Yes!" I said. "Simply tell me what to do!"

I guess they couldn't resist either, because they asked me to be one of the "sin bin" timers. How hard could that be? Errrr...

Today's match -- the first of the season -- was at the spiffy new Wilmot Community Center. Since the Car Share charges me by the kilometer, I did what I always do (and regret later)...I forsook the loopy highway and tried to take the back roads. But here in Canada, May is the month of road construction, and when I realized that Erb Street was closed...

...well, I wish I could show you the totally stupid route I actually drove, trying to be "smart" and find my way. I ended up in BAMBURG. What's "Bamburg," you ask? It's a place you don't want to be in. Forget the fact that you don't actually want to LIVE in Bamburg (we used to call it "Bumburg" when I was in high school), but it's a road to absolutely NOWHERE. Being in Bamburg is like trying to get to the North Pole via Australia. Like, so off the path that the Blair Witch can pick and choose her victims at will, and then have a big party without the police even noticing.

But I did finally arrive at the arena, where I discovered that timing the "sin bin" is at least THEORETICALLY a really difficult thing. The rules involving seating and special exceptions are MAMMOTH, so I figured I'd rely on my volunteer partner to tell me what to do. But she was "Perky Set." Wonderful. Brilliant. Never timed a sin bin in her life.

Fortunately she'd spent plenty of time IN the sin bin, so between us we managed to figure out the rules. And since both teams were uncharacteristically sweet we got by without too many challenges.

The show? Wonderful! It really is an engaging sport and it's great to feel like you're part of something. I'm a Venus Fly Tramp at heart, but I (accidentally) wore Vicious Dishes colours, so I felt like I could sort of remain impartial. Sadly, the Tramps lost. Impartial my butt.

After pumping gas and returning the car (I've taken it out four times and NEVER ONCE has the previous user filled the tank), I decided to try something totally new: I'd refresh my face and go to the after party.

This is a difficult thing. If you've never done drag, think of it as like putting a big pancake over your face and then walking around and trying to look pretty. You can do this for about five hours before you start to look -- shall we say -- like a crack-whore-f*cked-up-clown. But sadder. I am SO paranoid about being ugly in drag. I have NIGHTMARES about it. I'd rather have two broken legs than be a really ugly drag queen, but please don't take me up on that.

I really wanted to go to the party, though, so I got out the wet sponge and dabbed...and dabbed...and reapplied...and eventually I just prayed for dim lighting and went out anyway.

What fun! Booze, booze, booze. Pizza appeared and then just as quickly disappeared. Ben Ong kept everybody dancing. I drank too much and then realized that I'd better leave before the ultimate collapse.

Now? Home and happy. What a wonderful night. I'm exhausted and hungry and spinny, and my shoulder feels like a roller girl just stuck a straw into it and then kicked it with a lead-filled skate, but it was a worthwhile and fun night and I look forward to doing it again.

Here's to the Roller Derby Girls, past and present. Here's to all the work they do, all the rehearsals and planning and money they spend. In a perfect world they'd be rewarded. I hope they feel they are.