My Own Little Corner of Manayunk

I’ve finally stopped sleeping with ear plugs. Not initially. For the first few days it seemed almost foreign to sleep with the ability to hear anything and everything going on around me.


But now that it’s been a full week of freedom I’d have to say it’s pretty goddamn cool.


Oh, I had my doubts, the lingering fears and uncertainty: if a scary monster were going to attack me, is it better to remain oblivious until the very end, or hear every scale, scraping toenail and breath of fire as it moves ever closer?


Granted, the real reason I’d taken to earplugs wasn’t so much scary monsters as annoying surroundings. And I have to say, since vacating my West Philly abode I do not miss the boomin’ system. Not one bit. Not one beat. Nada…


And yes, it’s true, I’ve moved into my own digs in the land Justin euphemistically refers to as Many Hunks, otherwise known as the land of bicycles and spandex. (Although, technically, I’m in a place called Wissahickon. Whatever… I see bicycles…)


To celebrate, I took mah baybee out for a spin last week to see what it’s like to hit the open road straight from home, and not have to make my way through the ‘hood first. An hour later, sucking air and bright lobster red, I realized I’ve got a lot of work to do—apparently skating’s not all that in the land of fitness!


But it sure is fun to do and watch, and in the spirit of roller derby unity a few of us She-Devils made our way to Long Island last night for their opening bout, which was definitely much fun. Ranking high on the un-fun o’meter, however, would be Google directions and the asshole programmer who decided the easiest way from Philly to Long Island is through Man-effing-hattan!


Anyone who happened to be on 34th yesterday as a little red VW crawled along, its driver heaping curses upon Google while shaking the steering wheel … well, I apologize. Hopefully there won’t be any lasting scars…

Wednesday: Dork, dork, dork… I’m a dork. Or just regressive… repressive? Aggressive? (Well, ask my fellow roller girls about that … they’ll be glad to tell you I throw a mean block … right before I fall on my ass!)
Sitting here stretching after running, getting ready to go out, listening to same dj I’ve been smitten with since time began, thinking about how I used to go out running before going out countless years ago, and would stretch listening to smit’y dj…..
Either I need to exorcise the ’90s or embrace them. Whatever I choose, however, I’ve got the wardrobe!

Tuesday: I’m so damned tired. And completely off my rocker, it seems, considering the fact that somehow I managed to take myself outside the house this a.m. with two completely different earrings on.


Now, granted, that’s not a huge deal — happens all the time, I’m sure, with earrings, socks, shoes, anything that comes in twos — but the part that has me most worried is the fact that no one said a word to me.


So what does that say about me?!?!?


I think I’ve just got so much going on right now I can’t keep the brain, or its accessories, on straight!


First off, there’s the skating around in circles while simultaneously trying to push other skaters around — while remaining upright, a talent I’ve yet to master, or even get the basics of — not to mention the writing and the visiting and the eating, drinking and be merry’ing, along with the fact that any day now I am moving from the dark hole I’ve been residing in for far longer than originally intended to a brightly lit cocoon of my very own.


That shit takes time and energy.


And then there’s all the other stuff that floats around my peripheral vision like the ghost that walks between the walls of this scary, old house. Or maybe it’s just my paranoid schizophrenic-esque roommate. Who knows. Either way, I’m outta’ here to chase ghosts of my own.


In the meantime, things continue to get away from me.


Like the fact that for the first time since switching phone service providers a year ago I looked at my phone bill, and the number rundown, only to discover a number from an area code I lived in once upon a time…


Only, I never remembered getting a single call from this number, because if I had I would have picked it up immediately. For, you know, curiosity’s sake.


Not because, you know, there might be someone at the other end I’m desperate to, you know, talk to…


So now I sit and stare at the number. Whoever it was gave up trying weeks ago, which I can’t say I blame them, and never left a message, which I also cannot blame them for….


So what do I do?


If I call, what do I say? I can’t find the number on google. There’s no other choice. I call, or I don’t. Two horrible decisions for an anti-social butterly!


If only life were as easy as strapping on a pair of skates and pushing people around…


God I need help… or balls!




Had the overwhelming desire to pen ode to my bike yesterday after seeing all the healthy folk riding out in the sun-drenched Philly world. Unfortunately, realized I’m no Shakespeare and the result resembled more of “there once was a bike from Nantucket” than a sappy love sonnet.

Was coming home from work when, at a stop sign, extremely hot LeMond rider with tasty tattoos crossed my path. Same yum-yum I’d chased last year on my complimentary-hued blue Zurich. Turned. Followed him. Followed him. Chickened out as visions of restraining orders flashed in my head.


Gotta’ get me some balls!

It’s hopeless, really. I’ll disregard perfectly good single male specimens upon discovery that they don’t find being clipped into a sleek piece of plastic and metal, flying like a bat out of hell with nothing more than a sliver of spandex between them and the asphalt, foreplay, and yet I’m too chicken to make eye contact with a perfect fantasy match! Pathetic…