I am kinda published! Sorta...

Hello again Interwebs, Its me here... And I have some exciting news for you! I wrote a piece for a local newspaper's "Pulse" page (a page for young writers/artists/poets to show off DEM SKILLZ!) and mine got in! WOOT WOOT. SO here it is, some things i had to tweak from the original because to put in bluntly, the sucked. I was also forced into writing some parts in it that me, as a free-spirited comedic writer, am not happy with. So yeah... If you want me to post the original, I can.. Just somebody for the love of all Jeebuses POST A DARN COMMENT!

ALSO, they totally spelled my last name wrong... :/

How to (not) be a water girl

A report of Golden Boot Rugby tournament from the world’s worst water girl

Alicia Moores, Grade 11

At McMaster University, an equally-confused friend and I stepped out of Rosie, the 1996 Nissan rust bucket my mum drives, and set out to find this magical “Field behind the Stadium” – the promised land. Luckily, I had a scarf to protect my sensitive skin from the razor-like wind.

Yellow socks on the horizon: the distinct trait of an Ancaster Royals rugby girl. We went over and helped set up camp. Soon enough, the yellow stockings multiplied and we had a whole team of fierce looking girls ready to kick some booty.

I was the newly appointed water girl for Ancaster High girls’ rugby. My (already genetically bad) knee had been rugby-practice injured the week before.

Leading up to the Consolation game at 2:30, I watched our loyal Royals do jumping jacks and a passing drill in which you practice passing the ball with two hands on the ball at all times (except for when throwing it) and get in the rhythm of keeping the ball close to you like it’s your newborn baby.

With the thrill of a recent victory still burning through their veins, the girls then began the pre- game psych-up.

I watched the socks organize themselves in a lopsided circle with arms reaching around each other, then scream “1, 2, 3 ROYALS!!”  Compared to the complex cheers of other teams, ours looks juvenile.  We need a new, more intimidating cheer like this one school also at the Golden Boot Rugby Tournament .  They start quiet and progressively get louder  -- “go, go, go, Go, Go, GO, GO, GO” -- and make the other teams feel like peeing.  

As the game began, the yellow socks set themselves up in an exploded scrum.   A scrum is one horde of girls pushing up against another horde of girls. 

Chaos. Organized, painful chaos is what rugby looks like to the untrained eye. Girls flying this way and that, hard hits, one million and ten scrums and the coaches screaming “RUCK OVER!  GET HER! GO GO GO!” I saw one of the mothers with her brows furrowed and her hands twining through her hair. I abandoned my water girl post to go help a sister out. The mother was watching her daughter get pummelled.  I took it upon myself to assure this worried momma that her cub was fine and that she didn’t feel all the hits, the adrenaline was too strong.

Halftime – my time to shine!  I’m thinking to myself “I got this,” when really, I don’t because, it’s me and I’m bound to mess something or other up.  I get up and my aforementioned bum knee (stubborn like the rest of me) locks in place and I stumble and then I just trudge over to the happy group of yellow socks… forgetting the water bottles completely.

At the game’s end, my failed water girl attempts were all forgotten and all the yellow socks were tired and turf-burned and very bruised but the faces of the girls wearing the still-up-high-and-proud socks had huge, silly grins on them.   We won 2-1.

MIM.

I HAVE A BOOGIE! I HAVE A BOOGIE! I HAVE A BOOOOGIE!!

ON MY PLATE!

MOOOOM, BLAKE…! IS SITTING ON MY FACE…! WITH A…! PILLOW! OW! STOP IT! 

MOOOOOOM!

MOM, WHERE’S THE SOCK BAG!?!

These are just some of the complaints I’ve had and you have attended to every single one of them and more, so I wanted to say first off… Thanks J

I never get you anything for Mother’s day and I’m pretty sure you have enough macaroni necklaces and bookmarks to last you a century. So, this year I decided to write a blog post showing how cool of a mum you are (the term cool is used very  loosely.. you are still not “hip” or “current” no matter how many times you shout TWINNING and ACO TACO… *which both stopped being cool a while ago. Not that I would know, as I am no cooler than you.*)

You are NOT a traditional mum. You don’t hide anything from us (unless you stole $5 from me... because I keep my money “too out in the open”… My room, on a shelf, behind a Kleenex box, safely tucked away inside my wallet.) Which is pretty cool I guess. Also, when Blake comes home with countless pink slips you’re cool with it because you know hes a dinkwad and I know hes a dinkwad, the school system just hasn’t figured it out yet.

The endearing terms of “whore” and “slut” that shower me with love and respect every morning... I really should have less self-confidence than I have (which, by the way, Blake insists is a “me” problem).

The TURN UP Friday nights we have, when B has a social life (social life… pfft… who needs friends when you’ve got food and internet). The party-party fun nights that entail you watching some obscure history program and me watching Minecraft  videos on YouTube and smiling stupidly into the screen (again, no social life). The nights when we turn the coffee table so that it reaches both couches to hold some delectable confection of milk-free euphoria you have baked most recently. Those are the best.

There was this one time that I am remembering now, a really long time ago, we were having one of the aforementioned “turn up Fridays” and you were slightly over tired so, naturally, you were giddy and kind of “spacey” so you threatened that when I got a boyfriend, and I brought him home, you would run around the house screaming “where’s waldo?” in your blue-striped housecoat. This, is why it took me forever to let you meet “Joe”.

My holy grail, going out for sushi without B and trying to figure out the menu, eventually resorting to asking the waiter how to pronounce Edamame.

PUSHEEN. The way we can communicate over Facebook is amazing. All that is needed to communicate emotion is to simply send an adorable Pusheen. Then after the initial shock of the cuteness we can decipher it.

What else?

Well, you let me get a tattoo, so that makes you superdy dooperdy cool. You know what would make you even better? Letting me get another...?

You help me with my writing and encourage me (after you’re done making fun of me).

*people of the internet, my mum really is awesome, it’s just my family is… well... Special? 

And we have different ideas of how we show affection (teasing)*

Ok, so you always point guys out in stores, as most mums do. But then you whisper to me “he was totally checking you out” when he was actually just looking at the pretty girl behind me wearing no clothing. Not me. Guys don’t look at me. Just trust me on this one. Or, he was checking out the iceberg lettuce on sale behind me, thinking “why won’t those weirdos move so I can get me some iceberg lettuce!?!” you don’t want to deny growing boys their tasty, green Iceberg lettuce do you? No? Then stop pointing them out so we both can move on with our lives. Thank you, Sincerely, ME and all dem boyz who like themselves a nice hunk of Iceberg lettuce.

No clue where the second half of that came from…

I AM STILL MAD AT YOU FOR NOT SAVING YOUR PROM DRESS. Enough said.

Apparently I got my whore-like dancing tendencies from you so that’s great :/

CHEESY COUPONS

1) Okay no.

2) "Sadly", you do not get these ones, you get “special” ones.

..Excuse the size, technical difficulties:)

AND lastly, since I am an amazing daughter, I think you should let me get my Peacock feather tattoo earlier than discussed :)

LOVE YOU MIM!