Week 9 or so - Thank You Sir, May I Have Another?

He called it the "Great Bunny Bash." That should've been my first clue. The guys grinned when the Professor announced that practice was over and it was time for my birthday 'spankings.' It hadn't seemed so bad for the 18 year old last month, but for a... well, definitely more than 18 year old, there was a bit more to it. We'd done half the week before, but it got dark before we could finish. Ugh. I hadn't really felt old before that. At least it was my most favorite kind of day: the air was chilly, the scent of woodsmoke drifted in the air, and I was getting to do one of the things that I enjoyed most.

The first fellow came at me quickly. I wasn't quite ready when I saw his hand move, and the loud 'CRACK!' landed hard and rang in my ears. I think I squeaked. A bit embarrassing, but I couldn't help it. I tried to squirm out of the way of the next blow, but that didn't work. He swatted me again, which made me giggle, then followed it up with a solid SMACK before I could recover. As he trotted off victoriously to make way for the next, I had to smile- that one had been a good hit.

His hand moved swiftly, cracking down hard. I bit back a thoroughly undignified yelp and winced, shifting a bit to ease the pain.  Another blow fell, and I gritted my teeth. I tried to prepare for the next, eyeing him carefully to anticipate his movement. Comments from the peanut gallery, the others watching from the porch, kept distracting me and made me laugh. He caught me across the back of the hand when I tried to intercept the next strike, and I know I turned around and glared at him, though I don't think he saw.

Surely the next wouldn't be so hard. Pfft. She paused, just waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting... the anticipation I think was worse than when she finally struck. She came at me swinging, and startled me enough that she landed a solid blow before I could even react. Butterfly, my eye. That shot stung. I was getting more warmed up now though, and the sting was lessening with each blow.

Another guy up, another smack. He had quick hands, and had seemed to enjoy toying with me the previous week. Touch, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap STRIKE! Actually, it was a soothing sort of rhythm, and let me anticipate when the blow would fall. If you relax into it, it doesn't sting so much. This week though, he was much more forceful, and his blow rang solidly in my ear, along with his low chuckle when I apologized for some reason. Another shot, and he was out as well. 


I was really heating up, almost overheating at this point, my breath shallow, my glasses fogging as my skin flushed warmer. I twisted my hair up into a knot, trying to keep it out of the way, but it fell back into disarray with the first shot. More playful smacks, more repeated blows... I had lost count, but it didn't really matter. Despite the sting, the reddening of my skin, I was really enjoying myself.

The Professor was next. He strode toward me, his size alone intimidating. But it was the glint in his eye that had me really worried. I tried to prepare myself, and know I tensed while trying not to, but when the first of his blows fell, it still shivered throughout my entire body. Does it make me weird that I enjoy this? Another crashed down, his hand moving too fast for me to follow. I braced myself for the next, worrying my lip as he let the tension build before his next strike. He stroked almost gently, looking directly at me all the while, which was probably some warning that I completely missed. CRACK! I know I whimpered, but hopefully it was low enough that nobody heard. I took a deep breath, the scent of woodsmoke filling my senses as I tried to steady, to ground myself, willing the pain away. His hand dropped, and I tried to stifle a moan as it found its target. He sort of growled at me, something about blocking, but my mind was elsewhere. Finally he seemed to have had enough, or at least that's what I taunted under my breath, and he let someone else take his place.

I wiggled a bit, trying to ease the ache. I think I managed to stifle most of my groans behind clenched teeth, but I know I couldn't keep from edging ever-so-slowly away. The blows hard were enough to have sweat breaking out all over my body, and I could feel myself trembling. No way was I going to be able to take the rest of this, I was certain... and then it started all over again.


But I survived! Ok, so it wasn't really all that one-sided. This was the announcement Jake posted:

"The Great Bunny Bash: As some of you may know, tomorrow is Brandi Lynn's birthday. In honor of this auspicious occasion, she will be subjected to the gauntlet of 1 match per year she has walked the Earth. Whether you've been a regular Sunday participant, need an excuse to come out and train, or just need an opportunity to come out and swing a sword around, come out and join us tomorrow in celebrating with us by beating the crap out of her :D"

So that's the idea- one match for every year you have been around- and I've been around a lot longer I think than any of the other kids at Body & Blade. But in between those bouts described above, I did get in enough shots of my own to win more than half my matches. So yay me!

But holy cow was I tired after. Professor meaniehead (yes, I'm 12) didn't give me a break at all this time- probably so we could get the matches all in before it got too dark again. lol. I'm glad though, I didn't want it to go yet another week. We did strichens, criss-crossing wheel cuts, 4in1s, and butterflies before the birthday smackings, and I think we were all trying to mix in some of the new stuff during the matches. I failed rather spectacularly at attempting to krump an ochs. Luckily my partner was just as new at it as I was so didn't come back with a painful lesson, but it was still an embarrassingly good illustration as to why we don't do that. I also had difficulties coming up with any kind of solution to someone grabbing my sword, other than to hold on doggedly for dear life. At least I didn't get conked much with my own sword, but still.  I've no idea when, because it all kind of blurred together into one big beating, but I also got this lovely souvenir, which I'm still sporting two weeks later, though it's now a darker, lovely shade of puce. Note to self- parrying a sword with your forearm is not such a good idea.

The kids at school were all worried: "Holy cow, is your arm going to fall off?!" My friends and coworkers now think I'm weirder than they did before: "You did WHAT on your birthday?" My mother just sighed. Because my only real thought about the whole event? I can't wait to do it again next year.

Week 8 - Storytime!

Not so very long ago, there was an ox named Ochs, who lived a pretty boring but reliably comfortable life on a farm. All day long, Ochs would pull the plow with a poor, intellectually-challenged fellow named Alber 'encouraging' him as he followed behind. It wasn't a bad life. Yes, Ochs had to work hard. But every morning he'd stand at the ready, his horns with their long points straight ahead while Alber yoked him to the plow. All day long he'd pull the plow, from the time the sun rose until it drifted down from the roof. And every evening, after a long day of work, Alber would rub Ochs down, polishing his horns until they shone bright as a unicorn's.Then he'd turn him loose in the barn with warm, sweet straw and his favorite salt lick. Ochs wasn't really happy, but he was content.

One day though, Alber got it in mind that having to care for Ochs was too much effort, and he came to resent it. If a stupid ox can pull the plow, surely I could do it just as well. He turned Ochs out into the field to wait until market day, when he planned to sell the beast. Alber took up the plow himself, and began dragging it along behind him. His rows were all crooked though- hau was he supposed to pull straight when the plow was so heavy? An hour later, he was determined to finish on his own. Two hours later, he was glaring at Ochs where he leaned nonchalantly against the fence. Three hours later, he was sure Ochs had planned all of this, and determined to put him back to work.

Now Ochs was a very forgiving beast, but even the forgiving get angry when someone tries to steal their job. In this economy, an ochs needs to pull all the pflugs he can, before fools like Alber move in and try to unterhau his salary. Lousy scabs. The more he thought about it, the angrier Ochs grew. It really tweaked the ochs' tail, having to work all day long just to earn his keep and get a few licks of the communal salt block with his hourly water breaks. But he had done his job without complaint, and so now enjoyed watching Alber struggle all day with the plow. Hours passed, and Ochs watched as Alber grew hot, and tired, and angrier with every pass. Finally, Alber gave up. Stalking over to Ochs, he threw the harness down in front of him.

If oxen could smirk, Ochs was hiding his as he savored the ever-reddening face of the Alber the fool, who had convinced himself he'd been outsmarted by one of the bovine persuasion. All day long Alber had tried to pull the plow, and failed miserably. He reached out to grab Ochs' horns to strap him back into the harness. Ochs danced backward, neatly stepping to the side and half squishing Alber against the fence. Alber cursed under his breath and tried again. Zwerchhau! Ochs stepped away, thwarting Alber's sudden attempt to grab his yoke and drag him back to work. Alber made another grab for the collar, and Ochs puffed angrily, lowering his great head so that his horns hung at the ready. I can do this all day long, fool, he snorted. He tossed his horns to the side and lowered them, squinting at Alber and daring him to try again. Aw, schiet-elhau, Alber mumbled, looking away. Muttering to himself he wandered off, he left Ochs to his rest. The tired ochs stepped deliberately (no fairy-footing for him) toward his favorite cork tree, where he leaned on his nebenhut and sniffed at the flowers, debating whether it was too early to go for a lick of his salt block.

Alber was a fool, but he was no idiot... in his own mind anyway. He knew better than to try grabbing Ochs by the horns. Whistling nonchalantly, he moseyed over to the cork tree and sidestepped around to Ochs' rear. The key, Alber thought to himself, is to grab the tail. He moved at angles, first one way, then the other, shifting his path ever closer to Ochs' rear. When he judged he was finally near enough, Alber reached out and grabbed hold of Ochs' tail...

Alber discovered the power of flight as Ochs' kick caught him square in the chest. He groaned and hefted himself off the ground, just in time to see Ochs' horns descending in a wicked oberhau. Alber scrambled out of the way, but the horns caught him with an unterhau instead, flinging him up into the air to land hard over a low-hanging branch of the cork tree. He hung there, nose at his knees, with his belly crushed against the branch, completely winded. Ochs lunged toward where Alber was hängen, aiming his horns in an absetzen at the unfortunate fool's backside. Alber jerked his legs upward, winden them in the branches of the cork tree just in time to save his tail. He pulled himself up into the tree and rested safe in the branches. All the rest of the day long, and all night too, Ochs kept him confined to the tree, where he spent hours contemplating one simple truth:

Only a fool pulls a plow when he has an ox who can do it all day long for just a lick-an-hour.

Week 7.5 - That's some guard dog

My animals think I'm nuts. They probably thought that before, actually, but now I'm positive they think they have proof. It's weird... they'll normally ignore me all day long unless they want something, but the second I pick up the sword, I gain an audience of three, no matter where I go. If I head to the front yard, the dog and two cats, none of whom get along normally, all line up at the window to watch. If I go out back or on the porch, the dog comes with me, and the cats sit at the door or on the windowsills to watch. It's a little creepy. I half think they're watching to be sure I don't slice something off that interferes with dinner time. Or maybe they're hoping that I do....

Tonks is enjoying our increased exercise, but not the fact that half of it doesn't involve him. Mostly now, he just sits on the table on the porch as I practice my drills. I'll be pushing my oxes off the roof, having them land on fools and dragging plows, and I'll turn suddenly to see the fuzzy pup with his head tilted to the side, eyebrow cocked like he's seriously worried about my mental stability. He's just as nuts though, so I went back to my drills.

A short while later, I was taking a quick break from my absetzens (which are no longer practiced on doorknobs, since that was totally not useful) and stacking chairs to get them under cover for winter. As I came back up the porch stairs, I had to grab my camera. Tonka apparently decided that I'd done enough practicing for one day. I snapped a pic and sent it to a friend, who declared:

that is one SERIOUS guard dog

I finished with the chairs and went back to practicing. My footwork is awful. I keep getting accused of having 'fairy feet,' which I wish meant I shared some kind of delicate quality with Tinkerbell, but really seems to mean 'moving with a great sense of uncertainty.' That's pretty accurate really, since I've no idea how I'm supposed to move. As a four-year old ballerina, I played a duck and a shamrock in our dance performances- neither of which are known for grace of movement. I tried to remember my ballet lessons, but that was a long, LONG time ago. So I muddled through, trying to move with purpose, stepping through and whatever else I was told in practice but can't seem to do. I thought maybe it would be easier without trying to concentrate on sword movements as well, so set the sword back on the table and focused on not tripping myself as I tried to pivot (note to self: Docs are not good for pivoting). Turning on the spot for what seemed like the fiftieth time, I looked up to see a very forlorn-looking furball:

aren't you done practicing yet?

How could I resist? He doesn't care if I have fairy feet. So I quit for the day, and we went out for ice cream. 

Week 7ish - And there was much rejoicing

Practice was cancelled on Sunday before last, so I tried to practice every day during the week instead. I kinda rot at that. I'm not a daily anything sort of person, I've discovered. Anyway, I did manage a few days of practice, which actually seemed to help- to the point I wanted to share my success with my instructor. This is the sort of thing the poor guy has to put up with:

jakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejake!!
jakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejake
jakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejake
jakejakejakejakejakejakejakejakejake

Looklooklook! Three swings, three cuts! I just practiced until I got the whistles three times in a row then stepped up and I sliced 'em up! ZWERCHAU! First was an oberhau, and it worked perfectly! There's still water in the jug and it barely moved, just the top went skittering off across the table you can see. The other two were unterhaus, only I wasn't sure I was doing it right because they're so slow they barely whistle but it worked! I was too far away on the middle one so just clipped the side and knocked off the cap but the last one sliced almost all the way through but the sticker held it together so I must've turned the sword a bit at the end but I did it! And no bottle bruises from baseball-batting them either- not one dent!
 * * *

Apparently I channel a six year old on a week-long sugar high when I get excited. That of course glosses over the repeated shouted exclamations of "Zwerchau!" that startled the dog and the squirrels, and my trash talking of the innocent plastic jugs that I was decimating. A girl must ever maintain her ladylike demeanor, after all.

Week 6 - Buckle Down

I got my first bruises today! Is it odd to be excited about that? Oh cripes, I hurt.

I ended up being late to practice. I'd been sitting at a stoplight waiting to get on the highway when I noticed the car next to me was slowly moving backwards. The driver was older but looked alert and was staring straight ahead, so I kept thinking "surely he's going to stop?" "Doesn't he notice the stoplight getting further away?" He's going to stop." "He'd better stop now..." He did not stop. Ended up plowing into the guy behind him with a loud crunchy sound. The fellow had a new car and so was extra grouchy about being hit. I stopped to be sure the driver guy was ok and ended up giving a report, because grouchy guy insisted on police intervention. That's when I also discovered that some folk look at you a bit weirdly when they see a sword sitting on the seat next to you. Or maybe it's just that there were half a dozen children's books and a stuffed red panda backpack sitting on the seat with it. Either way, I got raised eyebrows from the cop. And cranky guy backed away from my truck.

But it was a gorgeous day, so at least the waiting around wasn't too bad. And the rest of the drive out to practice was lovely too, which helps to make up for the obscenely long drive. I'm keeping a running wildlife count of critters that I see on the way up and the way back. I'm up to two foxes, two groundhogs, a 'possum, eighteen deer, a rabbit, countless squirrels (though usually just in my neighborhood), and what I'm pretty sure was a coyote, though I didn't think they were this far out. That's just live critters. If I count dead ones too, add in at least a dozen more deer, half a dozen raccoons, another fox, a cat, some squirrels and two 'possums.

I got to practice late. I was halfway there when I realized that the bag with my mask and gloves was still sitting on the dining room table. The cat had climbed in it while I was loading up the car and I remember thinking I'd go back for it and lure her out. Ya, that didn't happen. And now there is cat hair in my mask. Regardless, I didn't have it, so there wasn't much to unload when I got to practice. I set my sword on the table and wandered over to join the program already in progress. Jake told me to warm up, and that's when I realized I had a big problem...

So I mentioned my 'penance' yesterday. Well apparently, according to the Professor, the reason my wrists hurt was I'd been doing my zwerchaus all wrong. Actually, I had started off doing them correctly, using my whole arms, but after 313 or 584 or 723 or something, I started getting lazy and my form slipped so I just ended up flipping my wrists. Bad Bunny! Since I found out I'd done them wrong though, I decided I'd fix it, go back and do them the right way. So really, I ended up doing 2,000 stupid zwerchaus, all to the tune "It's a Small World," because it's the most heinous ear-worm ever and takes days to get that horrid song out of your head. "It's..." whoosh "a small world..." whoosh "after all..." whoosh. At least the little sword winds sounded cool. It helped to imagine lopping the heads off all the creepy little dolls in that "Small World" ride at Disney too. *shudder* I hate dolls.

Anyway, so when I tried to warm up, I realized that I couldn't raise my arms above my chest. Well, I could, but it hurt. Kind of a lot. I think I must've let out a few whimpers, because as I was trying to stretch out my arms, one of the guys (I have to see about getting permission to use names) kept asking if I was ok. NO. I definitely was not ok. Like I could admit that though. So I was all, "I'm good. Just sore." I'm not a good actor though. I then proceeded to hug myself for the next ten minutes, stretching my upper arms, poking at my puny, protesting muscles, trying to get them to unknot themselves enough that I could lift a sword without wincing or whimpering again. ZwerchOWs indeed.

But we got to play a new game today! Sword and buckler. Lots of fun, but I totally sucked at it. Only part of it I could attribute to having to do it with the wrong hand. Aside from the fact that holding a new, smaller sword in my off hand felt awkward (why couldn't I use my left hand again?), something about the angle or my aching wrists made it extra complicated. I kept mixing up my hands and having to stop and translate moves in my head. It was bad. Anyway, I get the idea of hiding the sword behind the puny flying saucer (sorry, that's what those bucklers look like- if I ever have my own, I'm totally painting it up like a spaceship), but keeping the wrists together really threw me off when I was trying to figure out how where the heck my sword was supposed to go. And my footwork is abysmal I know, though at least this time I didn't get cited so much for having 'fairy feet'. Yay! I'm getting better! Or maybe Jake's just tired of pointing out how bad my footwork is. Tossup. On the up side, in free sparring, I actually scored points! And landed at least one shot that I knew why I got them!

As nearly as I can tell though, the buckler isn't to shield you so much as to swat the other guy's sword away so you can slice him up. I think it's supposed to protect your hand too, though not holding mine right got me my very first sword bruise! Probably it's weird to be excited about it, but I don't care. My first partner got in a good shot and I didn't move my buckler hand fast enough, and I got cracked across the thumb. It aches when I bend it now, and has a faint purplish tinge. Matched my shirt at least. I was supposed to strike back with a bunch of absetzens. It was at that point that I realized that all my practice made me pretty good at absetzens- when they're at doorknob height. I poked my poor partner in the belly more than a few times, when I was supposed to be aiming at his throat. Jake adjusted my stance and I guess it improved, though I was grumbling under my breath the whole time "They're just perfect at doorknob height, Professor!" My second bruise came with the sword and buckler too, with partner #3 this time. He caught me with a clean thrust to the chest. I've got a fair amount of padding there, but still ended up with a little purple welt that stands out great on my pale skin.

My first battle wounds! Lame ones maybe, but still. Can't wait for the next set.

Week Almost 6 - ZwerchOW

I'll try not to whimper, but it hurts to type. It's also no longer the least bit fun to say zwerchau, and I really could use a cruller. But at least I'm done. Well, half done. The rest will come tomorrow when my arms don't feel like jelly and my wrists don't feel like they're about to snap off. And for those to whom the following makes sense, no, I did not wear a battle thong. It is way too chilly for that nonsense. Plus... totally not comfortable.

Anyway, I started off enthusiastically enough. But after I completed my first triumphant ZWERCHAU! in the living room, I realized two things: a. cats are fascinated by shiny things, even when they're moving quickly, and b. my ceilings are quite low. Rather than risk slicing off whiskers or putting another gouge in the ceiling to match the source of my epiphany, I moved outside and did my penance there. I tried the sidewalk first, but decided to relocate after a few swings of my gorgeous new sword. (She's been named Bacio di Acciaio, by the way- Steel's Kiss in Italian, unless my translator fibbed). I don't think the weeping cherry tree out front properly appreciated being kissed though, and after I lopped off a few weepy branches accidentally, I figured moving would be wise. Honestly, I'm not usually such a ditz, but I definitely have not mastered the ability to gauge my reach with a 36" steel extension. The puppy stared forlornly at me through the glass storm door, his accusing stare burning into my shoulders as I ventured further out into the yard.

Ow. Ow. Ow. ZwerchOW.

Hah! I know why it's called that now. After the first few hundred, your wrists really start to ache. If I get carpal tunnel from this, I'm totally blaming my instructor. But the nice thing about repetitive tasks? You don't have to concentrate. Much. Except that I kept losing track, and backtracking to the last number I remembered saying. And my memory stinks, so I couldn't remember what I said, so had to start over three times. Around the 300 mark, I decided I needed theme music. The next 200 swings were a fruitless attempt to kill "It's a Small World," which thanks to storytime at school yesterday, was the only song that came to mind. I debated letting the sword fall on my head, but figured that probably wouldn't get me out of the krumphaus.

Ow. Ow. Ow. KrumpOW.

See? Works for that one too. OW. The reason I'm doing this is that my tongue got me in trouble again. The first time was in 6th grade, when Mrs. Dutrow (Deathrow) the art teacher gave me a bunch of demerits for talking sarcastically in class. I had to write a big apology letter, which ended up being the first and, up until now, only time I ever got in trouble for being a smart aleck. These days, I'm usually a lot more subtle. Usually. This time I ended up with my "punishment," having to do 1,000 zwerchauws and 500 krumphauws for... I don't even know now. Something I said in chat. I'm sure it was terribly clever. Or is zwerchau a verb? I had to zwerchau 1,000 times? Beats me. Either way, if I never see a helicopter or a bus again, I'll be good.

The puppy meanwhile, apparently decided my moving twenty feet further into the yard meant that I had obviously abandoned him, even though I was still in plain sight. I heard him jostling the door handle, a little trick that he learned at school would usually grant him freedom from my office. Luckily, he forgets that I know his tricks, and I'd locked the storm door behind me. After he realized that escape was not imminent, he sprawled morosely in the entryway, smushed his face up against the glass door, and began to make a weird, high-pitched keening sound. I turned and yelled back to him in exasperation, something like "Cripes, I'm right here!" Apparently he took this as an invitation to up the ante, and gave a huge sigh that fogged up the glass. Then he began to bark.

Now in order to properly appreciate the true horror of my darling fuzzy boy's voice, imagine the most piercing, high-pitched, obnoxious bark you can think of, add an echo and an amplifier, then multiply that by the sound of pain and the color 3. It's awful, incredibly loud, and utterly incomprehensible. He's a decent sized pup, a husky/shar-pei mutt weighing about 60 pounds. He does have a big-boy voice, and it actually sounds a bit scary, but it only ever seems to come out when repairmen visit the house. But his normal voice, his hideously loud, ear-piercing shriek of a bark, can irritate like no other. So my darling pup began barking, and I went back to my zwerchauwing, trying to ignore the barking like the trainer had told me to. But horrendously loud yipping barks can play havoc with your concentration, and I had lost count again. I glared at the dog through the door, but he wasn't even looking at me any more. What had begun with an attempt to induce guilt in me for abandoning him had apparently turned into a noise-making frenzy of ecstasy as he bounced around the entryway, enthusiastically barking his fool head off, rubbing nose-prints all over the glass, and pouncing and chasing his tail while emitting the high-pitched shrieks... until he saw that I was looking at him from twenty feet away. He then stopped mid-bark, lifted his head, and began to howl.

Because shouting at a noisy dog always works, I stomped over to the door, yelling at him to be quiet. Apparently this just gave him the notion that I wanted to participate in a duet, and he leaped up to put his paws on the door as if we were dancing. I was yelling, he was still howling, and his tail was wagging with glee- we were noise-making buddies singing the best duet ever. Just like that, the absurdity of the situation hit me. The dog was on one side of the door, howling like he was being tortured. I was on the other, with a sword in my hand, yelling through the glass at the fluffy idiot. The storm door was locked between us... and my keys were inside the house.

Week 5-1 - Whetting the Appetite

A smile crosses my lips as I glance down to see it for the first time, lying peaceful and relaxed on my bed. It's like Christmas here. I lick my lips in anticipation, an impish grin lighting my face as I reach for the opening. My fingertips slip inside, gently brushing against it as I try and figure out how to extract my prize. I tease it open a little further, wiggling my fingers into the space. I catch a glimpse and my eyes go wide, greedy for the sight of more. I slide my hand into the gap, sighing as my palm slides over the hard smoothness. Fingers twitching, I curl my hand around it, my lashes sweeping down at the sudden feeling of "rightness" that fills me. It feels a little cold, but I suspect it will warm up quickly in my hand. I picture the smile on your face as I gently begin to tug, slipping it free from its gentle prison. With one long, smooth motion I pull it free, loving the feel of it filling my hand, admiring the length as it's revealed before my wondering gaze. A viscous liquid coats the tip, glistening in the half light of my room. I shiver a bit as I stroke a finger across it, spreading the moisture along its gentle curves. I can't help but stare. It's so tempting, so striking, and much wider than I thought it would be. Absolutely gorgeous. With a reluctant sigh, I decide I've teased myself enough. I don't have time to play right now, much to my dismay. Wrapping my hand firmly around it one more time, I can't help but whimper as I fit the tip to the opening and slide it home. I rub my palm across it once more, thinking that I can't wait until I can show you my new sword.

What? You were thinking something else? Pervy :-p

So yay! My first sword is here, and she really is lovely. She needs a name. I want to test her out, but it's raining, which means practice tomorrow is cancelled, and I can't play outside and I've too many critters wandering around my house to play inside, so all I get to do is sit here and look at her. Such a tease.

My New Toy

Week 4 - Krumphau: The Wheels on the Bus...

The wheels on the bus go round and round… 

It’s become the theme of our practice combat, and my sparring partner and I break into the stupid song at random while we practice. It's like we’re caught in some weird, violent ritual inspired by preschool nightmares: "The wheels on the bus go THWACK krumphau..." We're learning the Krumphau today, which has nothing at all to do with crullers, I’m sorry to say. I can't even keep track of whether I'm the one krumping or hau I'm supposed to know which position to return to. I know I'm I’m not moving my hands right though, and Jake keeps telling me to “Drive the bus!” Riiight. I grind my teeth and mutter softly under my breath, "yes, Professor."

I think this man needs a glimpse into my day. I hate that stupid bus song. Preschool is on the same hallway as my library, and I hear it all day long. I have never been behind the wheel of the bus. I have never wanted to drive a bus. I actively try to avoid getting near the school buses at dismissal time. That is way too much responsibility for me, and frankly, I’m not that good a driver. In fact, I should be like the pigeon, and nobody should ever allow me behind the wheel of a bus. My bus would probably just crash, which seems to be what my sword is doing. Ever patient, Jake walks from one side to the other, having me follow him with my sword until I get the idea. What he doesn't realize is that I'm wondering if I could actually poke him with my sword and get out of reach before he could get in an afterblow. But he calmly continues pacing around behind me, back and forth, until I catch on and get my krumphau down. While he’s there. The minute he leaves, I swear everything falls out of my head and my sword starts crashing my bus again. My sparring partner is too nice to comment, but I’d swear I heard him start humming under his breath- “the wheels on the bus go round and round…”

Oh, and bonus! Apparently on your birthday, you get to engage in one fight for every year you've been alive! Woohoo! And the last is with the professor himself. Lucky girl today had 18 matches to fight. Come November, I will have... many, many more than that. So... in the event that I manage to keep writing for another month or so and then these little postings suddenly stop, you'll know why. 

Just in case, I like daisies. They'll look nice for my funeral.

Mid-week 3 - Ruler of my domain

Ok, so today was incredibly boring at work. Half my classes were done already and the library assistant was out, so it was just me. I was getting snoozy, so at lunchtime I grabbed a yardstick, cranked up my music, and started doing flow drills in the middle of my office. I had cranky oxes underhau-ing fools, fool peasants smacking poor oxes in the head all over the place all day long, and I was listening to the swish of my mighty yardstick cutting through the air when I suddenly heard a giggle. I stopped mid swing and looked around... to see two of my girliest little first graders peeking over the circulation desk, watching me.

"What ARE you doing, Ms. G?"

I stopped, blew my bangs out of my eyes, and smiled. "You did remember to bring your library books back, right?"

Eyes went huge as one nodded solemnly and pointed to the princess book she just laid on the counter. The other glanced at her friend, saw the yardstick resting on my shoulder, then dissolved in giggles. Then she saw the empty cardboard box in front of my desk and said "I think that box would make good armor."

Best part? As I was helping them pick out books before shooing the girls back to class, they both said they wanted books about girl knights. Must be doing something right! 

Week 3 + 1 day - Shop 'til you drop

I have decided that I need my own sword. I have entirely too many expensive hobbies already, so why not add another? Jake the ever-patient spends a few hours with me as we look at pretty, sharp, pointy sticks of all kinds and discuss the merits and weaknesses of each. I get a whole interactive history lesson on Oakeshott blades and why they’re shaped the way they are, about sword construction, about foibles and quillions  and points of balance and scent-stoppers, all of it pulsing to the center of percussion echoing rhythmically in my brain… and it’s all weirdly fascinating. I hate shopping under most circumstances, but don’t seem to mind poring over armory webpages, looking for the perfect sword for a nooblet like me, all the while trying to convince myself that I don't really need an Albion for my first sword. But I do reeeeeally like the Baron. And the Agincourt. And the Earl... 

I confess to being a smidge disappointed that none seem to come in purple.

Week 3 - A thousand apologies

THWACK. The sword tip bounces off my mask. Again. Actually, I guess technically it's the foible. “Stop apologizing when you hit him!” THWACK.

Under my breath I hiss, “Yes professor.” I’m pretty sure the mask hides my actions, so I stick my tongue out at Jake as he moves away. I know this. I know it doesn’t hurt, but I can’t help it. I’m the one who rescues the spiders at school when the kids shriek and want to squish them. I save mice from my cats and release them in the neighbor’s yard. I even feed squirrels from my bird feeders. I just can’t get used to the idea that it’s ok to be hitting people intentionally. THWACK. I clock my opponent again, adding a small “sorry” under my breath. I’m pretty sure I see him grin beneath his mask.

I keep practicing, sparring with the other nooblet who seems less lost than I feel. Grumbling to myself, I wince and whisper apologies every time I smack the poor guy in the head. But after ten rounds of this… secretly, slightly ashamedly, I finally admit it to myself… this is kind of awesome. THWACK. I finally have a move I can do right. THWACK. ZwerCHAU! The word even sounds awesome. If this were a comic, I’d have little spiky bubbles surrounding the word as I whacked him again. It’s my new favorite word, maybe even better than defenestrate. Zwerchau!