Kisses from Tici

I didn’t go to Brazilian Jiu Jitsu class on Saturday morning because I am on a strict budget and needed to use the $45 I would save on gasoline (by not driving from Wimberley to Dripping Springs and back again) for a pedicure. And why, pray tell, did I find need to get a pedicure on this particular day? Well, didn’t you hear? We had a lovely fundraiser luncheon for Joao Crus Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in the elegant upstairs loft of the Cedar Grove Steakhouse (at The Junction, where RR12 crosses RR32) and I wanted my toes to look dashing while hobnobbing with the local BJJ elite. The glitterati were all assembled there, Joao, looking handsome in his tuxedo sweats, Gracie Magazine Supermodel Tici, providing her erudite wisdom in all things healthy and fit…Ok, ok, I’m only kidding about my $45 pedicure and Tici. I slapped that toe polish on myself and promptly trashed it while hiking in flip flops to the top of Mt. Baldy with my kids, and Tici was otherwise engaged, probably sweating on the keyboard for a column deadline. Fortunately, it’s a lot cooler wearing only a G-string, but I digress. The point is, those of us who attended the luncheon greatly enjoyed the cuisine and hospitality of our fabulous hosts, Holly and Bruce Collie, and the attentive service and entertainment of the entire Collie Clan, as well as civilized chatting time with BJJ friends off of the mat. Those of you who didn’t attend, your absence was duly noted, logged, and widely gossiped about.

I don’t want to say that Joao was disappointed by the turnout, but I thought I heard him muttering something about doing nothing but hip-escapes in class for the next 12 weeks. But I’m probably wrong. On my part, I plan to practice this uber-cool technique on as many people as possible, wherein my opponent prevents my Kimura by grasping their own pant leg, so I throw my left leg over their right shoulder, hook their belt with my left arm and drag them onto their belly by sitting up, fold my legs tightly with my left knee over their right shoulder, get a two handed grip around their left shoulder, and lean close to whisper in their ear, “So, why didn’t YOU make it to the fundraising luncheon?”

What I found ironic was that, for a fundraiser ostensibly aimed at supporting the award-winning children’s program at Joao Crus Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu by enabling Joao to travel to California to accept an award and to attend Master classes on BJJ for children in Brazil, all the attendees were from the adult program with only two exceptions: Tracy, who coordinated the event, and the Collies. My children do not attend Joao’s BJJ class for purely selfish motives because I’m the one who needs the socialization here, ME, ME! To appease my motherly guilt, I bought Joao’s Brazilian Jiu Jitsu DVD for Kids (for the special low price of only $23.99 plus tax!) so that my rug rats can sit vapidly in front of the TV watching your rug rats cutting up the floor mats. All kidding aside, I think that everyone realizes how fortunate we are to have such an exemplary BJJ instructor and class, and is committed to supporting the program. Sometimes showing support is as simple as showing up.

As Anthony did, for a quick handshake and visit to the corner where DVDs, t-shirts, badges, and gis were displayed as part of the fundraising effort. Or Mason, who managed to arrive fashionably late, about 30 minutes after lunch ended (but he did come). Although neither was able to join in the delectable group luncheon, the rest of us consumed the hearty Tex-Mex fare from the Casa Loma kitchen with gusto. Lauren and Scott watched as Narya was hugged in quick succession by a team of doting Collie children. Gary and his wife Stacy chatted with Levi and Diana, while Chris asked Tracy’s daughter Gretchen how she liked BJJ. I debated the relative merits of which DVD to get, settling on the new kicka** Side Control DVD. I would have purchased one of the cool new blue gis because they were such a good price at $100 (kids) and $120 (adults), but I just spent $8,323.96 for the Lucky Gi pictured on page 49 of the April issue of Gracie Magazine. I kid you not, that was the price I paid for the gi as pictured:

• $23.96 for the belly ring
• $300 for the gi
• $8,000 for the plastic surgery

It’s my new BJJ secret technique—I’m going to smother all of my opponents into submission.

I kind of wish that I hadn’t been such a cheapskate and had brought my daughters to the lunch, $25 per head being a fair price to pay just to have them witness how helpful the 12 (ambulatory) Collie children were at setting and clearing the tableware, demonstrating napkin folding prowess, and (gasp) sitting and eating their lunches together with perfect manners a mother would cry over. In fact, I did. And then, because a mother’s guilt is only as effective as the guilt complex she can instill in her children, I nagged my kids all about it while feeding them the $0.94 cinnamon pretzels from Sam’s Club that I did deign to spend. I think I’ll be lucky to get a box of Q-tips for Mother’s Day.

We had our cinnamon sugar in a much tastier form than Sam’s Club pretzels. Here’s a pop quiz for you. How do you respond when all 6 feet and 6 inches of Bruce Collie, former professional football player for the SF 49ers and Philadelphia Eagles, asks, “Do you like honey?”

a. Yes
b. Yes
c. Yes
d. Yes
e. All of the above

The correct answer is e. Like lightly blown beijinhos from Tici, we were treated to the house’s divine sopapillas, fried to healthy perfection in rice bran oil, dusted with powdered and cinnamon sugar, and drizzled with the honey in question. It was a sweet send-off for a wonderful meal with our BJJ family.

Science and Superstition

I woke up last Wednesday feeling as though I had been hit by a, if not a Mack truck, at least a slow moving Winnebago. Perhaps it may be a little more than my middle-aged mom’s body can take by going to the Monday evening BJJ class in Dripping Springs, staying up until 1 am on the computer, and then showing up again at 8:30 am for the Tuesday morning BJJ class in Dripping Springs.

I had attended Monday evening’s class in hopes of rolling with Lauren the Momminator, and to make up for missing the Saturday morning class. It was during this class that I had the august opportunity to roll with Joao, who in the aftermath explained that I needed to move my body more quickly and more often while sparring, instead of remaining frozen on my back in one spot.

“Mmmmpfh,” I noted understandingly, through a mouthful of gi.

Rolling with Joao was akin to wrestling a vat of non-Newtonian fluid. My original analogy was that it is akin to wrestling an octopus because it feels as though he has grown four extra sets of appendages while you weren’t paying attention. However, octopus tentacles are un-analogously squishy. In order to appreciate my analogy, understand that a non-Newtonian fluid is one that changes its viscosity based on the force that is applied to it. Think of how corn starch dissolved in water behaves, flowing when left on its own and instantly hardening when you attempt to compress it. Now immerse yourself in a vat of dissolved cornstarch and flail about, and the non-Newtonian fluid that is Joao is either flowing over you with multiple tendrils if you don’t move fast enough or hardening instantly to immobilize you as you attempt to muscle against it. After an exhausting struggle in quicksand (another non-Newtonian fluid), I eventually settled into a comfortably supine position as I floated buoyantly in hopes of getting submitted out of my predicament. But I just got the “You’ve Got to Move it Move it,” lecture from Joao.

To inflict injury (to my ego) upon insult (to my bleary-eyed, pre-caffeinated self), Tuesday morning class involved not the expected relaxing review of a sweep from the guard position, but a takedown that appeared to require Atlas-like shrugging abilities. Some essential component of the technique eluded me, and amid the triumphant thwacks of the successful takedowns that echoed around me, my partners sagged and flopped and slithered onto my head, definitely not the optimal landing pad for a takedown.

Thus, Tuesday evening found me in intense internal debate over whether to attend my regular BJJ class in Wimberley. On the one hand, my body ached and my bruises throbbed and I felt listless even after an extra dose of caffeine. On the other hand, if I didn’t stay on schedule and assert my opportunity to leave the house, my family would sense weakness and find devious ways to erode this sacrosanct “Mom’s Night Out.”

My gut intuition, the flabby center of my self-preservation instincts, told me I was concocting a recipe for injury by going. Whenever I have ignored my intuition, I have regretted it. However, that hard-bodied, soft-headed internal cheerleader of mine rallied me with the reminder that my reluctance to go to class wasn’t my intuition talking; it was just exercise inertia, a laziness barrier to overcome. I groaned my way into my gi. Then reached for my belt. Which wasn’t in the closet. Or the drawer. Or the car. Or the refrigerator. I had only just worn the belt that morning in Dripping Springs, so realized with a village idiot’s lightning intellect that I had likely left my belt in the studio. This could only mean one thing. It was a sign.

I told Joao as much when I decided on a coward’s compromise by observing class without wearing my gi, eliminating the potential for injury, and more importantly, exiting the house as per regularly scheduled programming.

“It’s not a sign!” he scoffed good naturedly. “Where’s your gi?”

“It’s in the car, but I’m not participating without my belt,” I insisted.

Fortunately, Joao remembered seeing my belt, rolled up with a hair band around it, but he hadn’t known whose it was.

By calling it a sign, I didn’t mean it in the sense that losing my belt was some heaven-sent message to absolve me from class. The interruption caused by searching for it did make me reconsider whether I was just being lazy or whether I was legitimately tired. Forgetting my belt at Dripping Springs that morning indicated to me that I was fatigued beyond my norm, because usually, the thought of going to BJJ class supercharges me with verve.

I didn’t add that I had actually tied another belt on at home to see if it would work. The pink flowers on that fuzzy terry cloth just didn’t do the outfit justice, though--like wearing a tiara with combat fatigues.

The New Small Talk

The form of address that I receive from teenagers here is first, and foremost, ma'am. I am still not used to it outside of the grocery check-out line (in which existed the sole adherents of this convention in California), so it continues to feel like a little poke to the vanity nerve that doesn't want to be constantly reminded that I'm old enough to be a ma'am. So now, one of the young men in my BJJ class, a junior (I believe) in high school, has taken to calling me Miss I-Pei and, of course, ma'am. This wasn't the case when I first began class, but I think I must have raised the matron flag one too many times in class (i.e., joking about wanting a separate women's age category in the tournaments, etc.) so this is the consequence. On the one hand it just sounds so cute to be called Miss I-Pei by this strapping young Adonis, but on the other hand, I feel like his nursery school teacher. And how in the heck can I become a hard-assed Brazilian hardwood BJJ fighter when my WWF moniker is Miss I-Pei?

You can imagine me in class as I'm pouring sweat, getting hair ripped out of a bedraggled ponytail, and straining as much muscle as I can muster in serious combat against a male student (who is trying very hard not to squash me by accident), when I hear cheering on the sideline in the form of, "Go Miss I-Pei!" That just lacks something in the bloodlust infusion department.

After class today, our polite Mr. Ma'am said, "How is it to be the only woman in class, throwing the guys around? It's like, you're our pimp."

I had to check if I heard this correctly.

"Did you just call me a pimp?!!"

"Yes...(seeing my expression)...maybe it means something different now?"

"I hope so. What does it mean now? Watch where you put your foot..."

He looked at his fellow student for some assistance and they hemmed and hmmmed and came up with, "Pimp means, like, being a player."

"PLAYER?" This was, as far as I was concerned, going from bad to worse. "And what does player mean nowdays?"

"Like, an athlete. Popular. Well, you have to be an athlete to be a player. Almost always." His fellow student shook his head in disagreement and muttered, "No you don't. A pimp is like someone who has prostitutes who work for him and he collects all the money."

"Er, yes, that's the definition of pimp that I know about. That's not how you're using the word, though," I prodded.

Mr. Ma'am shook his head, "No, you call someone a pimp if they're popular with the opposite sex."

My expression remained scrunched in doubt, and he added, with the sincerest puppy dog expression you ever did witness, "Being called pimp is a good thing, really."

"If you say so," I grunted grudgingly.

All these Texanisms were starting to confuse me. Maybe that's why when I left the studio I called out, "Goodnight, y'all!"

Dripping Springs Today, Vegas Tomorrow

Coming soon to a YouTube link near you: Brazilian Hardwood Stump I-Pei vs. Lauren the Momminator in BJJ Women Gone Wild...

NOT!!! that there were any surprises in my tournament last Saturday. My friend Joanna emailed early last week to ask how it went and I responded that the match wasn't until Saturday, but due to my acute powers of prognostication, I could already give her the synopsis:

1. Get thrown.

2. Get sat on.

3. Get choked.

As it turned out, I was one for three in the divination category, since I didn't get thrown but did attempt a throw right away (which failed), so nobody was scored points for a successful takedown. I didn't get sat on, and I was able to put her in my guard twice (meaning to wrap my legs around her waist and lock my ankles, which is considered the dominant position, but does not earn any points). However, I did get choked, but more about that in the bitter end.

I suspected that I would be sparring with Lauren that day because we are about the same height and weight (she actually looks skinnier than me) and frankly, I dreaded it. I had only encountered her previously during a "no gi" weekend seminar and she was a bit scary. Really fast and intense, and while I was partnered with her to practice the new techniques, she sometimes went too quickly and with a hair more force than necessary.

After the din of shrieking cheers that accompanied the children's tournament, the room was much quieter as the adult competitors geared up for their event. I had just pulled out my camcorder when the instructor announced the first women's bout between Lauren and my friend Michelle, which made me breath a sigh of relief that I wasn't up. Then the instructor amended himself and announced that I would be up against Lauren first, so I sighed again, but in resignation, and handed the camcorder to Michelle.

I decided to surprise Lauren by attempting to go on the offensive first, and she said later that she had been surprised, but it didn't take long for her additional experience and superior technique to make their impact. Pretty much the only thing I could do after my failed takedown, a failed choke attempt, and a failed arm bar, was to play defense and try not to get submitted before the 5 minute match was over. I became a slot machine: once she pulled my arm down, the scoreboard started rolling up the numbers like she had hit the jackpot.

Lauren ended up scoring a baker's dozen points against my great big round glazed raised doughnut of a zero. Oh dang, I'm mixing my metaphors--time to get the apple fritters off of the poker table. Fortunately, I wasn't aware of the score during the match, or that really would have been demoralizing. I've had practice sessions where I've been flattened and basically immobilized, so the match actually felt pretty good to me, by being able to continue moving around the mat.

It wasn't until just before they called out 1 minute remaining that I made a serious error, which was to allow her to take my back and get her ankles hooked in between my thighs (major point losses here). Once that happened, it was just a game of Russian Roulette to try and avoid an inevitable choke from behind for as long as possible. I evaded one choke, but the second one closed in and I did just as I thought I would, which was to resist the tap. The referee was on his hands and knees, head near the mat to watch closely, and I heard him say, "OK tap, stop, stop!" I assumed that he was telling me to tap out and I remember thinking, "You're right, gaaaaack!" I tapped. I was still lightheaded when I got up and saw the scoreboard, but most of my disappointment came from not making it to the end of the match.

Only later, when I was able to watch the video that Michelle had recorded for me did I realize that what I heard as "Tap!" was actually the timekeeper calling "Time!" So even though there doesn't appear to be much difference between losing a match by a score of zero to 13, versus losing by submission, it was a minor and hair splitting triumph for me to have lasted the full round. After all, when I paid my entry fee of $30, I was thinking that it was going to cost me $1 per second of competition. As it was single elimination, I was free to just watch for the rest of the competition.

Michelle won her first round and then beat Lauren in the second round by two points and ended up placing second. Lauren won her third round and placed third. Ari, of course, defeated everyone handily and placed first.

Afterward, during Ari's farewell luncheon, my instructor said that he thought I had done well.

"Really?" I asked hopefully.

"Yes, really," he replied firmly. "But you cost me money. I bet $100 on you."

"Wow, I'm worth $100?" I responded with mock astonishment.

"Yes, I lost $100 because you didn't win your match," he continued mischievously.

"Well," I sighed, "I actually knew that, so that's why I threw the fight."

Brazilian jiu jitsu is one thing, but when it comes to verbal sparring, I always have the last word.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My thighs are in agony today from a particularly rigorous Brazilian Jiu Jitsu workout on Saturday morning. Tournament day is April 5, and I'm in the throes of some last ditch training in hopes of not embarrassing myself, my family, and all my descendants by overconsuming the mat. If I ate 500 percent of my equivalent surface area of mat, how many calories would that be? I'd just settle for not being submitted in 15 seconds, fighting the entire 5 minute match, and losing by points and not by submission. Preferably with a score greater than zero. Does this make me a glutton for punishment?

My children, with their wise mommy-preservation instincts, have already counseled me, "Remember, Mommy, if someone is choking you, TAP OUT!"

Honestly, I could see myself being stubborn and resisting the tap because at my beginner's level, the choke holds tend to be slow and incremental constrictions, leaving a wisp of hope at the receiving end of the stranglehold. Against the opponents I can currently spar, the uncontested pain of a joint lock on my arm is more likely to induce me to tap out rapidly. More experienced practitioners could no doubt apply a choke hold in such a fashion that it feels like a joint lock--of my neck [insert frantic hand tapping here].

If I do happen to win the first match, it would be a fluke and expend every ounce of my stamina. Then I'd really be in trouble because I'd have to fight a second match with an unknown opponent. My competitive side secretly wishes that would happen, but Self Preservation has the upper hand and is trouncing Competition with a rear naked choke. The trouble ensues when Competition refuses to acknowledge defeat.

Self Preservation: I have you now, mwah-hah-hah!

Competition: Never! I will never submit! Gaack!

Self Preservation: Oh really? Perhaps if you were any better at this you wouldn't have found yourself in this position, giving up your back like that, letting me sink my hooks in...

Competition: Totally lucky passing of the guard on your part. I can still get out- aaaakkkpth!

Self Preservation: Resistance is futile. You'd best tap out while you can.

Competition: Tap out? Hah! I can barely feel your scrawny instincts around my victorious spirit(gurgle). I...can...still...

Self Preservation: Tap out or pass out, buddy.

Competition: Urrck! If I could just move my winner's edge a little to the left...zzzzzzzz.

Self Preservation: Sigh. Live and learn and fight another day. Sweet dreams of future victory be with you.

One Closed Guard Forward, Two Arm Locks Back

Last Thursday morning (BJJ session No. 5), I was able to put my sparring partner, Haley, in such good side control, she spent the rest of the time trying to get out from under me. I even managed to wrap my legs around her waist and lock my ankles together for a closed guard position for a change. It was a toss up who was more surprised, she or I.

Flush with this tantalizing toelock on success, I spent the weekend surfing the net for suitable submission tactics I could employ. Leg locks--too dangerous, we're not allowed to use them while sparring. Arm locks--hard to apply correctly without practice. That left only choke holds, so I perused the Submission 101 website for possibilities. Hmm, the anaconda choke, I liked the sound of that. The regular triangle chokehold, a good basic to learn. Oooh, what was this? The Carlson Gracie chokehold, wherein you loosen the opponent's own gi with a tug, wrap it under his neck, twist and lean in for submission.

This morning during BJJ Session No. 6, I sparred first with Haley's sister, Keaton, who had to sit out of last Thursday's class.

"Oh, are you hurt?" I had asked solicitously.

"No, I was grounded," Keaton shrugged.

Did I mention they're really young?

We had spent the first part of class learning some arm lock techniques, wherein the purpose is to trap the opponents arm in such a way that you can apply pressure and extend the elbow and/or shoulder joints in the opposite direction from which they were intended to bend.

I happen to have these weird double jointed elbows, so I can hyperextend my arms the wrong direction further than many people can. So in theory, an arm lock applied on me would take a millisecond more to take effect, allowing me ample time for escape. However, as fumbling beginners, the arm lock is invariable applied incorrectly, so the sensation that I was feeling was that my partner was trying to break the bones in my spindly little forearms. We alternated back and forth trying to apply armlocks on each other with variable success.

Once we began sparring, Keaton proceeded to demonstrate to me that the "be kinder and gentler to the beginner" phase was over. Although she basically mopped the mat with me, and put me into two joint locks, I did manage to find a modicum of success. My skinny little arms did elude her several times ("Like catching a worm," was her analogy) and I did make it the full 4 minutes without feeling like I was going to have a coronary.

My next bout was with Haley, who was determined this time not to let me get the upper leg. She rapidly threw me to the ground (4 points) and sat on my belly (2 points) and tugged out the corner of my gi. Hey, wait a minute, haven't I seen this move somewhere? The remaining time was spent with her attempting to apply the Carlson Gracie chokehold on me with my own gi, and me flailing about with my wormlike arms trying to prevent her from doing so.

On Tuesdays, I typically go to the evening class held in Wimberley, but I decided to go this morning in Dripping Springs because Joao had called to ask as many women to show up to class for a photo he wanted to use on the website.

We took the requisite serious picture, then the silly picture in which the best idea some of the women could come up with was to give Joao bunny ears. There seemed to be a serious dearth of hams in the group.

"Come on, nice shot with my camera, everyone," I pleaded.

Joao never smiles in his photos-- I think it's an unwritten rule for Serious Martial Artists-- but I could swear that he is on the verge of smiling in this photo.

Pretzels Without Muster

Today I found myself on my back, attempting to throttle a woman who was lying on top of me. It was an experience without precedence for me.

She patted my thigh and I released her, only to find her arms wrapped around my neck, constricting my windpipe. Again, it was a singular experience for me. That is, until it happened again.

What I learned from my third session in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu (BJJ) class was that it takes a surprising amount of technique to effectively choke someone. As I manipulated my forearms in a fashion that I believed emulated the instructor’s, he walked by and said in his rumbling Brazilian accent, “No, you’re trying to choke her, not give her a neck massage. Like this.” As he slid his forearms in a crosswise fashion, I did the same with mine and was rewarded by my partner’s tapping out to indicate, “Gaaah, stop now before my windpipe gets a permanent indentation the shape of your forearm!” At least, that’s what I am thinking when I tap out.

So how was it that I found myself sprawled on a mat in an oversized gi attempting to extricate myself from the viselike grips of complete strangers? It was a combination of factors, including the mailer advertising Joao Crus, 2006 World Jiu Jitsu Bronze medalist teaching in Wimberley, my own sad sack, post holiday shapelessness, and that surge of heady indestructibility and absence of thinking characteristic of teenaged boys or women approaching birthdays that shriek, “Get your mid-life crisis here! Time for that Johnny Depp tattoo on your upper thigh! Wait a minute girl, what HAPPENED to your upper thigh? You can fit a tattoo of Johnny Depp AND the Black Pearl, and possibly throw in Orlando Bloom for good measure because he’s such a scrawny thing.” I opted out of the tattoo for the BJJ because it seemed like the more useful mid-life crisis intervention, and less painful one. I think.

While the advertising mailer interested me enough to find out more about the class, it was really the instructor, Joao (the “J” is pronounced like the French “G,” the “ao” is pronounced “ow,” like Zho-ow) who drew me into the class, no arm lock required. His obvious expertise with BJJ and experience with teaching this martial art to women, men and children was complemented by an easy-going charisma that belied the intensity of his desire to instruct others. Thus, I found myself wildly and cluelessly grappling with a cute 16-year-old girl during a four minute sparring session, as Joao circled by and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not judging, just seeing what you will need to work on.” I thought of quite the litany of possible improvements, the foremost of which would be figuring out what the hell I was doing. However, I kept the thought to myself, primarily because I had insufficient lung pressure to force enough air past my vocal cords to whine audibly. Whimpering was possible, but one doesn’t whimper in martial arts as it is considered poor form.

Even with my uncontested novice status of having two official and one unofficial class (in which I came in to “observe,” only to have Joao invite me to participate), I recognized immediately that the position that one does not want to find oneself in is to have both of the opponent’s legs wrapped around one’s waist, with their ankles interlocked. So you can surmise what percentage of the time I found myself in that selfsame position. My sparring partners would give me tips on how to escape from their clutches, but invariably, there I would be sitting, standing, lying on my back or side, with their legs cinched around my hips like a human girdle. The effect wasn’t slimming.

At the conclusion of two rounds of sparring (4 minutes on, one minute to rest, 3 minutes on), my sparring partner unwrapped her legs from around my hips (where else?) and I continued my impersonation of a bathroom mat, the ceiling doing ferocious circles overhead as I lay prone in a pool of perspiration. Who would have thought it would take so much energy to not actually move anywhere? Note to self: must…work…on…stamina…

After our requisite end-of-class stretching, Joao passed out benign-looking slips of paper to the class.

“Your first tournament,” he counseled brightly. “Just do it for the learning experience.”

Well, it looks like I have 6 weeks to learn how to shed about 100 pounds wrapped around my hips. Maybe it’s not too late to get that tattoo…