Don’t wanna. Can’t make me.

One thing I really like about my blog program is that it understands me in ways so few people do.  Like whenever it’s thinking about whether or not to let me post something, it says Beep Beep Boop.  Man, it really cheers me up when it does that which is good because I’ve been in a pretty dark mood lately.  That may explain why I haven’t posted for a couple weeks.  It’s just too hard when you wake up to grey skies and are actually expected to write in a room with absolutely no mood lighting.  Outside the window, the set decorator for Wizard of Oz Act I Scene 1 has been hard at work and I have two choices:

overhead oncant-write-2 or  Can't writeoverhead off.  Bleak.

Nobody should be expected to work under these conditions.  There is also a strange smell in here and I am honestly not sure if it is the cat’s butt or mine.  I did just have Crown Burger for lunch but then so did the cat.  Shit.  That reminds me.  I need to put the leftovers in the fridge.  Where was I?  Doesn’t matter.  Where’s the cat?  A much more pertinent question.  The smell is gone so there’s ONE mystery solved.  The anti-anxiety drugs seem to be helping, not me, the cat.  The kitty klonapin seems to really be helping.  Mingus has been much more sociable these days so he may be on Snapchat.  It can be hard for a cat of his advanced age to connect.  Especially since we keep his cat door closed now.  He was inviting entirely too many racoons over for dinner.  Did you know spellcheck cannot come to a consensus on the spelling of raccoons plural?  It only acknowledges racoon singular which means there is only one raccoon on the planet and he is involved in an elaborate hoax to convince us all otherwise.  I just wish he’d leave my fucking cat alone!

The impending storm is suggesting that I get away from electrical devices before it shows up so I will leave you with a fun Holiday game! Find the differences in the two pictures below! The winner that successfully finds them all and lets me know in the comments section of this blog could win a Grow Your Own Zombie Hand that has already been grown!!!

Image 1















Image 2

Can't write

Falling Down at Red Rocks: one incident, many perspectives.

“This chic, like, totally biffed it on the stairs tonight at Red Rocks.  It was so funny!  Her glasses flew off her drunk head and everything!  ‘Here sweetie,’ I called to her. ‘ Don’t forget these.’  LOL!”

“This fucking guy got in my way tonight at Red Rocks.  He was holding this slow ass chic’s hand.  I pushed past his ass to get the the bathroom before them.  Not gonna be waiting behind those two!  Fuck that shit!  As I ran past, this drunk ass cooze fell on her ass.  Good!  Serves her right for holding up traffic!”

“Another drunk fell in the stairs tonight at Red Rocks tonight.  Glad it wasn’t in MY section!  Ain’t my section, ain’t my problem.”

“Some drunk just fell in my section tonight at Red Rocks tonight and then proceeded to sit her happy ass down in the VIP section! Nu uh, chica!  Not on my watch!  Who the hell does she think she is!”

These remarks are what I imagine are the responses I get from people whenever I fall, which is entirely too frequently.  That’s not quite true.  These are not the reactions I get when I fall on the street, in the grocery store, at work.  In situations where it is acceptable to be “handicapped.”  At the bar, a club, a concert, it is a different story.  In these venues, cripples need not apply.  After all, we should be in bed resting up and taking care of our poor little selves.  Furthermore, if we can’t even make it in to the grocery store without taking up all the “primo parking spots” what makes us think we have the right to expend our precious energy on having fun?  I mean, surely we aren’t even CAPABLE of dancing, are we?

Sadly, the reason it is rare to see one of us gimps out in society is that for many of us, we have given in to the fear.  Fear of falling.  Fear of being jostled, or bumped.  Fear of being mocked, derided, misunderstood or ignored.  And, ironically, fear of not being able to find a parking space.  It seems that after midnight, like Cinderella’s coach, handicapped spots turn into VIP parking.

I believe the greatest fear, that has even begun to crush my own exuberant vitality, if the fear of how we will be treated IF something goes wrong.  After all, following my fall at Red Rocks, not one person came to my assistance.  Instead they saw a crazy drunk girl because that was what their assumptions told them this was.  A cripple out for a night of fun was not part of their perceived societal norm so they were incapable of seeing it.  Granted, I did get the attention of the security guards AFTER I sat down in the VIP section.  But they were unwilling to call for assistance even after being told repeatedly that I was disabled.  Their reason?  I wasn’t injured and since the assumption had already been made that I was drunk*, my rights to assistance had been nullified.

My right to expect assistance should not be conditional.  As a fiercely independent disabled person, I find it difficult to ask for help.  But when I do, I don’t expect a second party to determine the validity of my request, nor should it depend on my level of sobriety or cheerfulness.

*On a sidenote, I was not in fact drunk.  At the point when I fell, we had only been at Red Rocks for a half hour.  I had had exactly 1/3 of a vodka lemonade that I shared with my brother and husband.

Finding T Rex: Thoughts on Deformities

I was at a one year old’s birthday party when it happened; a moment of perfect truth.  She’d been watching me since my husband and I had arrived at the party.  She couldn’t have been more than four or five and had the natural inquisitiveness that comes with children of that age.  She slowly sidled closer and closer until…

“Hi!” I said.

“You look like a T Rex,” she replied.

My eyes lit up and a smile spread across my face.

“You’re right!” I said. “But can you tell me why I look like a T Rex?”

“It’s your arms,” was her confident reply.  “They’re like this.”  She quickly mimicked the sharp angles at my wrists and elbows.

“That’s a very good T Rex!” I said and with a roar we took off into a full scale dinosaur battle.

For the rest of the night she studied me as a biologist might study a new species.

“Catch this,” she’d say, throwing me a ball.  I’d catch it in the crook of my arms, my arthritic fingers lacking the dexterity to properly grip a ball.  She continued her experiment with a number of requests.  “Hold this glass.”  “Pick me up.”  At no point did she judge my ability or inability to perform these tasks in the “correct” manner.  She just observed HOW I did these things.  It wasn’t good.  It wasn’t bad.  It was just different.

There have been times in my life when I would not have embraced this comparison.  Growing up with arthritis, my biggest and only insecurity were my arms.  I idolized the Venus de Milo for her lack of arms and did everything I could to hide my own.

By college I had figured out I should embrace my arms and stop trying to hide them.  I found new idols in the form of squirrels, raccoons, and meerkats.  But it wasn’t until I found T Rex that I could fully relate.  T Rex was strong.  T Rex was powerful.  T Rex was king and when he got knocked down he got pissed.

I remember a time in high school when some kid tripped me to be funny.  I flipped over on my back and started kicking the shit out of him.  When someone managed to pull me away and help me up I stormed off slamming the door hard enough to shatter the glass.  Yup.  I had found my spirit guide.  T Rex and I are now bonded for life and have been for about twenty years now.