Oh yes we did

Well, this really says it all. I could end my blogging career right here and now. Thank you, Joey.

I'm gonna let you marinate in this for a while because a)I'm in the middle of nowhere Montana (yes, with internet, don't be ridiculous), and b)You're gonna need the time to adjust....that is, if you're willing to continue reading my posts after this.

OneArmGirl

This site is currently under construction as of this afternoon when I got bored and asked myself, "Why is everyone else's blog prettier than mine?" Please continue to visit, loiter, critique...just no litter please. This could be a while. Just ask my former roommate about my compulsive furniture arranging tendencies.

salute to tripeds

I know it appears to have been a quiet week here at OneArmGirl headquarters since the last post, but I've had more than ample opportunity to promote, well, myself, in the past week, and have been so preoccupied handing out my blog address that I now find myself here on Thursday, hardly prepared to offer anything of the quality that I know you've come to expect.

I'm off-kilter and ungrounded since I drank milk coffee this morning instead of cream. Audra (aka BFF) despaired of me ever sleeping over at her place again and stopped buying MY cream. The nerve of her. She drinks some kind of deadly sweet vanilla creamer, and I have to draw the line somewhere.

"Oh, what am I going to blog about today?," I whine over said disappointing cup of coffee. "I'm a little scared to think," she laughs and proceeds to continue getting ready for work without further sympathy.

True, I've had so much material flowing in this week, I'm almost wondering if I have the energy to live my own life, much less write about it. Rewind a few days: the three of us, Audra, me, and five-year-old Eli (aka Audra's son, whom I maintain is 1/4 mine) were driving back from the Valley when some kind of road debris punctured a hole in her tire. We decided to go for lunch while her XTerra deflated in the parking lot waiting for AAA. Somewhere around half way through his blueberry muffin, Eli announced he had to go to the bathroom and I offered to escort him.

Sitting on the toilet while I wait outside the stall, Eli pipes up, "Tasha? Are you going to start growing your little arm sometime?" I absentmindedly offer my usual answer to questions I don't know the answer to: "I don't know, you'll have to ask God about that." Without so much as a pause, he replies, "Ok, well after we take care of some problems, eat and get our tire fixed, I'll ask God then, ok?" Funny, that's exactly how I feel.

So while I eat and get my tire fixed, I offer you the above: Shaina, the three-legged pit bull I met at Flying Star this week when I dragged my entire party to the furthest table on the patio so we could sit next to her. I've only met one other three-legged dog, a junkyard sweetheart named Big'un, only one of many bizarre encounters during an episode of my life called "Tasha falls in love with motorcycles and accidentally dates Biker Mike"...but I digress. Shaina was rescued by her owners after being hit by a car and chained to a tree without food and water. After two flea soaks and one leg amputation, she's become a model pet; her owners clearly smitten. And I have to say I'm a sucker for the stories that end happily.

So, I'd like to take this opportunity to give a little shout out to animal amputees, many of whom have come across my desk in the form of sentimental forwards intended to get you gushing with gratitude for life...

Molly: Hurricane Katrina and dog attack survivor


Mocha: landmine survivor

Happy: not sure how he lost his leg,
but he is obviously much cooler now.

Here's to good company.

OneArmGirl

conspicuous

Being a one-armed girl means the recurrence of an incident where someone recognizes me who really shouldn’t; someone I don’t remember at all.

Case in point, a cashier at my local and beloved Sunflower Market, recently told me, as I was attempting to maneuver the debit card machine, that we had met seven years ago when a mutual friend introduced us. “What?!, really?” I accidentally punch the cash back option. I have no recollection of meeting him; particularly disturbing since he says he had a mohawk at the time. Now, though I know next to nothing about him beyond his obvious interest in tattoos, I learn we are actually old friends.

I also possess the natural ability to draw complete strangers to myelf with startling familiarity. A week ago, my little big sister, Genevi (or Little Gen) and I took the train to Santa Fe. Stepping off two thousand miles higher in elevation, we head for downtown and green chile enchiladas, feeling particularly aloof, original Santa Feans among a sea of tourists. Suddenly, coming up behind, I hear, “Oh yeah. Oh yeah!” An excited man in sunglasses and safari hat, strolls up to my shoulder. “Alright!,” he says bobbing to an invisible beat, “You’re a survivor!” I turn my aviators to acknowledge what cannot be ignored. He shakes a fist of solidarity, “And you’re beautiful! Yeah!” I smile, not sure if I should be flattered or afraid. “Thank you.” I’m certainly bemused. As he crosses behind me, I turn to look at him over my other shoulder. “Alright!,” he bobs, “Yeah, you are beautiful.” Then he trips over the curb, nearly smacking into a street sign. “Look, I’m falling over stuff you’re so beautiful.” I decide to be flattered. I’m not bad looking, but who knew with average good looks and one arm, you can become a bombshell. I also wonder if he has me confused with a Gulf War veteran.

I was out in Nob Hill with Little Gen, former roommate Rebecca, her now husband Josh, and three Danish girls. Long story. Point being, we walked into a full restaurant, one guy and five girls, three of whom are tall blond Danes; I figured there was enough oddity that I might slip by unnoticed. But I broke ranks and went to the bathroom with Rebecca. Coming back to the patio, a cute, brilliantly redheaded waitress stops in front of us. “Oh!,” she says, “I saw you at a sporting goods store!” I try to recall any sporting goods store I might have stepped into in the past six months. We finally identify Big Five, specifically the one on the west side of the river. Then I don’t know what to say. So, I put out my hand, and we exchange names. “Nice to meet you,” I say. If only we had gone to the same high school, this would have made sense. Rebecca and I exchange goofy smiles on the way back to our table; I’m a celebrity who’s done nothing to be famous.

Whenever this happens, I’m always tempted to say something snarky like, “Are you sure you’re not thinking of some other girl with one arm?” Except, I think in some cases, they really are thinking of someone else. For several years, I was consistently asked if I played softball or soccer. “Um, I used to do drama in high school...” They were sure they’d seen me on the field; leading me to believe I have a serious athletic doppelganger. At least, we both have one arm.

In other news, the Pink Panther recently showed up outside my back door. This reminded me that I've always liked the Pink Panther. At least I'm not the only one who can't be inconspicuous.

Walking into Sunflower, two employees on break, whom I know I’ve never so much as talked to, smile and wave from an outdoor table fifty feet away. I wave gingerly, then slip into the store, wondering if they were waving to someone behind me.

Just another day in the life.


OneArmGirl

goodnight moon

I’ve been wondering now for a while if my posts have been too peppy or superficial (adjectives I’ve never been accused of in my entire life); and if, maybe, in wanting to be entertaining and world-changing, I’ve forgotten that most real change comes on the heels of pain.

As you may have guessed, making people laugh is not only pure pleasure to me, it’s how I cope. I’m scared to let the laughter stop, to reveal the crying parts; worried I’m one post away from becoming the sappy OneArmGirl downer, losing all my readership.

But the real tragedy would be somehow leaving you under the impression that I popped out of the womb, thought to myself ‘Who needs two arms, anyway?’, and have been downhill skiing with lollypops since then. Those who really know me, know better. So I’ve been wondering how and when to go deeper and, unexpectedly, today happened.

I’ve been nursing a sick horse that, today, I watched get put down. Luna (‘moon’ in Spanish) was donated to the farm about a month ago. She wasn’t in great shape when she came to us, but easily won goodwill with her maternal patience and delicate grace. I decided to call her my ‘little deer’ from her disproportionately large ears, long legs and head-bobbing jaunt. It was nice to have a mare in the barn for a change. But we soon discovered a serious ulcer on her tongue, and after working with her for a month, still couldn’t get her to swallow enough food to gain weight.

I started calling Elsie, who I’d never met, but is reportedly the woman vets call when they get stumped. She sounds wise and grounded on the phone, and I decide I want to be her friend. Because of a recent shoulder injury, she explains she can’t use one arm very much, but still wants to come see Luna. I wonder if I should mention our additional handicap, but decide not to discourage her. We’ve got two good arms between us, right?

I meet Elsie at the farm the next day. She’s shorter than I expected with gray pigtails, but I’m probably not what she expected either. She laughs later at her apologies for only having one good arm. It’s decided that Luna should go to Elsie’s place for more attentive care. This morning I went out to visit and waited at the gate with a sign reading, Old dogs, young dogs, and some stupid dogs: please drive slowly. Inside, we discover Luna’s taken a turn for the worse, the vet is called, and less than two hours later, a beautiful animal living for over 30 years, lies on the ground. We’ve done everything we could. I tell myself to emotionally disconnect and become the get-the-job-done farmer my relatives have been for generations, but the tears come anyway because the fight is over, and the loss is palpable. Luna’s heart stops, but the last to leave are several heaving breaths.

Weeping down the highway, I decide I need a Dr. Pepper despite recent stern words to myself about quitting. But pulling into the gas station, I discern a foundational peace, identifying my tears with the reminder of our universal shitty situation. I’m not the kind to run from death, but still I know something is wrong, and despite how much better it may be on the other side, life really is beautiful. I feel a quiet, but strong gratitude coming in...for Elsie, for my vet, for another chance to be out in the barn, and for Luna and everything she’s shared with me, even in her dying...for life. The Hebrew scriptures wisely say, ‘Let everything that has breath, praise the Lord.’* Confronted with death, I've remembered, no matter what your handicap, even if it seems all quality has gone out of life, if you’re still breathing, you have reason to celebrate. If nothing else, I hear it’s International Beer Day.

Welcome to my serious side.


OneArmGirl





*From Psalm 150

thursday

A local news story recently reported that Thursday is the worst day of the week. This, according to statistics gathered from Twitter, was the finding deduced from a rise in negative tweets on that day.

While it’s comforting to know that Twitter is now the standard for sociological research, I was shocked to learn that Thursdays are getting such a bad rap. In recent conversations with friends (also for statistical research data), I decided that Thursday is actually my favorite day of the week. There may be nothing special about Thursday, but that’s just it, it’s non-intrusive and unassuming. Monday is the first work day, Tuesday is almost worse, Wednesday means you have just as much yet to do...and the weekend always has way too much going on. Thursday is quiet, but not too early to go out and celebrate the upcoming weekend without a band that makes you have to yell, “I’m just going to the restroom, but then let’s continue our discussion of ethics in the Yuan Dynasty, back in a sec,” or when that fails, even louder, “I HAVE TO PEE!”

I really shouldn’t care since I don’t work a normal work week anyway, but I only believe in watching the news if you can actually make a difference, take an action besides going to bed angry. And so, we here at OneArmGirl would like to announce that new posts to this blog will be published on Thursday each week (except when they aren't given my critical need for rest and play time). In so doing, we hope to raise the ratings on Thursday, and give it the place of honor it deserves. And when you get the Thursday Blues, just think, ‘Oh yeah, OneArmGirl post today!‘ I’m sure it will get you through.

Wishing you had just drawn one of those ‘skip two spaces’ cards and today was Thursday? Good. My PR campaign is already working, but alas, it is merely Tuesday.

Now, excuse me, but I have to go tweet...

OneArmGirl


Note of Clarification: Lest last week’s post seem harsh or coldhearted, I very much appreciate the protection of friends and the reticence of strangers to make fun of disability. I do not enjoy the teasing of strangers, nor do I support that kind of disrespect. Contrarily, I believe having fun in the right context only builds true acknowledgement and respect for all people. Thanks, Mikey Man, for reigning me in. =]

"...and all i have to do is, act naa-tra-ly"

In one of my dream lives, I am an independent filmmaker. So going to a premier of the 48 Hour Film Project made me nervous and a little jealous, but felt right, like existing in the midst of the grass roots kind of moviemaking I so love, even for just an hour.

Ostensibly, we were there to support Kristen, who appeared in the last, and best, short film as a disillusioned debutant in what turned out to be her last game of cards. Chamber #6 debuted in obvious superiority to an appreciative crowd who had just sat through half a dozen shorts ranging from not good to should have been axed in pre-production.

But, it so happens that Davy, the praised, but reticent, director of Chamber #6 is also half the brains behind another project of great interest to me. Several months back, Kristen mentioned to two of her coworkers that she had a friend with one arm. These coworkers were, apparently, very bored, because they became intrigued and proceeded to barrage her with questions about me...how do I shave, put on a bra, etc. Being the creatives they are, the guys then turned their curiosity into a song, with lyrics like ‘how do you feed a giraffe with a short arm?’ I imagine something akin to The Lonely Island parodies.

Walking into Davy’s house for the premier after-party, Kristen casually mentions the song guys are excited to meet me and one of them will be at the party. I’m introduced to Davy, wondering if I should reveal my identity with “So, I’m that girl with one arm who inspired your song,” but I think I might just be stating the obvious. How many one-armed friends could Kristen have? But after witnessing a game of beer pong for the first time and realizing I have no regrets about missing out on Greek life, I can’t help myself, and blurt out within Davy’s hearing, “I just want to know when the music video comes out.” He doesn’t hear me, so Kristen repeats. Davy looks up to meet my eye with a knowing look of being caught in something mischievous, trying to discern my reaction, a shy smile wanting to come out and play. I grin. I want to play, too.

Standing close by, Christian, up-to-now life of the party and beer pong champion, perks up, not wanting to be on the outside of the joke. Davy turns to give a hushed explanation, of which, I can only hear, “how”, and “one arm.” In an almost instant turnabout, Christian is sobered, almost offended. “Ah, no man, I don’t make fun of stuff like that, stuff that people are born with.” He can barely look at me. “That’s just not cool.”

I’m hooked. I almost can’t help myself from jumping across the kitchen counter in excitement at the prospect of a new convert. “Why not?,” I press, “Is it OK for me to make fun of myself? Don’t you think we have to be able to laugh at ourselves?” I think I’ve got him cornered, but though he’s now able to look at me, he refuses to board the disability train. “I just don’t do that.” What kind of topsy turvy politically correct universe have I stumbled into, I don’t know. Minutes before we were all laughing about how East Indian Swedish American, Christian, looks like a Mexican with his mustache. I feel myself in a moment of irony, so twisted, I don’t even know how to proceed. But I start to feel guilty about the teasing, ending the conversation with the only thing I know for sure: “I respect that you feel that way.”

But the rest of the night, when I speak, I notice Christian watching me more boldly, curious, studying.

I think something might be changing after all.

OneArmGirl

*Postscript: In textations with Kristen this week, I was made aware that production of the above mentioned song was brought to a sudden halt, its writers believing it had gotten "out of control." No! The Evil Empire of Political Correctness is gaining ground. If you have feelings about this, please leave a comment, and I will forward them to the people who can make a difference.