on the other hand

Last week I posed a question on the ‘Barn Notes’ blackboard at the farm: How many fingers does Tasha have on her little hand? I gave options of two, three, or four. The overwhelming majority of two votes went with four. False; I have three fingers on that hand [see post ‘Meet Finneas’].

“Alright, I want to know who gave me an extra finger,” I say at a recent staff dinner party. I look at Pete. “I know how many fingers you have,” he says, insulted. Two women on support staff confess. Still, I have to give them points for playing the game...and making me smile.

Three-digited Finneas and I went for a much needed massage a few days back. Being on the rebound from another therapist, I was hesitant to put myself back in the game, but Gary came highly recommended. He used to be an electrician, which is why he has such stellar strength in his hands: the better to massage you with. He asks if he should work on my little hand, which I appreciate, considering some body work professionals seem to pretend they don’t know it’s there. I refrain from saying Finneas would be hurt if we left him out; first impressions are still at play. Never mind that within a half hour of meeting Gary, I’m lying naked on his table...massage table, just to be clear. We discuss how I’ve considered going into massage therapy as a profession because I’m such a believer and enjoy the work, but I’m afraid I’d be on the fast track to one-arm burnout. It wouldn’t really be fair to put so much responsibility on the big arm.

“You’ve got some real muscle there, girl,” Gary says holding my right arm, noting the tone built from lifting saddles, and everything else, all summer long. I shrug it off, but am secretly flattered. Plus, nothing feels so good as having my 'good' arm massaged. Consistently suffering from neglect, it hardly knows what to do with that kind of attention. I bask in the moment. I’d take this over a bouquet of flowers any day. I may have gotten the short end on one side, no pun intended, but no pride withheld, the big arm is pretty awesome. [Who am I kidding, I fully intend to use as many puns as a person can in one lifetime.]

My pride on the massage table is short-lived. "You don't use that arm much, do you?," Gary remarks after apparently noticing Finneas' comparably little muscle mass. I do actually, but now I'm wondering if the big arm has set the standard too high. What was he expecting, The Hulk? It's five inches long! Either way, I make a mental note to start lifting tiny weights.

“I’ve pulled your arm,” Pete says one evening in the barn. “What? You have?,” I’m so confused I don’t even remember what precipitated this comment. “Yeah, you told me to.” I search my brain for what bizarre circumstances could have led to this, and more importantly why I can't remember, until I finally realize I’m thinking of the wrong arm, the one that most often interacts with people. I momentarily forget that I’m so proud of Finneas’ unexpected strength that I am habitually daring people to give him a good tug. Most people willingly, if hesitantly, oblige, after first checking to make sure they heard me correctly, then reaching out into the unknown like a determined pioneer.

Here is a conversation that actually took place in reference to the recent envelop-pushing photo taken of my friend Joey biting Finneas [see “oh yes we did”]....

Stevo: “Dude, did you actually bite it?”

Joey: “No, not hard, but I actually put it between my teeth.”

Stevo: “What did it feel like?”

Joey: “Umm...just really soft, man.”

Stevo: “Oh, yeah I guess that makes sense, probably because she doesn’t use it as much...like a boob.”

Be honest, now you're curious. Just call first to schedule an appointment.

OneArmGirl

my limbless nemesis

This is Nick Vujicic. He was born with no arms or legs, but one foot-like appendage where his left leg might have been.

I do not know Nick, nor have I ever met him, but every so often I receive an email about him from well-meaning friends and relatives, who are, I assume, intending to encourage me with his inspirational story. Often attached is a YouTube video of Nick on his world-wide public speaking tour saying something like, ‘No matter who you are, or what your situation, don’t give up, there’s always hope....’ Cut to young girl in the audience with a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Unfortunately, these electronic missives usually end up having the opposite effect on me. The message I hear is ‘Hey, here’s a guy similar to you, only better.’ Not only is he missing three more limbs than me, he’s now an international celebrity, and as evidenced on YouTube, a far superior swimmer. To add insult to injury, he’s got a super sexy Australian accent.

The dude’s making me look bad. Why even get up in the morning? I’m sure Nick Vujicic was up five hours before, had coffee and read the Wall Street Journal, and is now off on a ten mile bike run using only his little foot to pedal uphill. Me, I’m still using my one arm to wipe the puddle of slobber off my pillow.

So what do you do when you’re overcome by jealousy and also have a propensity for obsessive preoccupation with pretty much anything?...Learn as much as you can, of course. This morning, I found Nick’s web site and watched a video of him at home going through his daily routine, combing his hair, brushing his teeth, typing at his computer...Hmm, impressive. I find myself watching with great interest as he holds a cup under the water dispenser, while pushing the lever with his forehead. Then I click on a video summary of a visit to a prison in California. He speaks from his heart, about faith being his foundation, and how much he loves the men in blue jumpsuits spread across the lawn. Yeah, did I mention he loves Jesus, too.

Afterward, the inmates stand in line just to meet Nick and give him a hug, some holding onto him, obviously not wanting to let go. I’m smiling, moved by the bare emotion coming to the surface on these men. Then, I start to cry.

Dammit! I’ve been inspired.

So, Nick, wherever you are, or if you ever happen to read this (which is unlikely considering how busy you keep making appearances
to your adoring fans), I admit it, you got to me. And now I’d kind of like to meet you and give you a hug. I think we could be friends. Maybe start a club. Do you need a one-armed girl roadie? Nick?

In case I’ve peaked your interest, here’s the web address to Nick’s blog: www.lifewithoutlimbs.org/nick. But if you start reading his blog instead of mine, we can no longer be friends, because I’ll have to hate you.

And to my wonderful well-meaning friends and relatives, don’t stop sending me those inspirational forwards. They say keep your enemies closer, after all. But seriously, I’d miss seeing Nick Vujicic in my inbox.

OneArmGirl

love is in the air

Kristy is dating Jose´. Rico is Kristy's friend from childhood. Rico is dating Diane. But last week at Merrymakers, Diane got a little jealous, and has since threatened to jump Kristy. So far, nothing's happened. And then there's Brian. Brian likes Kristy and takes her to the mall and buys things for her, but apparently Kristy is more into the bad boys. At least this is the story circulating around the farm.

Kristy is on her cell phone sorting this out while I'm saddling a horse for her to ride. This is not the first time I've noted this autistic woman has a more interesting love life than I've ever had. Every Friday night, they go dancing at Merrymakers, the social event of the week for mentally challenged adults. I'm usually just waking up from a Friday afternoon exhaustion induced coma in time to go to bed around this time. Now, apparently, Jose´is trying to take Kristy to the movies. I wonder if they would let me attend Merrymakers...

I'm certainly feeling mentally challenged today. I've already tried to focus on four different things this morning and lost interest in them all within five seconds of commencing with the best of intentions. I'm surprised I managed to finish my coffee.

All signs would suggest now is not the time to be pondering my love life. But I'm falling in love, as I do every year, with the coming Autumn: cooler nights and roasted green chile. I know Fall is coming because my kitchen cupboards have been closing and staying shut. It's been four or five months of pleading and pushing to get the heat-swollen doors to fit back into place, and now suddenly, they click nicely shut as if to say, "What, we were made to do this."

Pete, a.k.a. maintenance guru, tells me his horoscope predicted he would run into an old flame, and sure enough, he did, in the Target parking lot. I'm basically in love with Pete. At least, I'm in love with the idea of him. He drives a white Chevy Silverado lifted on tough tires, wears his long black hair tied back in a series of rubber bands, and has a collection of reptiles at his house requiring a special license. From everything I've heard, he's the bad boy defined. But Kristy calls him Uncle Pete.

I've not heard of something at the farm Pete couldn't fix and anything I need, he can and will build. He recently mentioned he used to work in custom auto modifications for people with handicaps. But he's not very good with emotions, he admits, then tells me about his daughter's recent heartbreak over a boyfriend who's moved away. "I was out in the garage building a 'gater pen...I recently got a 'gater...and she was crying and came out and I knew she needed to talk about it, so I stopped and hugged her. Then she cried harder and I tried to tell her long distance relationships are hard for adults and she's only sixteen..."

"Wait," I say, "You have an alligator?!"

Very unexpectedly, I ended up on a date Monday night. At least I think that's what it was. Jake is a PhD student in mathematics at Colorado State who loves fishing and country music in the summertime. Turns out, we both share a passion for washing dishes, and after four hours of conversation, he asks for my number. Unfortunately, he'll be leaving to go back to Colorado in a week. This has become a pattern in my life...a connection is made just before one of us is pulled away by geographic force. I'm beginning to wonder if it's divinely intentional.

Last night, Pete tells me he's started school to become a motorcycle mechanic. I shake my head wondering if there's anything else he could do to fit my bad ass fantasy. But he's haunted by the past and the low expectations people have of him. What I want is to ride off on a motorcycle with him, but instead I tell him what I know he needs to hear. "The thing is," I stammer, "God loves you...not like God loves everyone...but, God loves you, Pete, especially. It doesn't matter what other people think."

It's been a good week, but driving away from the farm, in the dark, I feel lonely. Love continues to evade me. Jake hasn't called. I feel convicted by my admonition to Pete, but the temptation to pout is stronger.

A little spitefully, I turn to God: "What? We were made to do this."

OneArmGirl


*middle pic is Pete holding a toad for 'Lil Sis

cowboys, lakes, and other stuff in montana

When I was a little girl, I wanted to marry a cowboy. Driving a back road through turquoise hills, we'd round a bend and come across what can only be called a 'spread' of ranch house surrounded by big cotton woods, with a stream running through it. I wanted to live there.

After I watched a River Runs Through It, I imagined all cowboys and the most beautiful mountains were in Montana. Even the name, Montana...sounded wild and western, and it became my fantasy. So getting to go visit Montana for the first time a couple weeks back, felt like Christmas.

My original little sister teaches the intersection of dance and divinity in a community of others, no less passionate about changing the world, all living on a mission base in Lakeside. She picks me up from the airport in the middle of nowhere on a cool night wearing a tube top and scarf, earning her moniker, Hollywood Outback. She tells me Demi Moore has a place close by.

Turns out Montana is beautiful, and Lakeside is nestled against one of the largest lakes in the country, surrounded by mountains, and most delightfully, old trucks rusting in the backyards of most residences.

I did not do any fly fishing, nor did I visit Glacier National Park, just a stones throw away. That's my MO; I love the outdoors, couldn't survive without the natural world, but I'm more into extreme sitting, preferably from the patio of a mom and pop coffee shop...with a view of of the Rockies, of course.

On a sunny day with a cool breeze, lil’ sis and I went down to the dock to lay out in our bikinis. Yes, missionaries sometimes wear bikinis. I remember a time when I wouldn’t be seen anywhere in a swimsuit without a white tee to hide under. This day, not even the cool waters of the lake tempted me to disappear; mostly because a hot day in Montana still isn’t hot enough for me. Shortly, Mirjam, recently come from the Netherlands, joined us and I was introduced. “I have a brother with the same small arm,” she said. Flash forward, we are now probably friends for life.

I didn't meet any cowboys, but one robust gentleman did offer to whittle me a marshmallow roaster from a stick for an after dark bonfire. Be still my beating heart. I bonded with lil’ sis’ roommate over big trucks and the mountain men who sometimes drive them...and she gets the “take it to the next level” award for wanting me to go slap a stranger with my little arm, though I still maintain the logistical difficulty of first getting said stranger to nestle into my armpit so I can reach him. To Becky, may you find your plaid-flannel-wearing mullet man very soon.

My stay was filling and rejuvenating. I even managed to scare a baby (something I hadn't accomplished since the spring) when I waved my little arm at her. She cried and ran away, and eyed me warily every time she saw me after that. I think I'll recover, but Finneas may need some time.

I did meet quite a few Indians...East Indians. I met a small Indian boy called Finneas...and I met an Indian guy from South Africa who could only remember ‘Finneas’ when he tried to think of my name. I’m sure there are some Freudian implications to this, but my subconscious is currently sleeping. [See blog post “Meet Finneas” if the above made no sense to you].

And I met a bunch of Canadians. Probably more Canadians in one week than I've met in my entire lifetime. I learned valuable things like Canadian weddings go deep into the night with sometimes awkward, but always heartfelt, toasts. And Canadians are mostly exactly like us except they say things like “Oh hey” when they text you, where US citizens would have just said “Hey.” I like it; thank you, Nathan. I even met an East Indian Canadian who likes to tell people she converted from Islam to Christianity so that she could eat bacon. Canadian bacon, I presume. That is the short version, however. I also met an Egyptian who can’t barter for goods in his home land because it makes him feel bad. What is this world coming to? One thing is certain: Jesus has a diverse following.

I flew standby thanks to my first (rate) officer friend Ariel, who it will be noted, has a wonderful phone voice. I spent one day at Glacier International Airport trying to get on a plane without success, and when I showed up the next morning, I felt like Amelia Earhart as each successive security checkpoint person recognized me with “Back again, eh?” and a thumbs up for “Good luck!” while I stripped off any ‘gratuitous’ luggage and clothing. After three trips through airport security in two days, I truly felt it had taken a village to get me off the ground.

To all my wonderful new friends in Montana, thank you for a beautiful trip. And to lil’ sis, my hero, for letting me vicariously experience your inspiring adventure: Thank you.

But, though I’m glad to have finally visited my fantasy state, I’m happy to be back in reality. I can still wear shorts here.


OneArmGirl

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