happy anniversary to me

Balloons, confetti, and kazoos! I've been so obsessed with generating top quality posts each week here at OneArmGirl, that I passed right over our one year anniversary last week and totally forgot. So here it is, my anniversary post...

Happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary...

In celebration, I would like to present OneArmGirl with the very prestigious Elephant Holding a Heart Award for Not Starting a Blog, Then Leaving it Hanging Forever in Cyperspace with Only Two Posts to Irritate Everyone for Eternity––because elephants never forget. Congratulations!

(pause while OneArmGirl rises tearfully to the podium)

Wow. I can't believe it. Uh, I don't even have a speech prepared. I never thought I'd make it this far. I just want to thank everyone who made this all possible––

My fans, firstly, who make me believe every day that I might have something here; my parents for giving me life and not selling me into the circus as a child; Joey for giving me permission to have one arm; T. Pete my content adviser and career coach; my cousin Danielle who keeps me from pulling my hair out with technical difficulties, and Cameron for heading up my India IT division; my mother for emailing editorial comments each week; Audra my best friend and information security detail; my South African research team; Mañana Mama for being an inspiration in slacker blogging; Mikey Man for telling me I'm beautiful and amazing; to a number of you volunteer PR reps getting the word out; to all Germans everywhere because I'm sure they are somehow responsible for my success; and Jeff the general contractor who stopped the waterfall in my kitchen wall from a broken pipe last week, without whom I might now be writing this post from a rowboat in my living room.

Thank you.

And now, as a special treat, I'd like to take a little trip down memory lane with some OneArmGirl photo classics...

(Cue "Time of Our Lives" by Green Day)

Took a bit of effort to get a hold of one of these. Thankfully, I know a girl in film and yes, it is very very official, straight off the set of The Hobbit. Thanks, Kristen.

It was a good hook, wasn't it? It's all been downhill since this. Now you know how I put on deodorant and a bunch of much less useful information about me.

Despite the blog title, Finneas has become quite the star. Starlet? Here he is with one of his fans on an international tour.

This is from back in the day when I spent time and resources getting quality art for this blog. Now, I just look desperately through iPhoto for whatever works.

How could we forget Ferb-the-hook-armed-rabbit's unfortunate accident at the farm. Ferb, you're a real trooper––glad to have you on the team.

Just a reminder from Little Gen that we try not to take ourselves too seriously here at OneArmGirl, especially when we are in the presence of professionals. As Oscar Wilde said, "Life is too important to be taken seriously."

Attack of the baby Tyrannosaurus Rex, aka the prosthetic arm I was given to wear as a child.

When life gives you lemons...

...you make lemonade. Or, you turn your stub arm into a shark.

You ever find yourself in a situation that you couldn't have foreseen? And then someone takes a picture of it?

Ok, so I don't think this picture ever actually appeared on the blog, but it captures probably the one and only time that goat has ever even pretended to listen to me. He must have known it was staged.

I just can't look at this picture without laughing. I think it's the look on his face. Thank you, turtle skateboard prosthetics engineer.

One of many Photo Booth mooning shots. A person just can't get enough of those. Show me amused, but pensive.

What says celebration more than mosh-pit-lifting an armless, legless man in the air? Thanks, Nick. No, you're amazing. No YOU'RE amazing.

 

To the good times––may there be twenty more years! Not that I'm committing to anything.

OneArmGirl

two things i can't do

There are a lot of things, as a one-armed gal, that I can do. So many things, in fact, that I don't personally find it all that interesting or amazing. But there are two things (at least) that I can't do.

These two inabilities, though mundane and arguably inconsequential, are actually the two skills I miss the most.

Tearing excess paper off grocery list

1) I can't put my hair in a ponytail. I can pull my hair back in barrettes, push it back with a headband, and clip it up in all sorts of grabby paraphernalia, but put it back in a simple preppy tennis player tail?--Beyond my powers. I can even, if my hair is longer, rubber band two Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz pigtails, or if I'm feeling the 80's and don't mind a rush of blood to the head, manage a top knot or sidetail...but it's just not the same as a good 'ol fashioned pony.

Ponytails, though not glamorous, are essential to most sports or the average summer day; they are practical and suggest normalcy. And mommies the world 'round will tell you how necessary they are to saving hair from two-fisted toddler grabbing.

And it's OK to have your mommy put up your hair when you're a little girl, and even acceptable in high school, though somewhat stressful as you agonize over each bump that must be smoothed to your satisfaction and the tail situated in the perfect spot to suit your teenage image––a near impossible feat for any mother. Sorry, Mom.

But I don't live with my mother any more. I'm left to the obliging roommate, and it still makes me feel like a little girl to ask sheepishly, "Hey, would you mind...?" while holding out a Goody rubber band.

Thankfully, I haven't much need for ponytails, in general, though there's no real replacement for them when it comes to outdoor work, of which I happen to partake regularly. But I find ways around it with the aforementioned clipping...until my hair gets too long and I'm wearing twenty clips in a huge beau-font just to keep sweat from pooling at the nape of my neck. I can be frequently seen walking around the barn with an up-do that would be more appropriate at the prom. It reminds me of old movies and my grandmother, who used to "take down" her hair at night like a circus tent before it moved to the next town. 

Though it may seem even less significant than ponytail-crafting, even more disappointing to me is number 2) I can't clap my hands. Again, there are alternatives––the old knee slap or crossed-leg thigh clap––and Finneas can step in with a decent, though easily tired, close-to-the-ear-clap, most notably utilized to show polite appreciation when one can't be bothered to offer a hearty applaud. Sometimes a sympathetic friend will offer one of their palms, but if you've ever tried to clap with someone else, you know that you have to concentrate so hard on timing, you forget why you are clapping in the first place.

But honest-to-goodness hand-to-hand emotional expression is only a dream for me. I really do long to bring palm to palm in celebration or rhythm keeping. It's really an act of solidarity with others that you may only notice when you are unable to join. There seems to me something very raw and human about bringing your hands together--making contact--in a clap. It releases something in your soul that can't get out otherwise.

When I need an extra hand for coffee

Akin to clapping, I long to interlace my fingers behind a cup of coffee at the table, or clasp my hands attentively while listening to a friend. I often find myself fiddling with Finneas for a comfortable position when I'm feeling nervous or animated. I have to hand it to anyone who can keep a straight conversation going with eye-contact while I yank and wring my strange little hand.

My friend Dani stayed with me for a few days this week, and she was really good about grabbing the camera when she saw me doing something that looked different. She got some really great shots of some super mundane activities, which was fantastic––sorry, I was just seeing how many superlatives I could get in one sentence. I've included some of her art in this post because I thought it would be better than pictures of things I can't do, which I don't actually have, because that would be ridiculous.

----------------

So maybe next time I find myself in a clapping crowd, I'll pretend I'm a one-armed deaf girl and shake my fingers in the air. Where is Helen Keller when you need her?

I've recently imagined a hook-like device attached to the wall next to my bathroom mirror, that could act as a second finger for ponytail-making. But, as with most things, I'm a visionary and the details tax my patience and know-how. The mission is a bit fuzzy––step one, learn to use a power tool?

In the mean time, I just remind myself that God was merciful in giving me hair that does what it wants regardless of what I want to do with it and, as I know my grandmother would remind me, rapists target women with ponytails.

It takes the edge off.

OneArmGirl

a critical review of war and peace

...is a perfect example of what not to title your blog post if you actually want someone to read it. So my senior thesis in college was on Crime and Punishment, so I have a Tolstoy quote written on my wall right now, this is not the forum for a discussion of the 19th Century Russian novel...unless there's a character missing an arm––and throwing yourself under a train doesn't count.

In fact, I started reading War and Peace several years back when I fancied myself a student of Russian literature. I got about 35 pages into it, but then something happened...like I found something more interesting to read...and I stopped. I still want to read it, though. I'm just loathe to go back because I know I will have to start from the beginning again and try to get to know characters called Aleksandr Petromoskikofff and Demitriev Stefanyzsyn Romananskovich. And then in chapter 11, those two characters will switch names just for fun. Whereupon, I will have to have three shots of vodka to continue.

Ode to Opie

After last week's invitation to submit questions for the OneArmGirl, I received a total of absolutely no inquiries, leading me to believe a)I am completely transparent and my work is done here, or b)You have better things to be doing with your lives. I'd personally go with the latter. And since I don't want to risk boring you with a step-by-step photo guide on how to tie your tennis shoe with one hand, I'm just going to move on, and tell you about my friend Opie instead.

Opie was the one who actually suggested that I do a critical reading of War and Peace for this blog, which, for my own sanity, I am going to assume was a joke. He also suggested that I write a post about him, and I quote loosely, because he is cool. I assume this was also a joke, but since it was a request, I am going to take him seriously.

Also, I kind of feel like I owe it to him after I published a totally unrelated picture of him in a post about porn. We both looked pensive, so I used it. Lucky for me, Opie doesn't have internet access, so he hasn't read anything on my blog for some time.

Opie came over last Friday night and we did basically nothing for the next four hours, which is what we generally do, and is probably my most favorite pastime. I excused myself for about five minutes to take a shower and when I returned, Opie said, "Are you wearing something different?"

"Yes, and I took a shower, too."

"How come your hair isn't wet?"

"Because I didn't wash my hair."

"Oh."

And it's that sort of stimulating conversation that will occupy us for hours. Of course, we also drink wine and eat quiche. Opie is one of the few people I know who really knows how to slow down and enjoy the present moment. Ironically, much of his enjoyment is spent listening to sad music and lamenting his life's path.

But lamentation is a dish better served on the side, so I asked Opie to fix my table fan, which I'd already partially disassembled on the floor after it inexplicably ceased to turn on. Opie disassembled it more, all the while, giving me assurances like "I probably can't put this back together." He showed me the motor and explained how it worked. I only remember that it has something to do with wires and a magnet, which isn't doing me any good because it's Thursday and my fan is still in pieces on the floor.

Opie's art

I love Opie because he's generally always up for anything. More than likely this is because he doesn't have another plan, but that kind of availability is hard to find these days. One day last summer, I called him up:

"Hey, would you drive to Santa Fe with me to pick up a vaulting practice barrel in a truck that may or may not break down on the side of the road?"

"Sure," he said.

And it was a good thing because we ended up on some serious back-country dirt roads with such elevational differences, I'm not sure I could have handled them without moral support. And in case you're wondering, no, I don't think 'elevational' is a word, but it obviously should be.

Mission accomplished, we enjoyed a rewarding dinner at a local hot spot with mural topped tables and plenty of guacamole. Heading back outside, I said, "You know, it's a shame we're not dating, because this was a pretty kick ass date." Opie laughed. Opie always laughs when I say something funny, and most of the time when it isn't that funny––that's why I keep him around. Also, he's willing to watch exceptionally obscure foreign films with me.

On the way home, we jammed to the Black Keys, and I thought driving in a truck through the desert with a good friend and good music must be one of the greatest ways to spend an evening. I also thought if I didn't get to a toilet soon, the beer I drank at dinner was going to be feeding a cactus shortly.

Here's to you, Ope.

OneArmGirl 

the secret

Sometimes I wonder about things. Like how I come to be reading a book called The Amputee's Guide to Sex and a book called Real Sex: The Naked Truth About Chastity, simultaneously. Due to recent events on this blog, I would like to clarify that the former is not actually a guidebook. 

I've also been pondering how often I frequent Starbucks. And now they've gone and made all their frappaccinos half price between 3pm and 5pm for the next two weeks. Bastards. This is the closest I've come to a temptation I cannot overcome. I actually drove twice around the block and parallel parked downtown so that I could get my Grande Coffee Frappaccino, Easy Ice, before going to work.

I stood in line for about ten minutes with a bunch of suits and ties, filled with disappointment in myself for being so pathetic. Looking around, I remembered what it was like to dress up for work. Looking down, I saw stains on my jeans and dust on my boots. Then I remembered that I'd forgotten to pay for parking, and panicked. But I didn't leave. I decided to chance paying a $20 parking ticket so that I could get a $2.27 cup of coffee. Yes, I did.

On the way out, I offered up a prayer..."I certainly know I don't deserve this, but please don't let me have a parking ticket, please...you know how much I needed this coffee, and isn't grace all about getting what you don't deserve?"

There was no ticket on my car.

------------------- 

Standing in line behind me were a man and a woman, discussing the effect of one's will in the determination of life. She seemed to think you have some wiggle room, but expressed that she's the kind of person who thinks "everything happens for a reason."

"I think you will whatever happens in your life," her colleague countered. I really wanted to turn around and say, "Really, so I decided to have only one arm and a crooked back?" But, apparently, I also decided not to have that kind of nerve.

She admitted there was something to The Secret, a book of Oprah fame, about how you can change your life by just deciding to do so (well, that's my summary anyway). She illustrated this with a story, almost too appropriately, about wanting to read The Secret, then finding herself on the plane next to a woman who finished it and offered it to her.

I considered if I had willed Starbucks to lower their prices.

-------------------

Is that The Secret? Is life really about the power of your own will? And what happens when things go badly, and you have only yourself to blame? I'm not sure I want that kind of power.

I once heard a preacher say "Everything is God's fault." It sounded sacrilegious and true. It's funny how often the truth turns out to be sacrilegious. 

The Secret smacks of the "Just think positively" adage, which always gives me the urge to go tramping through the daffodil beds of the people who say it. I wonder if they would mind explaining how so many Africans are dying of Aids and hunger, and still happier than a lot of physically healthy and materially inundated Americans.

I recently watched The Human Experience, a wonderful documentary by two brothers who travel around the world visiting with some of the most (assumed) underprivileged. In an isolated leper colony, where people were ostracized because their fingers and noses were rotting away, the filmmakers noted smiles and excitement when they arrived. When they asked one man who no longer had feet, he said he was happy because they had come.

I am no denier of the power of thought, but I tend to think life is more about what you do with what you got. I was born with one arm. Sometimes I get parking tickets.

If I could have willed my life's path, I would now be an internationally renowned broadcast journalist with a chateau in southern France. I would be wearing dress suits and heels and working in a cubicle. I would not be caring for two aging horses with goals like convincing a mentally handicapped woman to get on top of one of them. I would not be talking about disability.

But thank God, I am. Who needs panty hose, anyway?

OneArmGirl

an unfortunate incident

In what can only be called a colossally horrific earth-shaking incident, my Thursday post was eaten by Blogger. What's that? You hadn't noticed?

Well, I guess I'd have to explain to you how much I detest re-doing lost work, for you to understand the current environmentally devastated condition...of my brain. Still in shock, I'm clinging to the thread of a promise from the Blogger higher-ups that they are working feverishly, day and night, into the wee morning hours, to find and restore my lost content, which I imagine to be in the stomach of the Internet, which is slowly digesting it. Oh, my poor little post! It hardly had a chance.

In the mean time, I did my laundry. I was actually very excited to wake up this morning, knowing that I was on my way to the laundromat, a place of never-ending curiosity to me. How could a place where perfect strangers willingly throw their underwear around in front of each other not be of interest to someone?

Plate-juggling

A woman and a man walked in with several big bags of clothes. My attention was drawn from my library book when she suddenly said commandingly, "Sit down! Sit!" I know people can be particular about how they wash their clothes, but what could the guy have done to warrant that? Then I saw the long-haired chihuahua sitting in her basket. Can't argue with the efficiency of getting all your washing done at once. (Don't worry, no animals had their spots removed–they were actually very nice, non-animal-abuser, types). 

I don't want to brag, but I was faster folding my clothes than the two guys folding next to me. But to be fair, they were probably folding six months worth of clothing. And one of them was folding each pair of underwear with careful precision. I still feel liberated by the realization that I don't have to fold my clothes just like my mother does. Also, I can have sweets after 8pm. Actually, I wouldn't put that past my mother, either. 

I'm not sure if it's a testament to my sadly lacking social life or my notably domestic leanings, but I really look forward to cleaning day. I love organizing, setting straight, and dusting off around the apartment–makes me feel like I'm doing something important and real. I only wish I knew how to keep water from leaking out of my tub, through the wall, and underneath my kitchen sink.

I did make a Honey Do list and posted it on my refrigerator to make myself feel better. I figure, I can just pretend I have a husband who never gets around to it. If I get bored, we can have imaginary arguments about it. Did I mention I spend a lot of time alone?

I was sprucing up in the tack room at the farm yesterday. Missy came out to help me bring Sam in from the pasture. Rounding the corner into the barn, she looked at Finneas and said, "That's a nice arm, Tash."

OneArmGirl


*Speaking of clothes-folding skill, I think it's high time for another installment of "How Does She Do That," since we're currently averaging, uh, one installment...ever. So send your niggling questions to OneArmGirl@gmail.com, and I will do my best to answer one of them.

mama

On Monday afternoon, Kristy came out to the barn with a Mother's Day greeting she'd colored that day. She handed it to me. "But, I'm not a mother," I offered, feeling like Captain Obvious–Kristy is autistic, maybe she was confused. She paused for a moment, then said, "Yes you are."

My little helper

To my knowledge, I've never given birth to anyone, much less had a living being in my womb for nine months. Biologically speaking, I am not a mother. But when Kristy said that I was, I knew almost immediately that I wasn't going to win the argument. Sometimes sanity falls short.

I think it was sometime last summer that Kristy started calling me Mama. "Hey Mama," she calls across the parking lot when I get out of my car. The staff says that Kristy's much less willing to help outside when I'm not there. Nine times out of ten, she meets me in the barn within five minutes of my arrival.

Kristy's eager to tell me the latest animal news–show me a strange bump on Diamond's neck or discuss a recent incident wherein both horses managed to free themselves while being moved from the pasture to the barn, initiating, according to Kristy, an exciting victory run across the farm. She wasn't worried; she knew they would eventually go to their stalls of their own accord. And they would.

Kristy knows a lot about the residents of the barn. While I start to groom the horses, she pokes around, checking on the goats and the chickens. She brings me an egg, freshly pulled from a roost. She's never in a hurry, much to my annoyance when it's her turn to ride, and she'd rather discuss how Diamond is feeling than pick up a brush to help groom him.

Harder than it looks

"How is your little boy?" Kristy often asks. The little boy to whom she refers is my best friend's son Eli, whom I sometimes bring to the farm with me. Because he lost his daddy two weeks after he was born, I lived with Eli the first month of his life. In the morning, when he woke up, I'd steal him out of the bedroom and rock him quietly while he stared intently at the multi-colored lamp shades above my head. I wondered how he felt about not being able to care for himself–was he frustrated or did he feel safe?

When I hold other people's babies, I can often feel their parental misgivings. But I've never dropped one–though I once nearly lost the battle with a baby swing; thankfully, someone showed up to help before I had to consider Eli's legs a casualty.

I've explained countless times that Eli's not actually my little boy, that he lives with his mother, and she cares for him; but Kristy doesn't seem to care, offering suggestions for where I should take him or what I should feed him. Missy, who also lives at the farm, assumes the same. "Are you taking your little boy to get a flu shot?," she wants to know.

"No, that's up to his mom; she decides those things," I explain.

"I think you should take him to get a flu shot."

"Well, I'm not his mom, so..."

"It won't really hurt that bad, ok?"

"Ok, but..."

"Just take him to get a flu shot, okay, Tash?"

"Okay, Missy."

------------------

Recently Eli spent the night at my apartment. We had blueberry pancakes for dinner because it's easy to be the coolest mom for one night.

"I'm going to sleep in your bed," Eli says.

"Okay, as long as you don't kick me," I agree.

After an episode of Pink Panther and sufficient story-reading, I tuck him into bed.

"My mommy usually lays down with me for five minutes," he tells me.

I lay next to him, and remember doing the same until my little sisters fell asleep. I remember trying to sneak away after my childhood Chihuahua Chi Chi fell asleep–which was much harder. Eli turns and squirms. Then he faces me and looks in my eyes. He reaches an arm over my shoulder: "I love you," he sighs. Is he trying to manipulate me? Who cares.

Ten minutes later, he remembers he needs to brush his teeth.

Cat reminders left by my little boy

The first thing I remember wanting to be was a mommy. And I wanted five children–because two wasn't enough, three meant awkward dinner table arrangements, and four was too even–five seemed just right, enough to feel like a big family, but not too big.

Now I'm not sure I'll have any children, biologically speaking. Suffice it to say, I have some complications, not least of which being the lack of someone in my life to have babies with. And though I've witnessed the incomparable beauty of birth, when I think of birthing five people out of my body, I nearly pass out. But I'm not all that concerned. As they say, "The show ain't over till..." That saying just took on a whole new meaning for me. And if the final act never comes, I think I'm gonna be OK.

I certainly never imagined having a 'child' several years older than myself. Life is funny that way. I take the greeting from Kristy's hand and smile. "You're right," I say and give her a squeeze.

"C'mon, Mama," she says, and we head toward the house.

OneArmGirl

 

real women have dimension

I don’t want to write about this. It goes against my instincts of self-preservation and privacy. But I should have considered that before I started this blog, which is nothing if not honest. 

I recently experienced a heart-bruising, from which, I am finding, I am still recovering. This hurt in love was as much my fault as his, if not more so, but hurt it is nonetheless. It’s left me tender, wanting to listen only to classic rock, a now familiar sign that I am trying to feel less vulnerable.

And so, you may well understand why this was not a good week to stumble on a soft-porn site and find pictures of myself, the one-armed girl, posted thereon. Not only were pictures skimmed from my blog, but comments were left, one particularly disrespectful, and another stating that I am currently “looking for a boyfriend”–something of which I was unaware.

Unfortunately this is not the first time I’ve found my particular handicap pop up in a search along with sexually degrading web sites–I’d recommend you not try this type of web browsing at home–But I’ve never actually found myself on one of those sites. I guess I’d be flattered if I hadn’t felt so disgraced and upset. I actually felt shame for “contributing” to the objectification of women and handicaps. And this on the heels of writing about freak shows-apparently, objectification doesn't discriminate. And I'm a freak?

Now I have a few things on my mind; don’t worry, they don’t involve cutting off any part of the male anatomy.

I would like to particularly address any visitors of the aforementioned site who are directed to TheOneArmGirl.com thanks to the poster conveniently leaving my blog address in the post.

A) Welcome. I'm glad you're here, and not there.

B) You may be disappointed because this site is about empowering, not degrading, people with handicaps (of which, incidentally, you fall well-within the demographic).

And...

C) I feel sorry for you. Not sorry like I want to hit you over the head with a tire iron–that was yesterday. Today I feel sad for you, and all men (or women), who are believing a lie because of two-dimensional, photoshopped spreads. Thinking this is sexual gratification, you are missing out on the superior gratification of loving a real woman. Expecting the same thing from a woman that you get from a replication is like expecting gourmet to taste like fast food. It’s time to raise your expectations.

Loving a real woman is hard, yes-as Meredith Brooks puts so appropriately: “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother...” Couldn’t have said it better, I think to myself, shoveling manure as the song plays through the barn. I’m sure it was appreciated by both male horses as they munched their hay–we won’t talk about what happened to their male parts.

But since when does difficult mean time to back down?

----------------------  

But I have some good news. Not coincidentally, I ran into two real men this week.

On Saturday night, I went to dinner with one of the kindest guys I’ve ever met. He ordered more sushi for us than I could dream of eating at one sitting, and asked the sort of questions that I giggle with delight to answer–none of which included ‘What’s your sign?’ or ‘Favorite movie?'

I also received an email from an admiring fan–No, not my mother. We’ll call him Guy, he’s new to OneArmGirl, and I’ve never met him. As if it weren’t flattering enough that Guy’s read every post I’ve written since I started blogging, he called me “enchanting” and said I “write with a hint of the sort of charming understatement, even self-deprecation” which he generally identifies with British writers. Could I hope for a better compliment? So much for self-deprecation. It doesn’t count against me if I’m quoting someone else, does it?

But Guy’s email wasn’t superficial flattery. Having “seen” me only on a computer monitor, Guy recognized real things about me–things certainly influenced by my handicaps, but none directly related. He made me feel real, parts aside.

Real women have curves?–Even porn peddlers can join that bandwagon. No, real women are more than arms or lips or toes–or the absence thereof.

"This may mean you'll have to be a stronger man."

Using my pictures for cheap gratification is your loss. Real women have more than two dimensions. We live in 3D. You might want to put on your glasses for the full experience. 

OneArmGirl