trial and error

For a political science class in high school, we held a mock trial. Every student had a part to play; defendant, plaintiff, attorneys, witnesses...I no longer remember the particulars of the case, but it occurs to me now that only in a democracy would this sort of thing be taught in schools for fun.

I was remembering mock trial yesterday because I found myself the defendant in a real court case. Well, technically I was also subpoenaed as a witness, so it's a good thing we practiced various roles in high school.

You may recall a couple months back when I received three traffic citations in one day. In a rare moment of gumption and faith in the judicial system, I decided to plead not guilty to two of the three.

I could also have pled "no contest," but was told jail time was possible, and as tempting as that kind of blog material is, I couldn't quite picture it on my record...or myself in handcuffs, for that matter. I suppose it might make good fodder for daytime television: the story of a one-time high school valedictorian turned jail bird.

My court date was set nearly two months in advance, which allowed plenty of time to prepare my case, freak out, become convinced that I was going to lose, resign myself to failure, and finally remember that it was just traffic violations and the chances that I would end up in jail with Big Bertha and her tattoo sleeves were slim to none.

I was to appear before the judge on Tuesday in the early afternoon. I spent the morning figuring out where exactly I would have to go, who I should talk to, and most importantly, how far I was going to be from the nearest Starbucks. After walking several blocks in the midday sun, I discovered that I was much farther than I would have liked. At least I was fueled by a coffee frappuccino on the way back.

Walking into the courthouse, shuffled through security with all the other lawbreakers, I was awash with shame, and telling myself this was American democracy at work did not help to alleviate it. Given the choice, I think I'd choose tar and feathers over a fair trial. And my charges were so insignificant, I didn't even qualify for a public defender.

No more zoom zoom.

But by the time I was comfortably sitting in the courtroom, hopped up on caffeine, I felt completely collected. I had my argument memorized and the evidence outlined in bullets. The time had come and I was ready to take my stand. 

All eyes were on me as I approached the bench.

"Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I plead not guilty to the charges against me on the grounds that not only was I not driving carelessly, but was in fact driving with great care in a situation beyond my control. I was framed, your honor, the victim of corruption in the police force...

[dramatically pointing to the police officer who issued the citations]

...and I stand here today, an innocent woman, before my fellow Americans and in the eyes of God."

At least that's what I would have said if I hadn't agreed to a bargain with the police officer, who looked about half my age, to go to traffic school, before even approaching the bench.

It was all very anticlimactic. The only thing I had to say to the judge was "OK." I wanted to ask if I could submit my evidence anyway, but thought better of it.

"Well," I thought chiming down the elevator, "At least I got a coffee out of it, and my mock trial teacher would be happy to know my education didn't go to complete waste.

And now I can tell my traffic school peers that I lost my arm due to careless driving.

OneArmGirl 

spring weeding

Change is afoot. What change, exactly, remains to be seen.

I find these waiting times difficult. Waiting to see, do, or understand. Waiting when I can't see the outcome, which I feel powerless to control. Waiting without knowing what I'm waiting for, having only a feeling that what is now present must surely pass.

Attention dog

Wow, that was possibly the worst batch of mush I've ever written. My apologies.

It reminds me of a certain college philosophy class I once took which left me closer to taking a hostage than enlightened.

"I think, therefore I am"––Really? I'm pretty sure I had the same breakthrough when I stayed up too late one night with friends drinking Mountain Dew.

So, to keep myself from thinking too much, I'm weeding. And it's a good thing, too. Ever notice how weeds just appear one day, and by the next, they are five foot monsters. Last year, I literally watched the farm where I work nearly succumb to an invading jungle.

This year I am determined to uproot this green army before it's too late and I have to rent a backhoe just to see out my windows. But I like weeding. It keeps my mind off more complicated things, such as life in general. And it makes me feel good. I can live on the high from one good morning of weeding for a week.

I think I might have a green thumb addiction.

Yesterday, fueled by Spring Break and Starbucks, Mountain Guy's three girls and I went out to the farm to battle some back arena invaders. And I am pleased to announce our offensive was wildly successful, nearly demolishing their entire squadron with minimal sisterly bickering. It did require a short ceasefire to procure various energizing beverages from the country convenience store.

But by early afternoon, I was sun-soaked and exhausted. In addition to garden work, hanging with three adolescent girls leaves little space in my head for thought.

After lunch at the park and a stop at Baskin-Robbins, I let Netflix babysit and retired to my bed for a three-hour nap, interrupted only by MG appearing in my doorway to say that he was taking the girls, and leaving a shovel.

Later that evening I used the shovel for weeding out the patch of dirt in front of our apartment. I discovered underground root networks that clearly had no intention of leaving. I pulled and dug and turned over earth until dusk had come and gone. And alas, with the oncoming night, I had to put the shovel away and wash up for dinner.

It's becoming an addiction, this weed-pulling. The dirt under my fingernails makes me disconcertingly happy. It draws my attention to the present, minimizing the current ambiguity of my direction.

In fact, given the choice to ride a roller coaster or garden, I'd rather get my kicks running my hand through upturned earth than flying high above the ground.

I don't know what's next, but at least the ground is ready.

OneArmGirl      

pandora's easter basket

As weeks go, this one was a blogger's dream.

The weekend alone included the following: manure shoveling at the farm, a Passover Seder at the Sheraton Hotel with Mountain Guy and his Jewish daughters, the arrival of our friend Asif from Los Angeles, an Easter sunrise service at the university football stadium, an afternoon Easter egg hunt, and lastly....bowling, of course.

On Monday, I found myself asking, "What didn't we do this weekend?"

Watching three little Jewish girls celebrating the resurrection of Christ explain to a curious Muslim the strange tradition of dipping eggs in food coloring, I felt like I was living in a bad joke. We pretty much boxed up three major world religions, tied with multicolored Pagan bow, in our kitchen. Who knew the key to peace in the Middle East is a bunch of brightly-colored eggs? At least it should keep the coexist bumper sticker people quiet for a while... 

After coloring, the eggs were hidden around our apartment complex. The hunt began amidst our fellow Christian neighbor's barbeque (of pork, no doubt), and whiskey shots were had by all--except the egg-hunters, that is.

"This is the best Easter ever!" I exclaimed several hours into the festivities. Alcohol was not a part of holidays when I was growing up. Turns out, it does make things a bit more fun...or, at least appear that way.

But things were just getting started. We finished up the day with several hours of bowling. Why did we feel the need to go bowling on Easter Sunday? Because that is what Asif loves to do, not having many handy bowling alleys in India where he lives. Perhaps it will become an Islamic Easter tradition.

I don't know if it was the multi-faith extravaganza or simply an overwhelming number of events, but I find that I am still unpacking, evaluating, and suffering from a touch of writer's block. Feast and famine, I suppose. Maybe I'll go eat an egg.

And next year, I think I'm gonna celebrate by cutting back on my observance...and whiskey.


OneArmGirl

cowboy weak

I bought another book. My seeming total lack of self-control disappoints me. 

But this collection of short stories was irresistible: Cowboys Have Always Been My Weakness. Sigh. I hear ya, sister.

OneArmGirl and Lil Sis

When I was a girl, I could imagine no more romantic life than by the side of a charming, muscled wrangler. In my fantasy, his hat and our porch wrapped around.

I can't say that I've actually known any real cowboys. Except maybe Grandpa Switzer who, though he may have been a cowboy, was definitely not my grandpa.

Mr. Switzer was really a good family friend. When my dad was a boy, he would visit the Switzers and their horses in the mountains. When I was a kid, Grandpa Switzer put me in front of him on a horse, who promptly saw a white paper in the grass and started rearing up. But Grandpa Switzer held me in place and collected the horse before I had a chance to get scared.

One summer, Grandpa Switzer came to help my dad remodel the house; actually put a second story on the ranch style. Read: ranch style, not ranch. He had a thick Oklahoma accent and worked nearly non-stop all day without a bathroom break. One day he accidentally put his cowboy boot through the roof into the room below, to the great surprise of Little Gen, who's handle was then literal.

In many ways like the American cowboy, Grandpa Switzer seems timeless. I'm almost certain he hadn't changed a bit from my father's childhood to mine.

Entering adulthood, I put cowboy love aside. Raising cattle really takes a lot of work, I figured. Plus I had college and world wide fame to daydream about.

But now college is a distant memory; world wide fame a mirage. And I'm getting back to my roots. I put a lot of thought into which pair of jeans I put on each morning; I've developed a healthy appreciation for Bluegrass; and on any given day, I can be found shoveling manure. I'm becoming a wannabe cowgirl.

Car seat cowboy

So I couldn't help but note an abundance of cowboy references in my life this week. On Friday, I picked up The Onion horoscopes and read the forecast for Gemini: "You'll be roundly condemned by members of the Academy of Country Music when, despite their specific instructions, you let your babies grow up to be cowboys."

Two nights ago, I found myself out on the mesa, in a small white pickup, making out with my ex-boyfriend. What, like that never happens.

Between kisses, I tell him about the book. In the title story, this girl dreams about cowboys her whole life, then she goes to live on a ranch and a cowboy shows up that couldn't be closer to cliché. He has impeccable character, and muscles. They go dancing. They gaze at the stars. She's finally found her cowboy. On the day that she leaves, he rides after her car on his horse across the prairie to ask her to come back soon. But as she watches him ride away, she realizes that saying cowboys are her weakness is more about her identity than the cowboys; it's a story she's created to define herself.

"So, I'm your cowboy?" Mountain Guy says.

"You're not a cowboy!" I say.

"I could be a cowboy." He seems offended.

Then I had to pee, but there was nowhere to go, so I had to squat in front of his truck. Talk about a romantic cliché kill.

But I don't think I'm that into cowboys after all. Maybe I'm just weak for a boy, and my self-control has obviously gone on vacation. Or maybe I just like being that girl, the...

OneArmWannabeCowGirl  

post delay

Due to it being National Poetry Month and some related but unforeseen circumstances, today's post will be delayed. In the meantime, please enjoy this poem from a blog I stumbled on this week...

 

We Are All Born Lacking

This is a test of the OneArmGirl posting system....

...this is only a test. Had this been an actual post, you would have been entertained, then directed to proceed gleefully with your day.

wined, dined, and pooped

True to form, I got sick, sucked down into the Bermuda Triangle of activity clusters that comprised my weekend. Actually, I didn't even make it to Monday, but woke up Sunday morning and thought "uh-oh, this isn't good."

Strangely enough, not one bit of my packed weekend had scheduling conflicts. It just so happened that a vaulting conference started Friday morning, followed by the Friday night service at my church, then my fellow fabric dancing friend's birthday party in the mountains, where entertainment included a live blue grass band, aerial fabrics, and suspension--you know, where people hang from hooks in their skin.

Pretty much how I felt all weekend.

I only made it halfway through the band because I had to get up early to go back to the conference for a therapeutic vaulting clinic. I joined an MD and a PT to show other physical therapists how moving around on the back of a horse can be great for people with disabilities. This really boiled down to watching a group of middle-aged women jump onto a horse-sized barrel with iron handles. But they were game.

I did manage to squeeze a nap in Saturday afternoon before meeting my friend Heidi, who also happens to be Stubby's mom, for dinner and a performance by AXIS, a dance company based in Oakland that integrates disabled and able-bodied dancers. I was particularly moved by a piece called Color Me Different. According to the program, it explores the effect we, as individuals, have on each other when we make contact. It was actually uncomfortable to watch. But I liked it.

The whole thing made me wish, not for the first time, that I lived in a bigger city where I could get involved in projects like this. Though I found myself wondering why showcasing disability in dance so often has to be uncomfortable and harsh. Are they trying to make the audience see how intense we disabled folk are? Because sometimes I just eat ice cream bars and watch old episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Would it kill them to have one feel good piece, say, to the tune of "I Could Have Danced All Night." Just sayin'.

After the show, I went home and to bed. And that's as far as I got. I would have gone back to the vaulting conference on Sunday, but my body had other plans. Plans that involved bed, and tissues, and Robitussin.

My perfect vaulting horse

I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again, this getting sick from over-exertion is the toughest handicap I have. The weekend was filled with my kind of stuff, aside from the suspension, but it pushed me into the red zone. Somewhat ironically, disability-related activities did me in.

It kinda hurts because these are things I really care about. But I know I've asked too much of myself...again. And curled up under my covers on Sunday, I feel like I'll be lucky if I ever feel well enough to make toast.

Disconcerting thoughts bounce around my serene bedroom. Who do I think I am? Most normal people don't aspire to hanging around on silk ribbons. A lot of women my age are two or three kids in, knee-deep in  diapers. They don't have time to think about joining the circus.

I envy those women. Yet, somehow I'm not cut out for that mold. Sometimes I feel like I am constantly, almost obsessively, breaking it.

Then again, my bed is soft and the blinds are turned up so the light shoots toward the ceiling just the way I like it. I enjoy one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard: silence. I'm relieved to be home.

"This above all: to thine own self be true..." said Polonius to his son Laertes.

I guess it's all we can really be.

OneArmGirl