grinches: do not read

Little Gen and I were brave enough to venture out a mere thirteen days before Christmas to do some shopping. I was just thinking how I hadn't run into one grumpy shopper, when a car came up fast behind me, swerved around, and a kid in the backseat leaned out and yelled what sounded like, "Toronto sucks!"

This was puzzling. I thought about it for a while, but it never made sense.

We arrived home just before sunset to a very happy dog, who proceeded with her usual greeting of romping around with her squeaky elephant, making a sound that sounds like something between a sneeze and a snort. She was actually too excited to pee.

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

I lit my Chanukah candles.

It's cold here. I feel it's important to let you know because up to now it's been unseasonably warm, and I started to get used to that. But I'm glad it got cold before Christmas. It's enough that I have an Australian dog.

Our Christmas tumbleweed is lit and hung in the window. It was supposed to be a tumbleweed tree, but wasn't vertically cooperative. So now we have a kind of Christmas orb hanging in our window. Better than a lamp-shaded leg with black fishnets, I guess.

A tumbleweed, for those unaware, grows into a sort of ball shape which, when dead and dried, tends to detach itself and go traveling across highways and byways with the wind.

Since entering adulthood, I generally balk at the Christmas season with all its hustle and bustle. But eventually I get in the spirit. I buy some fun wrapping paper with rain deer and penguins. I happen to hear Carol of the Bells and get chills. And before I know it, I'm really enjoying myself.

Riding lessons are done and aerial arts class is over, so what's a girl to do, but enjoy the holidays, cuddle with her doggy at night, and dream of one day visiting Toronto to find out if it sucks.

OneArmGirl

the way we are

Keeper and I went out to the local coffee spot on an unusually warm November morning. I am teaching her to wait for me outside various establishments around town. Sadistically, I may be doing this just to see her excitement when I magically reappear. Everyone needs to be missed.

I was preparing to read the latest selection from my Temple Grandin library, the chapter on horses specifically, when Abel wheeled up to the table in his electric chair. I did not know his name was Abel at that time. Keeper was very interested in his chair, which moves very slowly across the irregular metropolitan sidewalk terrain.

He stopped when Keeper came close for a sniff. She has that effect on people. Then she bites at them, which usually elicits the opposite effect, coupled with some cursing.

I soon learned that Abel was the middle, and only boy, in a family of five kids. He was diagnosed with cerebral palsy when he was six months old. But more currently, he was disgruntled because just after he'd gotten dressed in his uniform, his work called to say they didn't need him that day.

I tried to imagine how hard it would be to put on a uniform in a chair with limited use of your hands and almost no use of your lower body. I presumed his work didn't consider that. Thankfully he wasn't already on the city bus that he takes to get to his job.

He asked what I did for work. I said I was working on my therapeutic riding instructor certification (which is true, albeit casually).

"I bet you're a great instructor," he said, "I'd come and ride if you were the instructor."

"Thank you," I said, flattered, and unsure if that was a pickup line.

He asked me how I got into therapeutic riding. And because there is really not a simple answer to that [or perhaps it only seems complicated to me], I launched into my pilgrimage with disability. Don't worry, I kept it under five minutes.

After that, he said, "Can I ask, what is your disability?"

"Oh," I said. "I have this tiny little arm."

Then we discussed how we'd each been blessed with very loving and accepting families. He asked if my parents were shocked by my disability when I was born, and if I had children, would they also have a tiny arm? In case you're wondering, you'd have to ask them and there is no indication that Finneas is genetic.

"I'm glad I am the way I am," Abel said. This from a man who needs help to go to the bathroom.

"That's awesome," I said. "Me, too."

OneArmGirl

studio exploits

Last spring I met a photographer through a mutual friend. At the time, he was doing a portrait series of people doing what they do, like aerial fabrics or dish washing. My friend thought it would be cool to get some vaulting shots with me.

Copyright 2012 Daniel Peebles

Honestly, I was a little hesitant to put myself out there--remember I'm the girl that found herself on an amputee porn site. Then I procrastinated setting something up until dust started collecting on his business card, which eventually made its way to my 'to do' pile, which has actually become a pile of things that never get done.

Until, a month ago I ran into the same photog waiting for a latté at Starbucks. It seemed like fate, so I emailed him that afternoon, and the following week, we met for coffee.

The series of people doing what they do was mostly done, he said. But he was interested in doing some studio portraits with me. He assured me that he had no intention of exploiting my disability, that he didn't need my arm to be the focal point of the photograph. He did want to capture some of my natural mannerisms, like my version of crossing arms, above.

Then we talked about nudity. Let me just say my first reaction was ABSOLUTELY NOT. I immediately had visions of some scandalous photo of me showing up as a sex tape on YouTube, never mind that it wasn't even a video and no sex was involved. Paris Hilton was a lesson to us all.

But when I got thinking about it, it occurred to me that I wasn't an heiress to a hotel fortune, and that that kind of exposure might be exactly what I wanted. Now before you imagine a centerfold in Maxim, hear me out...

Most of my life, I avoided exposure. Whether it was my tiny arm peaking out from a shirt sleeve, or a stray feeling that got loose from my generally cool composure, I went to great lengths to hide myself. I needed shirts with longer sleeves and nothing form-fitting that showed my deformed torso. And I excelled at most everything because I needed to appear stronger than I felt.

But that was then, and this is now. Now I'm learning to accept who I really am, and I'm starting to want to share the news. Revealing parts of me that I heretofore had cloaked with shame might be liberating and powerful, I thought.

Expose away, I told the photographer on the day of the shoot. Exploitation is my middle name. Disability is my badge. OK, so I wasn't that confident, and I was never completely naked either. But if I want to put a new face on disability, I have to be willing to let it be mine.

When I stopped over to see the results, he had already made a print. I'm looking over my left shoulder, my side turned toward the camera. There's a look of steady calm in my eye. At first I wasn't sure what my expression was, but it's either steady calm, or 'I'm about to pass out from low blood sugar.'

It wasn't as earth-shattering as I expected. Turns out I still have love handles and acne scars; there's definitely better-looking handicapped folks out there. I was surprisingly nonplused.

But if my photo ends up in a gallery, starting any conversation about disability and...well, anything, then it was worth it.

And yes, you will have to wait for the show.

OneArmGirl   

thanks much

Thanksgiving is actually my favorite holiday. This is arguably because it falls in late Autumn, definitely my favorite season. But I think it's more than that. It's the cooler weather, the coming together of people we love, the eating together. There is no other holiday so celebrating the coming together of people without ulterior motive––there are no presents, no particular observances or pressure to feel anything but gratitude.

If the Indians and Pilgrims did feast together, I'm thinking it was probably a much smaller deal than we've made of it. Like maybe John Smith sent a carrier pigeon to Pocahontas with a note that said, "Hey, we just harvested that huge pumpkin. You up for some pie?" So I homeschooled American history--a kid gets bored, OK.

But I figure it was probably just a small gathering, kinda last minute, someone drank a little too much hard cider--that sort of thing. I doubt anyone thought it would take off like it did.

But I'm glad it did. I like having a reason to get with people that I love, cause otherwise I might forget to remember why I love them so much [not to be confused with why they irritate me so much--sometimes it's hard to tell the difference]. And not only that, but it reminds me of all the people I love who aren't there, and all the things in my life that remind me how much I am loved. There shouldn't have to be a reason to do that, but I'm glad there is.

In the last years that my grandpa lived at home, he "planted" watermelons in the fertile landscaping around his house. And every year, he'd harvest at least one unbelievably huge, juicy watermelon. It became an event, the cutting of the watermelon off the vine. I remember one year in particular, cousins, aunts, and uncles gathered around--we all sat on the patio, dark fruity flesh dripping from our hands. It wasn't any kind of big deal, but that's what made it so beautiful. We had nothing better to do with that evening, than share it; that watermelon, than pick and eat it. It was ripe and ready. It was momentary glee.

If nothing else, let Thanksgiving be a day to fill hearts with all the fullness that is life. For better or worse, we're here. That's the gift.

OneArmGirl 

one-handing it

Hello, and welcome to another edition of Ask The OneArmGirl, where I pretend someone asked me a question and then I answer it.

Today's question is: Can you ride a bicycle? Why yes I can, thanks for asking.

But people really do ask questions like this––I suppose, because they have never ridden a bicycle, or put on their pants, or opened a banana, etc, with one hand. It's reasonable, I guess; but then, who hasn't seen a person riding with no hands before?

And no, I can't do a one-handed cartwheel, even though I am well aware that it's possible. Which brings up the point that just because a person doesn't do something, doesn't mean he or she can't.

It used to be that if I were challenged to do something, I almost always felt I had to do it, mostly to prove a point. These days, I enjoy a surprising number of things that I cannot do. Drive in the Indianapolis 500, for example.

I've been mindful of alternative modes of transportation this week because I am without my car. The old girl suffered some damage when an unwitting driver backed into her at a stoplight. The good news: she's getting a completely new paint job for a very reasonable price. The bad news: it's been a bit dicey getting to aerial arts class and senior water aerobics at the Y this week. Thankfully, Mountain Guy rode in on his white toyota to save the day. I know, life is so hard for me.

Actually I've been achey, feverish and sore for several days since my first aerial class on Monday. With great doubt, I pulled myself up onto the swinging trapeze bar, something I'm sure I hadn't attempted since I was twelve. Yesterday, I could hardly straighten my elbow.

I was about twelve when my training wheels came off, and I learned to ride a bike with my dad who took me to a section of recently paved, but not yet opened, highway by our house. And the old adage about never forgetting is true, one arm or two. I have a bike sitting in my kitchen to this day, which I would be using right now, if I were more motivated. I've never learned to ride hands-free, after all.

But motivation can be over-rated.

OneArmGirl

oh yes we did

Yesterday, history was made. Mountain Guy and I submitted an audition video to the Amazing Race; a show in which contestants race around the globe, looking for clues and taking on various challenges, all in hopes of winning a million dollars.

What's that you say? Oh yes, and Barak Obama was re-elected to the presidency for a second term. But that doesn't change yesterday much from the day before.

 

I would like to go on record as saying it was not my idea to go on a reality TV show with my ex-boyfriend, and I still think it might be a terrible idea, but then again, why not? We make the rules here.

So, we spent the weekend taping interviews and attempting various silly tasks like walking a slack line, taking Keeper the dog out for coffee, and shaping ourselves into a human box in the park. Thankfully, neither of us are gainfully employed at present, unless by 'gainfully' you mean acquiring lots of ridiculous experience in general goofiness. Ah well, such is the life of an artist.

Then we spent a day editing the footage into a semi-presentable two and half minute sound byte of our relationship (or un-relationship as the case may be). Apparently we just can't let go. Some couples have a baby to save a relationship, others apply to be on TV––both cheaper, and probably less successful, than going to therapy I suppose.

Are we gonna be accepted? Who knows. Could there have been a better use of our time? I highly doubt it. I mean when do you have an excuse to do this over the age of thirty?

Actually, in my world, the excuses are endless.

OneArmGirl

an early treat

In the car yesterday, I asked my dragon boy if he wanted to pick up a pumpkin to carve when we got home.

"I'd rather do something else," he said, after a moment's pause.

Apparently childhood is over.

Carving pumpkins is something my sisters and I always did for Halloween, though we rarely had any trick-or-treating visitors to welcome with a glowing garden good.

Here we are in some homemade costumes. The year is probably about 1993; apparently also known as the Chinese Year of the Black and White Animals. I'm the panda on the right.

It's been some years since I actually had the motivation to carve a pumpkin, or get dressed up. But Mountain Guy's girls got me in the spirit this year...

Can you guess the end result? Don't mind the vampire in the mirror.

Here's another hint:

My friends keep suggesting I capitalize on my lack of arm for a costume. Zombie, perhaps? One year trick-or-treating as a child, a woman answered the door to exclaim, "Oh my, she's even missing an arm! What a great costume!

Maybe next year...

OneArmGirl