tools

I got a drill for Christmas. I am ecstatic.

Why would a woman with one arm be wanting a drill, you ask? Well, aside from the fact that I bookmarked a web site called CharmAndHammer, every time we want to hang anything around here, we have to find someone with a drill. And that someone is generally a man, boyfriend or friend, who is willing to come to the rescue of two gals needing to decorate.

A couple years ago, after I started living on my own again, my sister gave me a toolbox for Christmas. It wasn't anything fancy, but it was the beginning of my home improvement quest. A hammer and some screw drivers can only get you so far, however, and our plaster walls require more power to puncture.

So Little Gen decided to take action, and on Christmas morn, beneath the Christmas tumbleweed, I opened a little red Skil. Several days later, Mountain Guy showed up to teach me the basics. I teetered atop a kitchen chair, balanced a screw on the bit, and before I knew it, I'd put up a coat rack. As I surveyed my work, drill in hand, I felt deliciously happy. I'd made something. The coats were off the chair and the power was in my hand.

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On Sunday night, 60 Minutes had a segment on thought-controlled prosthetics. There was a lady who had become paralyzed from a genetic degenerative disease; she could only use her mouth. She decided to undergo brain surgery to attach electrode connectors that were then attached to a mechanical arm. All she had to do was think the arm into action.

Pretty cool, right? The designer was certainly pleased with himself, but I noted that he appeared fully functioning with all appendages attached. I was intrigued, but the fake arm, with all its gears and gadgets, looked really heavy, and its movement was nowhere near natural. I highly doubt it could go into dirty dishwater; not to mention the user had electrodes protruding from her head. I started to wonder if this thought-controlled arm, undoubtably wonderful to scientists and fans of science fiction, was really that practical. Was it something I could use?

At the end of the day, even a thought-controlled prosthetic arm is just a tool, and a tool is only worth the efficiency of its function. Now, if they made a prosthetic drill arm, we'd be talking...

OneArmGirl

post christmas

Even though it seems I've done nothing this week, it appears I've run out of time to write a proper post. So here is a taste of what I've been doing instead...

Here in the southwest, we light candles and stick them in sand-weighted paper bags. Don't ask.

But they do look kinda pretty. And I think they are the best Christmas tradition ever.

Earlier that day, Keeper and I took a hike by the river to collect the aforementioned sand. I filled my backpack, while Keeper kept a lookout for park rangers.

Major props to Little Gen, who hand folded one hundred paper lunch sacks for the cause. Again, Keeper was busy keeping a lookout for...pretty much anything.

Then this happened.

At some point in time, I ate these delicious pancakes.

And Keeper took a nap.

Hope you did as little as I did this year. See you in the next...

OneArmGirl

on keys

Last week Andrew emailed from Israel to ask how I type with one hand. He is working on a magazine article about one-handed typing and had come across my humble blog through another site (there's a handful of us out there...ha ha ha...no?)

So I took a short trip down memory lane to ponder my own journey in keyboard communication. I don't think I've actually talked about it at all on this blog, which I find rather ironic. So here goes...

I first learned to key in Ms. Blea's high school typing class. Or rather, I taught myself to type in her class full of two-handed students. I had my own book and my own exercises, which I think my mom had actually provided.

I learned on the QWERTY keyboard layout like everyone else, I just had to cover twice the keys with only five fingers. And somehow, even though it was completely self study, I got a B in the class, leaving a permanent smudge on my otherwise straight A transcript.

But I knew how to type. Maybe not fast or without frequently looking at the keys, but I knew how to type. I still consider this one of the most helpful skills I have learned in my life up to now.

But then, because I am blessed with parents who rarely just accept the status quo, I was introduced to the Dvorak keyboard layout. This layout was specifically designed to be more ergonomically effective. In layman's terms, the keys are organized on the keyboard in a way that compliments the way your hand and fingers move most easily--vertically, for a keyboard. The Dvorak keyboard is actually more efficient for two-handed typists as well, but most of the world is accustomed to QWERTY.

I re-taught myself to type on the Dvorak keyboard the summer before I went to college. The increased speed and ease of typing was remarkable. I never looked back.

But typing faster isn't the only perk of using a different layout than most of the world. When I got a job at the local newspaper, I shared a computer, and frequently forgot to change the layout settings for the next user. This kind of oversight often led to unintentional Twilight Zone episodes of confusion and panic. I felt bad at first, but with a lifetime of think-outside-the-box training, I decided to use it to my advantage...

"What do you mean something's wrong with your keyboard? I was just using it a second ago."

...It's like knowing a secret language. Do I feel superior? Of course. That's what happens when you give a straight A student a B in keyboarding. Let it be a lesson to stubborn typing teachers everywhere.

[This post was made possible by the support of the Dvorak keyboard.]

OneArmGirl 

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.

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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