jambalaya and other hot topics

Driving in my car yesterday, I was struck by the irony that I was on my way to help serve lunch to the homeless with some priests, while at that moment, across town my nude portrait was hanging in a gallery.

You just never know where life is going to take you.

Now, just in case the priests are reading this, when I say "nude" I mean you can see my bare shoulder, little three-fingered arm, and the silhouette outline of my other hand covering...well, what needed to be covered. Not that said priests would care because they seem like a pretty hip, down-to-earth bunch of dudes. And I have to say, if Mother Theresa had done some nude modeling, I would only respect her more.

But my scandalous gallery debut was far from my mind while serving up Father Daniel's tasty jambalaya. Things were well under way in the kitchen when I arrived, so I washed up while reading the kitchen code of cleanliness. Ok, so if I'm not supposed to touch my hair, face, or clothing while serving, than I probably shouldn't use my armpit, knee or boob like I regularly do in my kitchen at home, I thought. This was going to be a challenge. Thankfully, I only had to prepare the salad, because I had to assume topless apple pie was out.

Despite my cleanliness code transgressions, I was well received. Many of the diners struck up conversations. I was even taken aside by one woman who'd lost her hand from a stroke, to ask how I cut chicken and tie my shoes. As per usual, on the spot, I couldn't remember how I do a single thing. So I ended up doing a lot of daily-task-pantomiming which, from a distance, probably looked like some kind of cajun voodoo dance. But she seemed grateful.

"It was good to meet you, sister!" one diner called back to me as I was sweeping up the floor. A fellow volunteer turned to me: "Are you a sister?"

"Uh, I have sisters, but no, I'm not a nun." But if I were, given the right circumstances, you know I wouldn't let it get in the way of my modeling career.

OneArmGirl

new resolve

I didn't make any New Year's resolutions...I decided to go ahead and change everything at once.

I started a new exercise regimen called "Bigger Butt, Smaller Waist" which involves elevated aerobic activity at least four times a week, with added dietary adjustments like more nuts and berries and lettuce.

I'm turning my recently acquired dog into an agility course contender and the Emily-Post-equivalent-for-dogs star pupil.

I'm starting my registered therapeutic riding instructor certification course.

I am joining a writer's critique group and re-writing my book so that someone will actually want to publish it.

I am writing short screenplays for Little Gen's new film production company, with titles like "The Dead Slippers" and "Slice of Life: A Memoir."

I'm visiting schools as an inspirational speaker, helping kids understand and accept disability.

And in my spare time, I'm going to volunteer with Franciscan monks and teach creative writing to juvenile delinquents.

Well, that's the plan. So far this week, I've managed one aquatic exercise class and several meals of trail mix. And when I think about the list, I am immediately struck down with exhaustion and want to go back to bed.

Anybody else like to over-do the self improvement? For a while I argued that I was simply too talented to choose just one path for my life. Paralyzed by my own potential or clinically indecisive...you decide.

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I took Keeper on an early walk by the river. A passing woman reached out to say hello and Keeper returned the favor by lunging at her, hair bristled, and barking. As I pulled the truck out of the trailhead parking lot, I noticed a homeless woman standing on the bridge. At her feet sat a cat, a dog, and two ducks that she was feeding. Great, I thought, a homeless lady has achieved animal kingdom utopia, and I can't even get my dog to stop scaring people.

So I may cross some things off the list, at least for this year. "Less is more," Robert Browning said.

But I'm not kidding about the Franciscan monks.

OneArmGirl

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