one-armed girl finds lost earring, becomes birthday heroine

Did I mention I used to write headlines for a living? Well, that was the more interesting part of what I did for a living.

And life goes on...I turned 33 on Tuesday. Or that's what my parents tell me anyway. My mom reminded me on the phone that the hour of my birth was actually 4:27pm Mountain Standard Time, to be exact.

We must consider ourselves privileged in this country to know the day, and often the hour, of our entry into the world. In India, it's common for a person to be ignorant not only of the exact day, but sometimes the year of her birth.

Lately I've gotten in the habit of not planning anything special for my birthday. I'd like to say this is because I like surprises, but it's mostly so I won't be disappointed. As a single woman in her thirties, I can't be too cautious.

So I woke on Tuesday morn with not a care in the world, and only the intention to enjoy the day. Coffee drunk and dog walked, I breakfasted with Little Gen, who had some unexpected time to kill. She treated me to the three-cheese and avocado omelette special at our local spot.

My afternoon was spent nicely in the park playing catch with Keeper and Mountain Guy, and I retuned home to find mail order chocolate covered strawberries on my step––sorry, it's official: I have the best mom. I promptly ate five of them.

The day topped off with dinner and drinks and Dragon Boy's Mama. I was nearly two pear gimlets in when a couple at a nearby table stood up and began looking all around for a suddenly lost earring. With the search underway, I noticed a tiny silver glint in one of their table legs; and with the confidence of the only person who knows CPR in the presence of a choking victim, I marched over to the table, plucked the deviant hoop out of the leg, and handed it back to its owner. The whole patio cheered...well, a good section of it did.

Nothing like saving the day for a birthday present. And the grateful couple treated us to a round of drinks. But the night was not over; coming in the back door of my apartment, I noticed something white on the step. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust in the dark, but I eventually made out...yes, you guessed it...a sun-bleached cow's scull. It's official, I also have the best aunt in the world. I mean, it takes a special vegetarian to understand my affinity for dead animal carcasses.

It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

OneArmGirl

cruisin'

I have a new toy.

I took my bike in for a tuneup and decided to splurge on an attachment that allows your pet to run along with you on your ride. I say 'pet' because who am I to judge if someone wants to ride down the street with their alligator in tow.

I promptly attached my dog––and it works amazingly well; Keeper seems born to run next to a bike.

But the best part is that I can maximize Keeper's exercise while minimizing mine––and we can both have a lovely time.

I've had the same mountain bike since I was in my early teens, when my parents bought it for me. So, considering, it's held up very well. It was losing a lot of air from the back tire this spring when I brushed off the cobwebs to take a spin. But the nice people at a local bike shop pumped some kind of goo into it, so now it works like a champ. I almost feel like I'm floating.

From what I can read of dog language, Keeper loves our bike outings, too. At first, she was a little scared of the bike itself; then she couldn't figure out which side to run on, but once around the block and it was like she'd been born on a sled team.

She only forgets her place once in a while when she tries to run down some pigeons or another dog eggs her into a barking match. I think that she thinks she's working; I won't tell her that it's mostly for her benefit, not mine.

----------

I'm feeling accomplished as this week comes to an end. After much reading, editing, rewriting, and minimal hair-pulling, I got my proposal off to Kimberley Cameron. Then I emailed it again when I realized Kimberley has two 'e's in the address. Now it's just the waiting game.

But things are moving. The wheels are turning. Regardless of what happens, I'm working on the book again, and that feels good.

OneArmGirl


P.S. No, I do not normally ride on the sidewalk. 

a week of memoir

This is one of those weeks where so much has happened I don't even know where to begin. And then at the same time, nothing really concrete has happened at all. I'm thinking of working that into a title for my next memoir.

I went to the writers conference and was surprised to find that it really wasn't as intimidating as I'd imagined. But during a panel discussion with editors and agents, I began to feel like I'd signed up to pitch to the wrong person.

I felt drawn to an agent with Kimberly Cameron and Associates who, when I looked her up online [Thank God for iPhones], I found she had recently sold a book called Fancy Feet: How I Lost My Limbs and Gained a Life by Heidi Cave. Perfect, I thought––she knows how to sell a book about appendages, or the lack thereof.

I had ten minutes to tell her why she should represent my book. In preparation, I got a cup of coffee and stirred in as much non-dairy creamer as I could stomach. Then I scribbled an outline, which I promptly forgot about as soon as I sat down in front of her.

But I was almost disturbingly relaxed. The whole process was much like doing a mock interview in preparation for a job hunt. I told her what I had; she said what she wanted––and that was about it.

We ran over time and, in a moment of panic, I blurted out, "What makes me different is that I'm funny...like, I've thought about doing standup comedy." She perked up at this, but I'm not sure it was because I'd hooked her or she was afraid I was about grab onto her ankles and start begging for representation.

"Ok, when can you send me some chapters?" she said.

If nothing else, the writers conference (or, the W.C. as I just now decided to call it) re-lit the fire under my procrastinating bum. I've spent the week feverishly reviving a proposal and agonizing over which chapters to send.

I emailed my technical writer friend (Heidi, by coincidence) to proof the proposal; a hideous task in my mind, which she accepted like I'd given her a late Christmas gift. Then She forwarded an announcement that the author of Poster Child, a memoir essentially about a prosthetic leg, was going to speak about a new book at the University just just down the street.

So last night, I found myself sitting in a large classroom listening to Emily Rapp read from her latest memoir. It was almost too much for me. The Naked juice with spirulina sitting at my feet was more a description of my emotional state than what was allegedly rejuvenating my body at the cellular level.

I love that she slouches

I was insanely jealous, of course––also fascinated, trying to mentally digest every word she said and, for reasons I haven't fully processed, scared.

Timidly, I raised my hand. "Hi, I have so many questions I feel like I need to have coffee with you."

Afterword, she signed my copy of Poster Child under which she wrote her email address.

It occurred to me how comfortingly ordinary we all are face to face.

She said memoir is the most manipulative of literary genres because it's only what you write down.

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

Somewhere in the midst of this hubbub, I got an email from my aerial class instructor saying I should stay after class to talk about being a part of a show. When it rains....

At this point, there is a big temptation for me to have a panic attack, lock myself in the bathroom, and start obsessively clipping my toenails because it's something I can control.

But instead I am just trying to breathe, remain grateful, and remember that despite what I'd like to think, I am never in control.

OneArmGirl

vote for your favorite post

On Saturday I am going to do something I've never done before; I'm going to attend a writers' conference.

I heard about the conference at the memoir book release that I attended a few weeks back and, despite an almost immediate reaction of anxiety-induced nausea, I went home and registered.

My reasons are twofold. Well, three, if you count that I ought to attend at least one legitimate conference if I'm to call myself a writer. But firstly, I need friends that write. I need someone to call me up during the week and say, "Hey, you need to write today!"; and then be gracious enough to read what I've written. I figure a writers' conference might be a good place to meet someone like that.

Secondly, there will be agents at this conference, and I will have the opportunity to make a ten minute pitch for my memoir to one of them. You may find it strange that I am actually more nervous about the unstructured mingling that will be required, than sitting in front of one person and telling her why she should publish me.

To prepare, I've written a short synopsis of my manuscript, but right now I'm feeling most excited about the body of work collected over the past three years on this blog. I think I'll take one or two posts with me for moral support.

Sometimes a reader asks me if I have a favorite post. I definitely prefer some over others, but to be honest, I don't even remember many of them.

I'm curious, do you have a favorite post? I would really like to know. How 'bout you think about it while I practice bladder control for Saturday.

All you have to do is type the title of your favorite post in a comment below (or email me if you feel too exposed). If you also tell me why that post is your favorite, it'll make me smile. Let's take the weekend. After I tally the votes next week, I'll report my findings and repost the most popular.

Who knows, maybe it'll be in print one day...

OneArmGirl

hanging by a ribbon

Last week when Mom was here, I took her to my aerial arts class, and that is how I ended up with the following photo montage...

I know, I make it look easy.

I'm just not showing you the one of me getting tangled in the fabric, hanging by one foot, the rest of me lying on the ground; like I'm about to get drug down the main street of some old western town as an example to anyone else who might have a hankerin' for joining the circus. I suggested they put it in the next show.

But getting to see myself in action wasn't as disheartening as I'd imagined. I was actually quite encouraged. And I didn't get as sick this week as I have previously from the exertion. Maybe I won't give up my dreams just yet.

Like I'm even capable of that.

OneArmGirl

nature and nurture

It's been a bountiful week at OneArmGirl.

Mom arrived for a visit early last week, preceded by a

whirlwind of spring cleaning, ending just minutes before her appearance in our living room. I still had dirt under my fingernails from re-planting Moses the palm tree in a more roomy pot.

She promptly took over our kitchen, to which we hardly put up a fight. It's hard to be cross when someone is peeling and cutting oranges for you every morning.

Keeper the dog was, of course, leery of our new house guest at first, but her requirements seemed satisfied the next morning when it was discovered the additional family member meant more pats and scratches and walks to the park.

And walks we have been taking a plenty. For months I've been looking forward to introducing my mom, a great appreciator of the natural world, to the trails Keeper and I frequent. I was delighted to find that the normally dry ditches I've trailed for months have just filled with water from the river, in accordance with the old farmland irrigation system.

Even Keeper partook of the new flow, jumping into the water and walking slowly upstream, opening her mouth for frequent gulps of refreshment. I found this so enjoyable it was difficult to be mad about the mud she collected on her underside.

The advent of Mom brought a nice handful of loved ones in and out of our days, with coffee dates and more walks. On Sunday morn, Easter dresses [which are actually just dresses we never get to wear because we live amidst a terminally casual demographic] were donned. At service we were reminded that faith is a gift given and not conjured. Why does earning seem second nature, and we must be taught to receive?

Receiving certainly does not come naturally to me. It's taken years for me to accept a vendor holding a receipt steady for me to sign. A receipt: the very thing documenting that I have received.

It's easy to notice what we don't have, but how unnatural to stop and observe what we do. If I were to write a receipt right now for my life, it would be itemized thusly: my dog, new green on the trees, opportunities to love and be loved...

OneArmGirl

second nature

Perhaps you've never considered the importance of toes. I can tell you I haven't spent much time pondering the topic.

I was thinking of my toes today because my new hiking shoe

is starting to rub painfully on my little toe. My solution for this is to stop hiking, of course. And lest you think I buy my shoes singularly as I'd prefer to buy my gloves, I also have another new shoe on the other foot that is causing some trouble to my big toe.

I remember hearing that if we didn't have toes at the end of our feet, we would fall over. Although I have not had the opportunity to test this theory, I can argue that stilts have been used successfully for some time. Why, I still have no idea. Anyone with more information than I, please advise.

I'll pause here to say that my feet are arguably one of my best features; and it is therefore unfortunate that I have to wear shoes at all. But in addition to their good looks, I've found my toes to be very useful over the years.

A few days ago I was attempting to zip some riding chaps I had recently acquired and found myself employing my toes to create tension on the leather. Sometimes your foot is just the most handy thing.

For those unfamiliar with this equine attire, chaps (which can cover all or just half the leg) are worn on the outside of the pant to protect the leg while riding.

As per my usual mindlessness, I wouldn't have stopped to think anything of this unusual tactic had I been alone. But the process was strange enough to interrupt the conversation Little Gen was having with her BFF Jannisimo (pronounced 'Yahneeseemo'). That is, of course, not his real name.

Thankfully Little Gen was quick enough to capture my unusual method on camera, much like a naturalist might record the strange mating rituals of some exotic animal. In fact, I'm sure there is a mating ritual out there that looks much like the above photo.

I'm sure a similar photo could be taken every day of my life, recording endless mundane tasks completed in a manner akin to a circus act. If I could think of a use for stilts, you can bet I'd have a pair. Currently I scale my cabinets like a mountain climber to get to the top shelf.

But if I were to record all my utilitarian shenanigans, I'd have to employ a photographer who had absolutely nothing else going on in his or her life.

But who says there has to be a one way of doing things. If you find yourself in a spot where your first choice isn't an option, I suggest going with second nature.

OneArmGirl