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

an arm's worth

I'm not gonna lie, I get special treatment because I only have one arm.

Yesterday morning, I went into the County Clerk's office because my voter registration card had been sent back. The reason was soon discovered: their records showed that I was born in 1900. I noted to the office assistant that I must be doing exceptionally well, considering my grandfather was born in 1920. She was minimally amused.

When I re-registered a couple weeks back, I was told that I might not receive my voter registration card for several months because of the current election season. But when I went in to the office today, the lady behind the desk assured me that she would go ahead and enter me into the system right away. I would receive my card in a week or so.

Now, I have no way of proving this, but I suspect she took me for a poor frail appendage-less waif who had somehow managed to get from my house to the voter registration office all by myself. Then again, it could have been just the pinky orange colored sweater I was wearing [a color Little Gen says looks good on everyone]. But two people came into the same office needing to register while I was standing there, and both of them were told they would have to wait until after the election to get into the system [they could still vote, mind you].

Coincidence maybe, except this happens all the time. I find people generally go out of their way to be nice to me. Perfect strangers offer huge grins when they pass me at the supermarket. I've actually seen people look absentmindedly at me, look away, then look back and and smile as if I might be offended that they didn't acknowledge me.

And then there's the mom at the our local growers' market who tried to yank her little girl away from pointing at Finneas before I noticed. Unfortunately for her, I have eyes in the back of my head for that sort of thing. "It's OK," I reassured her. Then to the little girl, "Did you see my arm? It's just little."

Grownups aren't usually so obvious, but they notice. Instead of pointing, sometimes they decide to give me a hand up. Or is it a handout? I've always had a feeling I could do really well as a transient.

I was at Starbucks last week when a self-identified transient came up to me and asked if he could play me a song for a couple bucks. I'm not gonna say it wasn't awkward to be personally serenaded on the Starbucks patio when it's just you and your dog. It wasn't even really a song, more of a jam session, but I guess I have a heart for starving artists.

Then again, maybe he is so much more. Can I really complain if people take me at arm's value?

OneArmGirl

dog days of fall

Once again, I've acquired a pooch. But this one might actually be a keeper. In fact, for the intents and purposes of this blog, I think I'll call her Keeper. She actually goes by another name, but we can't let the CIA find her.

And from whence does she come? I recently attended a friend's thirtieth birthday party. When I first knew this friend, he was barely twenty, now he's married with two kids. He'd also adopted a dog in the intervening years.

As soon as I met her, I liked her. "I like your dog," I said. "You want her?" they said. Apparently two children under the age of four doesn't leave much time for the dog.

Keeper is the offspring of a purebred Miniature Australian Shepherd and some mongrel with whom she rendezvoused. Needless to say, her breeders were not amused. Keeper, and all her brothers and sisters, ended up in the dog orphanage....uh, pound. But sometimes accidents end up being the best dogs.

So, yesterday began a trial stay. We took most of the day getting to know one another, walking, taking a nap, watching television...you know, all the things I want to do with a dog rather than on my own.

When she was a wee pup, she contracted parvovirus, which is generally lethal to puppies. But she's a survivor. I like that.

Like every survivor, however, she's not escaped unscathed. She's very shy and timid with people and dogs she doesn't know. Last night's foray to the park almost gave both of us an anxiety attack.

So we're working on trust. I have a dream that one day my dog will go everywhere with me, riding shot gun (preferably in a '40s Chevy truck), my wishes her command. I don't believe dogs should be possessions, but partners.

Of course, talk to me next week, and I may be muttering obscenities about the whole situation. I guess that's what trials are for; hopefully we can both overcome.

OneArmGirl

Please excuse today's post delay...

two water-related topics

I am freshly dried and back from senior water aerobics. I hadn't been to class in....a while. I'd been absent so long, in fact, that I'd completely forgotten whether I used a boogie board or a foam noodle for the abs workout. Senior moment, as they say.

It felt good to be back in the water. I am determined to get on a fall fitness program that will reduce belly fat and make me into the lean mean fighting machine I've always been, and will continue to be, in my head.

At the beginning of class, a nice older lady asked me if I was their instructor. I told her I was not, assuring her that Angela was far better than I would be. Then I felt very out of place in a pool full of senior citizens [OK, maybe there were two other younger women] that probably had better stamina than I did. It's a great burden looking so young and healthy. What's a misfit toy to do?

And speaking of a misfit, I took this photo in the airport restroom as evidence that soap dispensers can be discriminatory:

The spout is so long [looks shorter in the photo] it is impossible to push on the base while catching the soap from the end with one hand. Yes, I even tried grabbing the whole spout end in an effort to push the entire contraption down from that end.

There is no question, this dispenser was designed for two hand operation. It wouldn't be such a big deal [there are many things designed for two hand use], except that it could have easily been designed in a way that is friendly to one-handed users. It's a classic case of considering a problem from only one standpoint.

I should mention, at this point, that I am available for engineering consultations. My fees are very reasonable.
 
It's hard to get me angry, but after a ten hour day of flying and airports, this almost put me over the edge. I'm talking pure faucet rage, people. But anger is a sign of life, of the refusal to accept mediocrity. Let it out, I say.

Have you anything to rage about this week?

OneArmGirl 

passport

While on a brief stay at my parents' home last week, I did what every grown daughter is supposed to do when she goes to visit her parents. No, not throw out all my headless barbie dolls––they are still safely in a box in storage.

But I did go through my old things, remembering the good old days, and the not so good old days. I ended up looking through some family photo albums, which initiated my new favorite pastime––taking digital photos of old photos; or a little technique I like to call "lazy."

One of my finds was this, my very first passport photo:

And why would a two-year-old need a passport, you ask. Because I needed to go to Japan. What, that answer does not satisfy you?

There are a couple things to be noted about this picture. One, my coveralls were clearly too big for me, proven by the big bulge of fabric at my midsection. Two, my left sleeve has clearly been mauled by a badger, accurately exemplifying my style at the age of two.

This is my current passport photo:

I guess not much has changed, really. Although it's been a while since I wore a red jumpsuit. I'm not going to show you the passport photo in between these. It was taken in my early teenage years––'nuff said.

Speaking of passports, I am currently overjoyed to be home again, finished with traveling for the present. Every time I travel by air, I wonder how I got myself into that predicament again. From what I hear, it's like pregnancy––constraining, inescapable, people touching you in places normally considered off limits, bringing out the worst in you and inducing attacks of claustrophobia––yet you gladly sign up for another go as soon as the memory has faded. The similarities are uncanny.

Hope you are also enjoying an airport-security-free week.

OneArmGirl