If You Aren't Disabled, You Should Be

So, I've always had a certain disdain for people who aren't handicapped using handicapped parking spots. But that disdain has graduated to a real disgust. There is nothing like being in someone else's shoes to get a real feel for the path they walk.

I've had the oppportunity to be in someone else's shoes, to travel their path. Well, in my case, I've been in their wheelchair and rolled down their path. After my surgery last April, it became necessary to acquire a handicap placard for my car. This placard, while allowing me easier access to places, also became the source of disgust toward a certain segment of society. You see, I KNOW there are people who cheat, who park in handicapped spots when not handicapped. I've just always figured God has some special little something planned for those people.



One day I had stopped at an Arbys. I had a little bit of time to kill in between doctor appointments and decided to kill it with a French dip and swiss sandwich and a few chapters of a murder mystery. While I'm struggling to get out of the car, leg and foot encased in 10, 20 or 80 pounds of metal cast, attempting to maneuver with a walker while not falling on my face and actually looking like I needed a walker, a huge white truck pulled up in the other handicapped spot and a teenaged girl hopped out of the passenger seat. As I watched, a middle-aged woman climbed out of the driver's seat and they both headed into the restaurant...both obviously healthy and in full use of all limbs. They glanced over at meas they passed, seeing me laboring to bring my walker around the front of my car.

Looking pointedly at the handicapped sign, then to them, then back to the truck, I gave them my very best "now aren't you ashamed of yourself parking in a handicapped spot when you aren't even handicapped" stare. I just assumed they were being lazy and grabbing an up front spot instead of walking an extra 10 feet.

Can you imagine my surprise when, rounding the front of the truck, I discovered it had handicapped license plates! These weren't just lazy ignorant people! These were people who actually had a handicapped person in their lives, knew first-hand the struggles with being handicapped and were being lazy anyway! That's even worse! That's just plain inexcusably FRADULENT! My "aren't you ashamed of yourself" stare became a "you are lower than a gutter crawling piece of filth" death glare.

Shortly after that, I stopped at Walmart and began my belabored process of struggling out of my car just as a humongous truck barrelled down the lane, screeched to a stop, backed up into the only remaining handicapped spot and a tiny thing in workout clothes hopped out and ran...RAN...into the store! I mumbled and grumbled my way into the store, grabbed the few things I needed, gave the workout girl my death glare when I passed her in an aisle, refrained from ramming her with my motorized cart and headed back to my car.

This situation wasn't one that needed to be swept under the parking spot, though. Grabbing a piece of paper, I began writing a scathing note to place on her windshield hopefully allowing a ray of intelligence to penetrate her pee brain and perhaps help change a selfish, self-aborbed behavior into one of desired service to humanity...or at least let me vent some rage and frustration.... Unfortunately, just as I was triple-underlining MORONIC, she came prancing out of the store, hopped in the truck and roared off.

I now find myself prowling parking lots looking, not only for cars parked in handicapped spots with no handicap permit, but for vehicles with permits being driven (and parked) by non-handicapped morons. And when I find one, I've got this perfectly written scathing note just waiting to change someone's life.

One woman's Scratch is Another's Egg Sandwich

My biggest apologies to those who are been asking and asking when I would post aother blog. It's just that this whole having surgery and being on pain pills thing has kinda kicked me in the hiney. And just when I thought I was ready, Oldest Daughter called me and told me if I didn't stay off the computer until I was off pain pills, she was going to have to unfriend me from facebook.

Apparently I was not yet ready to blog.

Apparently she was tired of apologizing for my emails and facebook posts.

Of course, my friends, or should I say my "friends" thought my emails were hilarious and passed them around like M&Ms. There was even the suggestion that I publish a book titled "Don't Send" or "PUSH THAT SEND BUTTON AND DIE" I'm mulling that around now in case this artist thing doesn't take off. I mean I'm making some progress with my paintings, but clearly there will come a point when the IRS either accepts this as my profession or labels it a hobby! If they decide what I have is a hobby, I will find myself right back in the unenviable position of having to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

I know a chef will not be in the running for next profession. My son-in-law recently laid down the law and said I was not allowed to make cookies with my granddaughters. I did not, repeat, DID NOT use bad ingredients and give anyone food poisoning. I also did not act carelessly and allow one of them to burn themselves or fall off the counter or anything else harmful.

So, you may be asking, what would cause my normally easy-going son-in-law to make such a firm decision? Apparently taste. Possibly form and function. Perhaps I should explain....

You may recall my mentioning that my daughter is a wonderful cook. A cook from scratch cook. In fact she has this mixer that does every thing but iron sheets. She will decide on the spur of the moment to make cookies and start pulling things out of the pantry, fridge and cabinets, throw it all in this magic mixer and VOILA! cookies. Darn good cookies! The girls each have their own chairs and spatulas and help mom all the time.

One day the girls were at my house and I told Izzy we were going to bake cookies. She excitedly ran into the kitchen, drug a chair up to the counter and picked a spatula out of the utensil holder and waited expectantly. I actually felt rather bad as I explained we didn't need the spatula and showed her how to break apart the preformed frozen blobs of dough and place them on the baking sheet. She actually had fun, kinda ate some cookies and took the rest home with her.

Apparently there is a big difference in taste between blobs of frozen cookie dough and made from scratch dough using only the freshest ingredients. And at the risk of confusing the kids, I have agreed to not bake cookies with them any more. I'll have to come up with something else that doesn't compete with homemade stuff they learn at home.

I'm thinking of homemade from scratch fried egg and peanut butter sandwiches on toast....

It's always a long story...except when some tell it

"Apparently there is nothing that cannot happen today." Mark Twain

My favorite quote used to be "It's along story and even longer when I tell it." by Winnie the Pooh. It just seemed to fit for me. Not because I talk alot (which I have ocassionally been known to do), but because I can...well, I sometimes...not always do I... okay. It's probably because I talk alot. But it's also because I have this inability to tell a short story. It's not the complete story unless it contains details.

Life is in the DETAILS. It's not enough to just know what someone said, you also need to know what their facial expressions were when they said it. What were the circumstances? What led up to their comments? Unfortunately I am married to a cop. Well, a retired cop, but once a cop always a cop. He delivers information on a need to know basis. He just doesn't understand why I need to know and why what I need to know is everything I can be my own filter, thank you. Actually, I'm a better incoming filter than i am an outgoing one. Sometimes my before-I-say-something-filter doesn't always work on a timely basis.

Oldest Daughter is another one of those non-detail people. Or maybe she's detail with everyone else, she just isn't with me. I can tell when I'm halfway through a story (one that I think is going well) and her eyes start rolling up into the back of her head and her hands start fluttering and looking for something to do to distract her from the remaaainnnnderrrrr of the story. Most times she's polite and keeps her twitching to herself, although it's hard to stay focused on what you're saying when someone is having a mini seizure right in front of you. Others times she breaks in and says, "Mother, will you get to the point. I've dinner to start in three hours." Which is fine.

Now Youngest Daughter is a fellow story teller. She, like her mother, loves the actual story and all the nuances of each and every detail. Sometimes you can enrich a story with the proper details and still leave it a semblance of itself. Face it, most people can't see the potential for a good story. Those are the ones who recite the words but not the embellishments, the words but not the voice inflections. We still want to hear the story, but be aware that when it's repeated, the rest will be added!

Which gets us to the reason behind my new favorite quote. It's a good one because it's not just any quote that can take down Pooh. But it's taken so long to get to the point that my pain pill has kicked in and this story will have to wait until another time....

I've always known my daughter was a grownup...

I've just spent the past hour rereading Oldest Daughter's earlier blogs and have been blown away yet again. You see, she's a grownup, an adult, a self sufficient wife and mother and aunt and sister and niece and business owner. If I sound surprised about that, I'm really not. It's just that I sometimes loose focus on it.

I read about her sometime concerns about not being the best mother and shake my head because I think she's a damn good mother (Nearly Perfect Grandson says I shouldn't cuss because I sound dorkey doing it. Perhaps I just need to practice more...). I read the ocassional comment about hanging off the cliff and have to stop short. I get reminded that just because she acts completely in control and unwavering, that she, too, has doubts and fears.

We've not always had the best relationship (translate to: it's been buried six feet under several times, but always resurrected). Some of it's been my fault and some of it's been hers. I tend to think there have been other hands in there, too, but they've been minor roles. I think it's ironic that I don't have a relationship at all with my mother and I'm HER oldest. (But then have to remind myself that MY mother is completely nuts and my daughter's mother is only partially nuts).

I just know she got her good parenting skills, her common sense approach to raising her children, somewhere else than from me. I did the best I could with what I had, but most days it was woefully inadequate. When you grow up being a victim, it takes a multitude of "overs" before you can climb out of that victim pit in which you tend to stay buried. (Maybe because it's safe? Well we're not going there because it doesn't matter what the psychobabble crap is...you eventually climb out because you want out).

I've seen her smoothly pull off the most wonderful entertaining events, she's an excellent cook, has fantastic decorating style, a good, strong, stable and loving marriage, organized, hard-working. Now before I give the impression that she's a candidate for sainthood, I'll stop. The point I've been heading to is none of these things are what made me realize that she is an adult. It was something totally different for me.

About two years ago, I was at her house hanging out with 6-month-old Izzy Doodle when Amy came in the room and sat down with us. As she reached for her daughter, I saw her hands. My stomach flip flopped and I had to just sit and breath for a moment. I was looking at adult hands! Not the smooth, character-free hands of a child, teen or young adult, but the hands of a woman. Hands that had their own tales to tell. I knew (head knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up but when I saw her hands I knew (heart knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up.

And she had done it, for the most part, without me.

Too clean to die now

The other night in the wee hours I found myself at my computer. I was typing a letter entitled "In the Event of my Death". Seriously. This whole matter of needing surgery, surgery being postponed because of an abnormal ekg, must be cleared by a cardiologist before having surgery, must have a stress test before being cleared by a cardiologist, possible heart attack and damage to the heart... finally knocked me down. Granted, it was the middle of the night and I was temporarily out of pain pills and not sleeping, otherwise I would have never allowed myself to be knocked down. But, really, at 2 a.m. who are you going to call to to ask they pull you out of the doldrums? I could call my best friend, Linda, but the fact that I keep my 2 a.m. ramblings to myself is probably one of the best reasons we're still friends after 20 years.

I began thinking about what kind of condition my loved ones would find in the office, the closet, my files if, in the event of my death, they were trying to find something...like the insurance papers, the electric bill, a new cartridge for the printer. I can promise you one thing: if they had to look through the piles and piles of stuff (junk), mail (junk), they would no longer consider themselves my loved ones....

So I decided I needed to clean all this stuff up BEFORE I went for my stress test. First the files. There was stuff from 20 years ago. What possible reason do i need to keep paid water bills from 20+ years and two states ago? If I missed a payment, they've probably forgiven me by now, and if not, who cares? They gonna drag me across county to chastise me for not making a $8 payment?

I had SSOOOOO many files, mail, and unknown stuff that it would have taken me six years to shred it all. So I did the next best thing. I built a bonfire in the fireplace. It took me three loads to get it all burned. And an hour to scoop out all the residual ashes.

Next I cleaned out the refrigerator. If I died during my stress test, I'm sure people would be bringing casseroles over and stuff would need my fridge. Now all that food can be put into a clean refrigerator and no one has be feel compelled to call in the health department!

The last thing I needed to do was lay out the plans for my funeral. Oh come on! That's not morbid! What would be morbid is the choice of music my husband would have made if left to his own devices. And they'd most likely have my coffin open and me laying there in all my dead awkwardness while people are filing past making comments about how wonderful/horrible I looked. No thanks. I left instructions that my coffin not even be in the service. Of course, if they did a particularly good job with the makeup and perhaps liposuction my hips and butt, I might consider letting them prop me up on a loveseat and give people a photo op. That would take care of the complaints I get for not ever wanting my picture taken while I was alive.

And no downer music. I'm not there! I'm already dancing in Heaven. The ending song has to be "Take the Shackles off my Feet" by MaryMary. Let everyone leave with their feet dancing!

So, by 3 a.m. I was ready to have a fatal heart attack during my stress test.

Except I didn't.

But with this clean office, refrigerator and files, it might just be rather pleasant living here a little longer, so this might be a good thing.

Coping Advice From a Toddler

You know those moments when you're frustrated, pushed to the end of your rope, just plain pissed off? Or even mildly irritated but still want to kick something or somebody but can't because all there are around are little kids or people WAAAYYY bigger than you? Well, I have a new hero in handling those moods. Who? If you're guessing Ghandi or Mother Theresa or Kissinger, you are sooooo far off the mark. It's my 14-month old granddaughter.

We call her the Machine because she just never stops. Usually in her own little world, she plows through life like the world and all in it has been put there for her consumption and hers alone. She's independent, strong-willed and resourceful. But those are none of the reasons she is my mood hero (heroine?). She is occasionally tormented (frustrated) by her older sister who can be a little less than willing to always share her toys, but being the younger sibling, there is a pecking order that has to be followed...most of the time.

The other day I was coming down the hall at my daughter's when I heard the sound of little footsteps running flat out through the living room. The sound was quickly followed by the "Machine" rounding the corner and heading down the hallway as fast as her chubby little legs would let her go. Her arms were straight back behind her as if she were flying (which she really was). Following her was the sound of her sister's screams. I stepped back and watched as she ran into their bedroom, rushed to the window, pulled back the drape and deposited her sister's binky on the window sill. She pulled the drape back into place, turned around and ran back out of the room. She had the biggest smile on her face as she flew back down the hall!

Now that's what I call coping.

How great would it be to handle ignorant/idiotic/dense/irritating/stupid people by simply hiding their binky? You wouldn't have to say a word (or many words) which would probably have to be taken back and/or followed with an apology. No need for any violent behavior for which amends would have to be made. No bombs, guns, or any other lethal weapons. Just hide the binky.

It's pure genious.

If I can't be a surgeon, I'll be an artist

Lately I have considered myself to be one of the luckiest persons alive. Why, you might ask? Because I am an artist. That may not be a big deal to you, but it is to me. There's been alot of years when I just wasn't sure what my "calling" is. I spent quite a few years as a substitute teacher and was actually very good at it. But it wasn't something I planned for, worked toward, dreamed of. I kinda fell into it and accidentally found I was good with middle school kids and I could teach a lesson, and even make most of them pay attention while I taught it.

I also did long term assignments which meant keeping track of about 120 kids and their grades, homework, discipline and parent/teacher conferences (Those were not my favorite. There's just not a tactful way to tell a parent that their little dumplin' is an idiot who would rather examine stuff he/she pulled out of his/her ear than do the classwork assignment and perhaps they ought not worry about adding to that college fund, turning it instead into a bail fund account.)

BUT...the art side of me has always hovered near the surface. About a year ago I joined an art organization, entered some shows and began taking some lessons to improve a technique or explore a style. As I talked about wanting to go back to school and get my art degree, I was told by several artists that I didn't need to get a degree unless I wanted to teach, that I had the talent and just needed to bring it out. Still, just because you decide you want to be a surgeon and can pull all the body parts out of the game Operation in record time, doesn't mean you can own your own scalpel (and use it). My criteria for being able to say, "I'm an artist" has hinged on being able to sell any of my paintings.

Well, I have! And I'm going to be hung in a new restaurant! And I have two commission for pieces!
So, guess what?!? I'm an artist! Still, that statement and $2 will get me a venti green ginger tea at Starbucks (with two Splendas, thank you). If I want to continue my venti green ginger tea (with two Splendas, thank you) habit, I need to continue to sell paintings, which means I need to produce paintings which means I probably don't have time to mop floors or take the trash out much less cook dinner.

If you need me, I'll be in my studio (back of the house, used to be a spare bedroom) Come on in, visit, hang out, just don't get in my light. We artists are fussy about that.