Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

Weather Woes

Okay, this is ridiculous. I was planning some nice Easter post, spring has sprung, that sort of thing, but I’ve just come in from walking Frankie and I’m freezing. What’s going on? It’s practically April! Enough already! I realize most of you are reading this on the weekend, and since we’re in Florida, it’ll probably have warmed up by then. Heck, you may already be running your air conditioner! But right now, it’s cold. Colder than I even remember it being this winter!

Frankie loves it. Does a little fur really keep dogs so much warmer? I’m bundled like I’m expecting a blizzard, and you don’t see me dancing for joy, do you?

Suffice it to say, Conehead has recovered. Seven seemed to be the magic number. That’s the day he was himself again. I can’t believe I ever felt bad for him. Yesterday, he attacked one of my moving boxes, despite the cone, and I was picking pieces of wet cardboard out of the thing forever. Now he’s running around into walls, bushes and things, misjudging the clearance he needs, and it doesn’t even faze him.

So while Mr. Frisky relishes the cold air, I just want to stay warm under the covers. As I write this, Frankie and Bella are both outside, basking in the sun, which they seem to like to do whenever it’s cold. With no expectations or preconceived notions of what the weather is supposed to be like, they just go with the flow. There’s probably a lesson, a point to made, in there somewhere, but I’m too cold to make it. Author Jodi Picoult wrote in a novel, “There were two ways to be happy: improve your reality, or lower your expectations.” And since we can’t improve the weather … You get the idea. Happy Easter.

March 28, 2013 6

Cruel and Unusual

Frankie had surgery last week. I realize other dog owners are used to these strange instruments of torture, but the cone is new to me.

He had a minor skin growth that the vet wanted to biopsy (it was benign), and as a result he had three itty bitty little stitches. All this resulted, of course, in his having to wear the cone contraption for ten days. Ten days. Doesn’t that seem excessive? In this day and age of dissolving stitches?

What can I say? I feel bad for the guy. On the annoying scale, the human equivalent is probably something akin to having your jaw wired shut. Except with a person, you can say, “Hey Joe, we’re fixing your jaw.” I can’t imagine what Frankie thinks is going on. Or why the hell this has been done to him.

Although maybe he’s been clued in by the neighbor’s dog, Boris, in that non-verbal way dogs have. The neighbor tells me Boris has worn the cone twice before. It just looked like a lot of sniffing to me, but I can imagine the conversation:

Boris: Oh, man! You’re in the cone!

Frankie: What is this crazy thing? I can’t scratch. I can’t lick. I get kibble all stuck to it. What did I do to deserve this?

Boris: Dude, been there, done that. I feel your pain, brother.

Mom’s been taking care of him, which involves giving him pain pills in peanut butter and making sure he doesn’t get his head stuck anywhere. At my house, halls and doorways are no longer wide enough for both of us. He stays beside me as usual, and I hear his cone scraping the drywall. He scrapes the street, too, on walks. He likes to trot alongside me sniffing the ground. Now you can hear us coming.

After battling the cone the first day, he seems resigned to it now. He’s adjusted. I, on the other hand, am still getting used to it. I can’t wait till it comes off. I think I’m depressed for him. My next book will be Doggy Dependent: You’re Not Okay, I’m Not Okay.

With limited access to his mouth, he gets in a lot less trouble. No rooting through the garbage or the kitty box. No running across the apartment with the toilet paper in his mouth. No destroying cardboard boxes. I even think he barks less. Maybe he doesn’t like the noise reverberating around in there. I never thought I’d say it, but I can’t wait to have my little misbehaver back. Until then, try not to laugh if you see us. I don’t want him getting a complex.

March 24, 2013 9

What Are We Saving For?

Is anyone else exhausted? It’s only midway through the week (last week to you all) so perhaps I’ll still adjust, but I’m all out of whack.

I realize I get up at an insane hour (4:30 a.m.) anyway, but now it feels like rising in the dead of night. And I know what the problem is — I can’t get to bed early enough because the sun’s still shining! I’m an eight hour girl. Any less and I feel like I’m slogging through mud with my clothes on just to make it through the day.

I take my cues from nature. I start thinking about dinner at dusk. But now, it doesn’t occur to me to stop working until 8:00 p.m. and I’m not done eating until 9:00 or 10:00 p.m.! Screwy, I tell you.

And the logic behind this madness? Politicians wanted the country to conserve energy around the First World War. (Really, there’s talk that our president at the time, Woodrow Wilson, just wanted to play golf into the evening hours. That’s a bit selfish don’t you think?)

Seriously, any benefit there might have been 100 years ago is outweighed by the fact that people now run their air conditioners longer, actually using more energy. And it’s dangerous to human health! Studies have shown there’s a spike in traffic accidents as the entire country runs around on dark morning roads groggy and sleep-deprived. And more importantly, farmers are reporting that their cows are definitely unhappy with the shift. They don’t like waiting an extra hour to be milked. Come on, people. Care about the cows.

Frankie, at least, remains unconcerned with it all. He doesn’t take his cues from nature. I think he takes them from me. Mr. Bionic Ears wakes when he hears me up, regardless of how quiet I think I am. So I still have to let him out of his crate at 7:00 a.m. It doesn’t matter to him that it’s pitch-black outside, and crickets are chirping instead of birds. He trots out all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, looking expectantly at his leash when there’s no way I can safely walk him for at least another half-hour.

Don’t get me wrong, I like sunshine as much as the next person. So why don’t we make this time the only time? It’s the back and forth that drives me crazy. Pick one already and stop the insanity! Until that happens, I guess I’ll trudge on. I just might be an hour late.

March 17, 2013 8

The Challenge

This past Saturday (yesterday to many of you) was The Brooks Rehabilitation Challenge Mile, one of the many smaller “runs” hosted alongside the Gate River Run. There are several reasons why I like participating in the event (this was my second year — read last year’s post here).

Firstly, I like hanging with this group of people because I’m free to be myself. People laugh with me instead of making a huge deal out of it when I pick up a little speed on an unseen decline. It’s nothing here to have muffin crumbs on my face or be seen peeling a banana with my teeth.

But more importantly, this event reminds me that it’s about encouragement, not competition. I couldn’t help but notice this as I watched people of all abilities cross the finish line. When one gentleman, who had made it most of the way in his wheelchair rose to walk the last several feet, the crowd cheered his name for what felt like a good five minutes. I think most of us would rather have our ability back, but it’s certainly true that when the challenge is tougher, the victory is sweeter.

March 10, 2013 8

Canine Cousins (Twice Removed)

Frankie is officially a service dog.

I realize that’s laughable to those of you who really know him, but nevertheless, he is a service dog. And before you ask — no, he doesn’t do anything for me. He doesn’t pick up dropped items (unless it’s food and that’s to eat it). He can’t open any doors. And on public transportation, he’s more likely to climb over me trying to stick his head out the window than sit quietly beside me. If I fell out of the wheelchair, he’d probably look at me like “Now what?” instead of getting help. The idea of having a service dog that doesn’t actually provide a service used to bother me. Until now.

Several weeks ago, some friends and I attended the ceremony of what is, in essence, a service dog school. We watched the “puppies” (usually a year and a half old) matriculate into the training program and fully trained dogs graduate out. These dogs were the real deal. Imagine having close to 50 dogs in one building with no barking. Granted, they all looked alike (black or golden, labs or retrievers). And you wouldn’t want to try to pick these pups out of a police line up. But then, you wouldn’t have to. These were well-behaved dogs.

At first, I watched sheepishly, imagining my own “service dog” going ballistic in the place, barking at other dogs and jumping up on people. These dogs seemed to have nothing in common with Frankie. They were all distant (very distant) relatives. But as I watched a video presentation, I realized most of the receipients of these “real service dogs” didn’t have tasks on the top of their lists either. Most of these (mainly) special needs children just wanted a friend. And the parents of these children wanted to help them socialize with other children. To help them not feel so alone.

Dogs can do that.

I was fortunate enough to have an able-bodied childhood. To not meet with disability until I was well into my thirties. But even so, I can relate. I can relate to being the odd man out, to stares, or even worse, avoidance. And that’s just in the adult world! Children can be so much worse. Even I was scared of them, gunning my power chair past their school bus stop near my house. Until, I went by with Frankie.

Dogs are the great equalizers. The kids were so busy petting Frankie and asking questions, they didn’t seem to notice I was in a wheelchair. And I’m sure I wouldn’t have been approached by half the neighbors I know, without him by my side. Plus, I know I wouldn’t be getting out as much.

So, I recognize there’s a huge value in companionship. Of service dogs that don’t complete tasks. And of little guys like Frankie. But, don’t get me wrong. I’m not advocating that every woman with a toy poodle in her purse run out and get a doctor’s note to take Fido (or Fifi) everywhere. Though Frankie can accompany me most places, I’m only planning on taking him to the pier. He’ll be the one in the blue vest, barking at the birds.

March 3, 2013 9

Next Door Neighbors

“Would you ever consider moving in with your mom?” my mom’s friend asked me in 2011.

“Oh, hell no,” I said.

As a wise friend is fond of saying — never say never.

I stopped saying “hell no,” particularly to my mom’s friends, when Mom reminded me it’s not a very nice thing to say. And once it became clear I was going to do just that, my standard response became “Yes, I’m moving to my mother’s, God help me.” I realize “God help me” is along the same lines as “hell no” and probably isn’t very nice either, so I’m going to stop saying that one, too.

Besides, (famous last words) I really don’t think it’ll be that bad. I’m actually looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to have everything new and accessible. Nice to have wide doorways that I actually fit through instead of accidentally chipping wood or gouging drywall. To have a bathroom I don’t have to back into. Or constantly sop up water off the floor because I’ll have a proper “roll-in” shower. Not to mention, my mother has a pool that we outfitted last year with a wheelchair lift. And best of all, there’s cable galore. My mom easily has a thousand channels.

Frankie will be happy too. He’ll have his two favorite people under one roof. And a new cat buddy, one that occasionally plays with him instead of hissing if he brushes up next to her on the couch. Maybe with two cats, he’ll get the message: cats don’t like repeatedly getting their butts sniffed. And there’ll be longer walks (and power chair rides) as we have to trek a little further to the ocean.

In fact, the only drawback so far has been the bruising of my ego. When you’re in a wheelchair and tell people that you live alone, they immediately assess the situation and conclude that you’re quite capable. If, on the other hand, you mention that you live with your mom, they consider you dependent to the point of needing 24/7 care and not being able to dress yourself.

My mom will do everything in her power to dispell that myth. Already she’s fond of explaining that the move will benefit us both. That she’ll be my body, reaching some item on a top shelf, and I’ll be her mind, figuring out her cell phone or reminding her where she left her keys. My mom values her independence as much as me. She’s even suggested I call before coming over to her side. At first, I found this ridiculous, but on second thought, it works both ways. Is it too silly to have a doorbell installed on the door that links her side to mine? Maybe an intercom? I’ll have a private entrance, a small living room and a kitchenette (with everything but the oven). We won’t be roommates so much as next door neighbors. In fact, maybe that’s what I’ll tell people: I don’t live with my mom, I live next to my mom.

Of course, the writer in me is looking forward to a plethora of new material. From renovation nightmares to disagreements over disciplining Frankie to crazy Carlito, my mom’s bipolar cat. I want it all to go well, but rest assured, I’ll be writing about it if it doesn’t. And so begins another chapter: a mother, a daughter, a dog and two cats. Wish us luck. We may need it.

February 24, 2013 8

My Valentine

Another excerpt from my book:

Walgreens was its own corny planet this time of year, oozing sentimentality all over the place. I combed the aisles in my power chair, looking for the less mushy cards, wondering how the employees stood it. It started right after New Years. Red and pink banners swirled from the ceiling. Rows of cellophane hearts from miniature to jumbo lined the shelves. A stuffed lion held out a cushy pillow that read I’m wild about you. I rolled my eyes at all the commercial fanfare and steadfastly refused to go out to dinner that one night a year, but secretly I used to have high hopes.

When I worked, I’d sit at my desk like every other woman there, and pretend it was a day like any other. You could feel us holding our collective breath when the bells tinkled announcing an entry, and hear it released in disappointment when the spring water guy filled up the water cooler.

Some lucky women already had their declarations of love displayed proudly in their cubicles. I viewed these bouquets like diamonds on a ring finger. They were affirmations. Someone finds me lovable. I have been chosen.

Many years, not dating anyone, I contemplated sending flowers to myself just to avoid the empty desk.

Though not dating someone was certainly preferable to dating He Who Does Nothing. I never understood this. It’s so simple. It requires virtually no thought. And, I never, not once, met a woman who didn’t like flowers. Still, it happens. I know because I have dated several Mr. Do Nothings.

One claimed he forgot, which we all know is impossible if you live in the United States of America and didn’t just wake up from a long coma. Another said he was taking a stand against profit-making corporate giants and didn’t need a holiday to tell him when to express his love. Unfortunately, he didn’t express it any of the other 364 days of the year either.

I broke up with another man on Valentine’s Day itself after eight months of dating and receiving nothing from him but a card with a fart joke on it. I didn’t think they even made valentines with fart jokes, but apparently no holiday is too classy. I’m sure even one of the three wise men is letting one rip in a manger somewhere. Continue reading “My Valentine” →

February 17, 2013 5

Chain of Bloggers

I feel a bit like I just received one of those chain letters. You know the kind — if you break the chain something bad will happen to you? The Versatile Blogger is an award given to people who blog about a variety of topics. And please don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to be noticed at all. But the idea is to pass it on. To recognize someone else.

15 someone elses to be exact. I’ll be honest here. I don’t even know 15 bloggers. Let alone have time to read the few I do know to make sure they’re versatile (unfocused) enough. A fellow writer, Sarah (Full-Time Writer Mom) gave me the title and only awarded it to two others. I’m going to flout the rules even more than she did and award it to just one person. But don’t worry! Before the versatile blogging police deem me unfit and take away my keyboard, they should know: it’s a highly qualified and worthy recepient.

Meet Mary Ellington. Mary writes the blog, Random Thoughts, which is, by very definition, a blog without aim. She’s alternately pee-in-your-pants funny and guaranteed to make you mist up. And best of all she writes willy-nilly like me, scribbling away about whatever topic catches her attention that day. (Mary and I prefer to think of it as inspired writing.) And here’s a nice bonus: she reads a lot of other blogs so she’s bound to have some interesting recommendations. (No pressure, Mary.)

Some other blogs that are way too on-topic to be considered for this award, but that I’ll shamelessly plug here are writer and author Carol O’Dell’s blog, Risk Play Create,… and Life’s A Bumpy Road by writing pal and retired clinical psycotherapist, Marilyn Fowler. Also, writers should check out my writer’s group new blog, Chat Noir Writers Circle Blog.

Finally, the folks on the Versatile Blogger Award Committee required me to divulge seven interesting tidbits about myself that readers may not already know. And so, I give you the following ridiculous facts:

I once owned a powder-blue Dodge Aries K car.
I used to play the theme from Ice Castles by heart on the piano.
I modeled as a teenager until various agencies suggested I get a nose job.
I was a member of Toastmasters International.
I could climb on a roof, measure it and write an estimate for any damage.
I was a paid extra (hotel employee) in Revenge of the Nerds II: Nerds in Paradise.
I pulled the ol’ “change a D to a B” trick on my report card in high school and got busted.

Now, get to work and pass it on, Mary. Should you choose to ignore this mission you will have three years bad luck and never write in this town again. (Just kidding.)

February 10, 2013 6

Movie Madness

I give up. The cable company wins. I can’t fight them anymore. I’m right, but I’d rather be happy.

I’m a whole lot poorer each month ($116 for basic cable and internet,) but I am happy. Happy with my On Demand. Happy with my DVR. Happy pausing live TV, especially during commercials that are never long enough for my epic bathroom breaks. (Being disabled means spending an inordinately long time in the loo.)

It all started when I fell victim to a recent popular addiction, Downton Abbey. The good news: it’s on PBS — Masterpiece Theater (no expensive cable required.) The bad news: I didn’t clue in as to what all the fuss was about until Season 3. This meant I had a good deal of catching up to do.

No problem, right? You can get anything delivered to your door these days, including DVDs of movies and TV shows.

Let me tell you, it’s easier to get approved for a mortgage than it is to join Netflix. If you’re already a lucky member, don’t ever leave them. First, my credit, then my mother’s, was denied. (And she just bought a house last year.) I snuck around this problem a while ago, when I used the name and credit of a friend at my address (I guess the mailman figured I had a roommate.) Then, after awhile, I lost my mind and canceled.

So now, I have Blockbuster At Home. I’ll run the risk of a slander suit and just tell you. They suck.

Their entire fulfillment department is out back on cigarette break and they seem to be the only company around still using the Pony Express. With Netflix, I’d return one movie and get another two days later. With Blockbuster, I returned the first disc of Downton Abbey – Season 1 on a Friday. It’s almost a week later, and still no disc 2. Oh, but I did get disc 3 yesterday. It lies waiting, taunting me from a bookshelf. I’d watch it, if I didn’t want to spoil it for myself. And, I might be confused. Though I bet, like any good soap opera, you can pick it up anywhere.

The only explanation for this sequence mishap is that the Blockbuster worker bee looked at the screen (or however they do it) at the exact moment I was shuffling movies in my queue, trying to get Downton Abbey to the front of the line! Disc 3 was only ahead of disc 2 for a nano-second. I didn’t leave it that way! See what I mean? They suck.

I thought I had the solution when I noticed the Red Box machine at the grocery store. I was so happy, feeling so confident and independent, that I checked out a movie before ever wondering how I was going to get back to return it. The next day, Frankie and I spent half the morning trekking miles on the power chair to the nearest Red Box location.

That’s when I upgraded my cable.

So, I’m playing the handicapped card yet again. When you’re disabled and don’t drive, you can’t be messing around with free-streaming equipment or risking your life driving to Red Box locations in a power chair. I’ve decided sometimes it’s worth it to pay for convenience. And now I can watch the Super Bowl in its entirety plus commercials. Even if I spend an entire quarter visiting the restroom.

As for Downton Abbey, wouldn’t you know it, U-verse On Demand doesn’t have it. So, I’m still waiting…

February 3, 2013 4

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