Off The Grid

Sprouting Wings

“What the hell is that?” I said to no one in particular. This was last summer, and though I had been swimming that day with my mom, she’d gone inside. I returned to the pool after visiting the kitchen, reached across my face for the doorknob and was struck dumb by the offending sight. When you’re in a wheelchair, you’re in the unique position to notice these things. I had just discovered my bat wings.

These droopy bits of arm flesh begin to drip off most women of a certain age and I was proving to be no exception. They were baby bat wings to be sure, new in their formation, but bat wings nonetheless.

When my mother came outside to join me, I was still there, poking at the doughy tissue with my finger and waving my arm about to see if it would jiggle. I held my arm up to my mother to demand an explanation. “What the hell?” I repeated.

My mother shrugged. “It just seems to happen.”

This response wasn’t even remotely reassuring. I’m reminded of the line from the movie, This is 40, where the old woman, by way of a birthday greeting says, “One day you’ll blink, and you’ll be ninety.” Is this how it happens? Signs of age just magically appear?

“At least it’s not too late for you. There’s still time,” my mom said, unwrapping her towel to display herself in nothing but her undies. This was clearly a woman for whom time had run out. She didn’t trouble herself with tricep exercises. But there was still hope for me. I put down the box of cookies I had brought out with me.

Mom had long ago dispensed with the formality and hassle of a bathing suit top. One of the last times she wore a top in the pool at all, she had come to me for help. I had turned her on to one of those comfortable, over-the-head, pull on bras with no wires or clasps. A perfect swim top. I started swimming in one of these bras and my underwear when I realized how much time could be saved by simply stripping down and getting in. I didn’t realize how much flexibility and dexterity were also required to get into one — until she came to me, bare-chested, raised arms encased like sausage in the fabric. “Can you pull this damn thing down?” she asked, giving me her back, her voice muffled by the material that covered her head like a ski mask. The sight was a cross between a bungled burglary and a striptease gone wrong.

Now she just runs around our very private backyard like some kind of ancient tribeswoman of the bush. Only instead of a basket on her head, she wears a wide-brimmed straw gardener’s hat with a drawstring cord fastened under her chin. I live in fear the actual gardener or pool guy will stop by unannounced and find us in these varied stages of undress, but Mom says I worry too much.

And before any of you start feeling defensive on behalf of my poor, written-about mother, please know she has a sense of humor as self-deprecating as mine. We don’t mind making fun of ourselves for the sake of a good laugh. Well, I guess I’m the only one making fun. But I’m exercising my first-amendment rights. I’m against censorship.

Needless to say, age and aging have been foremost on my mind as I approach my 45th birthday. And you’ll be happy to know I’ve decided to make the best of it. After all, I know people that would love to be 45 again. And you know what they say, you’re as young as you’ll ever be and what’s the alternative? When I’m 70, I’ll look back longingly and lovingly at this 45-year-old’s body and these miniature bat wings.

I’m especially pleased about all the new material. Aging is like having a lifetime supply of funny things to write about, a humorist writer’s gold mine. I’m thinking Nora Ephron and Erma Bombeck. I don’t feel bad about my neck yet, so just think what I have to look forward to!

And I can already sense it happening, this coming into my own. As you get older, you really do care less what people think and more about feeling comfortable in your own skin. My guess is you won’t want to be poolside when I’m 60 and Mom’s almost 90. We figure we’ll both be cantankerous and wearing mismatched socks. And I’m excited about all the elastic waistbands. I think middle age is the time to really think about what makes you happy. And you know what? You should be doing whatever it is that makes you happy. It’s good for the world. So yes, some parts of me are getting softer. But along with my bat wings I’m also sprouting wings of authenticity. Aging may be like going back to caterpillars on the outside, but we become butterflies again on the inside.

December 18, 2014 9

Be a Hero by Supporting Children with Cancer

July 11, 2014 1

Make it Happen!

There was a time in my life when I thought nothing new was ever going to happen to me. Nothing major, anyway. I think it occurred to me right after I moved to my mom’s. You know, you reach some settled point in your life when you think – okay, this is it. I live where I’m going to live, who I’m going to live with. There are no other big changes left to occur or choices left to make. No more new boyfriends, no more excitement or wild times, no more once in a lifetime trips.

I think this is part of growing older. When you’re young, the possibilities seem endless. Where you’re going to go, what you’re going to do, who you’re going to end up with. Life, at first, is like eating at Denny’s and choosing from page after pretty page of pictured options. Then, before you know it, you’re at some fancy restaurant eating multiple courses of food you don’t recognize, can’t pronounce, and didn’t even pick. Being handicapped only exacerbates these feelings. The choices become even fewer and farther between.

Well, I’ve decided it doesn’t have to be that way. Life is as exciting as we make it. Of course, things slow down as we age and most choices are behind us, but not all of them. We can always choose to shake things up a bit. For example, my writing coach recently resolved to experience one new thing every month. She picks one thing she’s never done before, and just does it. Brilliant. Last month, it was a Turkish Bath House in Atlanta. Surrounded by women of all shapes, sizes and ethnicities, she jumped from heated to frigid pool and let a very strong woman scrub her for hours with giant salt rocks. Talk about keeping it interesting!

Thus inspired, I decided to dip my toe into waters (a bit wilder) myself. Driving home from St. Augustine on A1A last week, two girlfriends of mine decided they wanted to go skinny dipping at sunset. Now, this is an example of an activity, like dancing or playing softball, that I would normally exclude myself from as being too much trouble or downright impossible. After all, my wheelchair can’t negotiate the soft sand, it takes forever to undress and I can’t swim! Luckily, these are good friends. Fueled, in part from the wine at dinner and in part from some deep seated fear I might miss out on something, I did something I almost never do. Instead of trying not to be much bother, I demanded they take me with them. In fact, I proceeded to dare and taunt them when they almost talked themselves out of it. My mind made up, I was determined to make it happen.

I’ll skip a lot of the gory details, but fast forward and imagine the sight, if you will, of a middle-aged naked woman, half-scooting, half-crawling across the sand toward the surf. I really never left the water’s edge, but still, I’m lucky I didn’t drown. I haven’t done something like that since my twenties, but certainly if you’d asked me last week, I’d have assured you that my skinny dipping days were over. I guess you never know.

So, try something new! Or do something you used to do, that the current version of yourself would never dream of doing. I’m going to steal the idea and try out a different experience every couple of months. And oh, by the way, one of those things has already been decided. I’m going to Mexico. For a month. But I’ll save that for another post. The point is, I’ve never been. New things happen when you make them happen. And there’s still plenty left on the menu.

July 5, 2014 10

One Girl’s Treasure

Frankie and I recently took the opportunity to visit the old neighborhood and hung out at a friend’s garage sale. If you live at the beach or have ever cycled down First Street, I’m sure you know the house. I knew the house long before I ever knew the owner. It’s the one with all the “art” outside.

Meet my friend Michele. She’s the one in the photo and, believe it or not, most of the items in the picture were not for sale. And yes, that’s a stack of bricks behind her. Someone was getting rid of them and she thought she might use them as pavers around her pond. Sure, they’ve been sitting there ever since I can remember, but that’s not the point. Someone was getting rid of them. She saved them. She and my chair-hoarding mother (See House of Chairs post) have lots in common.

It’s that way with many of the items — excuse me, finds — in and around her home. Her bedroom floor is a beautiful, eclectic mix of mismatched tiles and found sea glass and one whole wall of her kitchen is made up of wine bottle corks. She remodeled her bathroom with a 150-pound claw foot tub she and her son hauled home off the side of the road and had refinished. Outside, wind chimes made from old forks and spoons tinkle in the breeze while palm fronds painted to look like cats or fish reside on the patio. There’s a sink outside (not in a Honey Boo Boo way, I swear) filled with shells and driftwood she makes into jewelry or soap dishes and she received no less than five compliments on her wine bottle tree during the sale.

It’s a feast for the eyes. The home of a true creative type. When I’m there I feel too neat and minimalistic to call myself a writer. My place is empty and boring in comparison. Hers, with its recycled yard sale or trash pile finds and half-finished projects, just screams artist’s abode.

And yet, I have owned my artistic calling more fully. Having recently sold her restaurant, she’s unsure of what to do next. Like most people I know, she’s still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up and worried about paying the bills. It’s too bad people have to make a certain amount of money. I think the world loses a lot of it’s artists that way. Loses them to accounting or marketing or finance — i.e. paying jobs. The only reason I’m able to focus on writing is because I’m on disability. I had to become handicapped to follow my passion. Sad.

They say do what you love and the money will follow. I don’t know who they are. I’m more familar with the folks who coined the term “starving artist.”

In a perfect world, if money weren’t an object, I think Michele would open up a store filled with her creations. The latest being these hand-painted signs for the garden made from cedar roofing shingles someone was throwing away. (By the way, she sold half of the bricks for sixty bucks.) Until then, feel free to stop by and look around. You’ll know the house. You can’t miss it.

all3 — Me, Frankie and friend Jamie supervise the sale.

April 6, 2014 4

Another Perfect Day

I had it all planned out. I was going to complain about this weather lately. Hot, cold, hot, cold. And yesterday, I was all set to go to the local green market and it started pouring. I mean like thunder, lightening, Frankie-under-the-bed kind of pouring.

Then right when I was settled, and it was too late to get there by power chair, it turned beautiful. I was frustrated with the weather yesterday. Then, on television this morning, I was reminded of those poor people out west dealing with the wreckage of mudslides and thought, who am I to complain?

Both yesterday’s plans and today’s blog had to change. As a friend reminded me recently, “the best laid plans of mice and men …” Whatever that means.

So instead, I’m feeling grateful. I walked Frankie this morning and basked in the sunshine as he trotted happily beside me. And it turns out that any day’s a perfect day when your family is healthy and together — even if it’s pouring.

My favorite weather is bird-chirping weather. ~Terri Guillemets 

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours. ~Mark Twain

The Bermuda Triangle got tired of warm weather. It moved to Alaska. Now Santa Claus is missing. ~ Steven Wright

Wherever you go, no matter what the weather, always bring your own sunshine. ~Anthony J. D’Angelo

March 30, 2014 1

More Technology

It started with a simple question: What exactly is a hashtag?

I knew I was falling behind the times when commercials started mentioning them. As in, Samsung Galaxy #The Next Big Thing. Except, I don’t think there are spaces. I think it’s #TheNextBigThing. No spaces. I don’t know if running your words together is a hashtag rule or what.

Then a friend’s daughter made a joke that my name should be Amy #Did I Punch You? because I always ask that question after transferring to or from a vehicle. My right arm (the one with decreased sensation) flails out and inadvertantly smacks whoever’s standing there. So, she made the joke, and I got the humor without actually getting hashtags, and I laughed. But inside I wondered, does she know what a hashtag is? She’s only 12.

The final straw came when a writer friend and I viewed a contest form online that asked for our Twitter handles. As if we had such things. And it was required info, mind you, as evidenced by the bright red asterick. Like it was as common as a zip code. Twitter and hashtags are linked somehow. This much I knew, but little else. It was time to stop feeling stupid. It was time to figure a few things out.

Now, this will be old hat to some of you. Probably, the younger someones or the otherwise technologically advanced. And some of you will be clueless, having never even heard the term. Like my 95-year-old grandma (sorry, Jeanie) or my 83-year-old uncle who still uses a non-electric push mower and a rotary dial phone. (Sorry, Peter. Hey, you’re nobody till you’ve been written about in my blog.) The rest of you may have varying degrees of knowledge on the subject, but who, perhaps like me, have been faking whatever you don’t know. In fact, I bet if a lot of people were really honest, you’d find very few of us who actually know what a hashtag is at all.

So, I did the first thing any person over 40 does when they want to know something — consulted the encyclopedia. The online encyclopedia, Wikipedia, to be exact. And I googled it. Here’s what I found out: hashtags are to Twitter what keywords, or tags, are to search engines. In fact, I think (don’t hold me to it, this is very new and shaky knowledge) that search engines use hashtags too. Hashtags are just a way of grouping and categorizing information on the Web, predominately on Twitter. So, if a million people are tweeting about the Olympics using hashtag #Sochi, then all those conversations will be grouped together and there’s a greater likelihood that the subject will “trend” on Twitter. (There’s a list of what’s popular, or trending, when you first log on to Twitter.) So, this explains why all the advertising corporations are doing it. It’s the latest form of marketing.

That said, I think Twitter is dumb. I apologize to those of you out there who love it, but I mean, really. How much spare time do you have to have on your hands to bother telling people you just polished off a box of Girl Scout cookies? Who cares?! (I have an account now and a grand total of four followers and I swear that’s what most of the tweets are about. Nothing.)

I much prefer that other time waster. I mean, aside from Facebook. (Hey, I’ve lost hours playing Candy Crush as much as the next person.) I’m talking about Pinterest. It’s my latest addiction. And I believe worthwhile. It’s like browsing a huge magazine store where you can rip out pages from the magazines without buying any of them. Like a recipe? Interesting article? No more stealing from the doctor’s office. You just “pin it” to a virtual bulletin board.

I remember my writing teacher leading my retreat group in an exercise creating vision boards. We poured through magazines looking for images that spoke to or inspired us. It allowed us to dream, to create, to plan for our futures. I loved the idea, but felt hindered because of my inability to cut or paste. Enter Pinterest. It’s vision boarding without the mess!

Of course, you could be really old school and just read a book to pass the time. I was sharing some of my new techie knowledge with my friend Diana the other night. As she left, she asked about a book on my shelf. “I haven’t read it,” I admitted. “I got it for Christmas.”

“Perhaps you can start it during your Twitter time.”

Point taken. It’s good to keep up with technology. Especially as a writer — I might want to write about a character who tweets one day. But time spent reading a good old-fashioned book will never be time wasted. I started it that night. Thanks for the reminder, Diana.

March 23, 2014 4

Twizzles and Twizzlers

So now I’m addicted to the Olympics. I look forward to watching it every evening in prime time, and if something takes me away, I make sure to set my DVR. I’ve mastered the art of getting onto Facebook without reading the spoiler online news headlines announcing who took gold the day before. (It’s kind of like looking at 3-D art. As Kramer says, you have to look without actually looking, kind of let your eyes blur and lose focus, which granted, is probably way easier for me.) I’ve determined that figure skating is my favorite winter sport, and ice dancing is my favorite form of figure skating.

The reason being, and contradictory to my last post, I’m a big chicken. Sitting through all those death-defying, injury-causing competitions leaves me primed for a little ballet on ice. And when the skating involves triple lutz toe loops and quadruple axel sow-cows (yes, I just made that up and it’s probably misspelled) then I’m gasping out loud and crossing my fingers that the skater lands it all without incident. I much prefer a graceful couple waltzing around the rink to beautiful music and barely leaving the ground. Then I can eat my Twizzlers in peace, not choke on them.

Yes, I biked Europe all by myself, and yes, that was me at the Running of the Bulls. But make no mistake about it — I would never travel alone like that in the States. And I just watched people run with bulls. I didn’t take part in it. I’m not stupid. I’m not going to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.

Which brings me to the really gutsy people like skydivers and tightrope walkers who don’t use nets. During the Olympics, I’ve been watching all these crazy sports where people dive head first onto a track of ice to travel over 80 miles an hour or run their skis over rails before launching their bodies stories into the air to make multiple flips. And I’ve been thinking, it all seems a little … well, nuts. I mean, the human knee is not designed to absorb the repetitive shock of moguls. And rails aren’t designed for snow skis. Of course they’re not, they’re handrails.

Maybe, having already defied death, I’ve seen a little too much of the flip side — the results of tragic accidents from extreme sports. I’ve seen behind the curtain and can tell you, accidents do happen. I know the argument. I assume a much greater risk riding in a car than jumping out of a plane or into a bobsled. Maybe the difference is between necessary risk and unnecessary risk. I can’t avoid being in a car from time to time, but I can certainly stay out of bobsleds. So I’ll change last week’s life theme from “life is short” to “life is precious.”

But I don’t want to be a dream squasher. I watch these Olympic back stories about how the favorite at slopestyle skiing was doing backflips off the couch at the age of five and wonder — is this what he was born to do? I’m all for following your dream. I guess I’m just lucky my dream involves a computer and a desk. And both feet planted firmly on the ground.

I found the answer to this conundrum of my own making in a movie, of all places. Some of my valentine girlfriends came over Friday night to watch the movie Rush. (It gets a big thumbs up from me, for what it’s worth.) In it, two rivals in the world of race car driving, battle it out through life’s ups and downs. Talk about an extreme sport! Their two approaches are night and day, though. And perfectly define the difference of acceptable risk. One man is a playboy, the daredevil, ready to face death. He’s full of passion for living and ready to accept any risk to live on the edge. The other will accept a certain percentage of risk, but not one percentage more. Neither is right or wrong. They are simply adults choosing to live life as a bright flame or in a slow, controlled burn.

And that one word — adults — describes the difference for me between those character portrayals and some Olympic contenders. At 19, some Sochi athletes haven’t been on the planet long enough to survive a bad fashion trend let alone decide what life risks he or she is willing to take! More likely, for them it’s about ego and invincibility. And who can blame them? They’re teenagers! Did you see that Swedish kid with the dreds and the quad extra large pants? Supposedly, he was skiing down the mountain with an egg in his pocket. I say he should’ve spent a little less time worrying about breaking that egg and a little more time wondering how to keep his baggy pants from dropping to his ankles on the somersaults. Seriously, he lost them during training. It’s on You Tube if you don’t believe me. After that, he appeared to have acquired suspenders, but they looked quad extra large too, so I’m not sure how much they actually accomplished.

So that’s the food for thought I give you to mull over this week as the Olympics continue. If you’re reading this on Sunday, I’m excited. More twizzles tonight. Ice dancing’s on and there’s half a bag of Twizzlers in the kitchen.

February 16, 2014 3

Be Courageous

A friend called me last week, upset that she had to cancel our plans, but much more distraught over the reason why. She was exhausted by work. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. Her job, it seemed, was eating her soul. Well, perhaps I’m being a little dramatic about it. So I guess you can see where I stand on that subject.

If my life could have a theme, I think it would be that life is short. I’ve always felt this way. Even before becoming disabled. After all, I did quit my own soul-sucking job when I was twenty-seven to bike solo throughout Europe. Then again, I stayed for the money for years before quitting, socking it away and planning my escape while driving home every day miserable and in tears. So, who am I to advise?

But, I’ll do it anyway. Maybe, the question for my friend is — is it worth it? Is the trade off of investing more of your time in this unfulfilling place all for some nobler cause? I think, in her case, it is. And we’re talking about sticking it out for less than four months anyway! People can survive a lot for just four months.

In my case, I stuck it out much longer. But I’d like to think my plan was that much grander, too. And what about now? Now that I’m in a wheelchair? You better believe I think about that trip all the time now and am filled with gratitude that I had the guts. What if I hadn’t gone? I had some friends making bets behind my back about how long I’d last. In case you’re wondering — those are naysayers. What if I’d listened to the naysayers? “Aren’t you worried about the gap in your resume?” they asked. Look at me now. Do I seem concerned about the gap? And it was a big one. I was gone for close to six months.

I have another friend who just quit managing a restaurant she’s owned for twenty-five years. She had to listen to lots of naysayers. I tried to be the voice of reason. “Think of it as simply making space. You’re making more room in your life for the things you really want to be doing.”

And these courageous acts don’t have to be as huge and life changing as the ones I’ve described. Heck, brave for me nowadays is rolling into the Subway at the gym and ordering from a stranger who I hope will understand me and be patient while I fumble through the transaction.

I was at the gym last week, using the only machine I felt comfortable with and suffering from a severe case of gym-timidation when in rolled my friend Dani. (I’ve written about her before. The girl with Spina bifida? Who’s blind?) Well, you haven’t felt cowardly till a blind girl in a wheelchair taps her way right past you to try out several different machines. So what’s my excuse? Or yours, for that matter?

I guess what I’m trying to say is, in the words of my friend Michele and Nike, do it. Whatever it is. Take a deep breath and go for it. And in the words of that overplayed song that I love, I wanna see you be brave.

February 9, 2014 5

Sicker Days

I can’t believe I haven’t kicked this yet. I’m calling the doctor tomorrow. Enough is enough. I’m officially sick of being sick. Maybe later I’ll get it together enough to give you some nice quotes on sickness or post about your top ten cold myths debunked. Or maybe not. Right now I just can’t. I’m too sick.

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January 12, 2014 2

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