Tag: humor

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Rabbits in the Marijuana Patch

Spoiler ALERT!!…for anyone who’s put me on a pedestal: Cushion YOUR FALL! I’ve had mine.

In my youth, this innocent, naïve, credulous ostrich married a drug addict. In spite of a “should o’ been honeymoon night eye-opener,” I didn’t catch on until months into our marriage; even then, denial clouded my knowledge of facts!

Though I was out to “save the world,” after months of observing his and his friend’s TOK-clouded (transcendence?) behavior, I became curious. Yeah.

Would you believe that he was in Law school, and I was in grad school? Anyway, I always studied away from the zombie fray, and in solitude—the graveyard behind my church. I hatched a “harebrained”experiment: “what is the influence of marijuana?” for after I studied for a final.

I knew how to roll a joint. I had watched it being done, MANY-A-TIME, on the little thingamajig they used. But before my “education,” I mistakenly threw one away. (I never fessed up, and guiltily searched everywhere along with the motley crue.) But, I must say: I rolled a beaut!

I don’t remember why I drove the Bronco, because I had a Monte Carlo, but I did. Middle afternoon, I parked behind the church, found my favorite tombstone, laid out my blanket, and studied until experiment thirty—dark. It was time to investigate the supposed “marijuana effect.” I knew exactly what to do.

I reverently removed it from the baggie; hesitant but determined. I struck the match, lit the end, held it close to—but not touching—my lips, sucked in deep, watching the red embers glow….

It was like someone karate-chopped my Adam’s apple! I couldn’t decide if I was going to die from the “hit” to my throat or lack of air from the coughing fit! Man…how stupid…golly-gee!

Everyone always took several hits so, after recovering, I took 2 lesser emphatic puffs…nothing. No euphoria. No “peace out.” Nothing. What was the fuss? That proved it. It must have been those pills they passed around.

I packed up and headed home.

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On the way, the steering column seemed to come out of the dash! OMG!

To be safe, I slowed down. While trying to maintain control, I had to overly rotate the steering wheel back-and-forth, and back-and-forth, and back-and-forth…like a child pretending to drive. To make things worse, some impatient driver behind me started honking and flashing his brights!

What’s his rush? Man!

I slowed down more. Who can be safe with people like that on the road?!

On the last stretch, I thought about the Zesty Cheese Tortillas in my pantry.

GOT THE MUNCHES
GOT THE MUNCHES

A.A. (After Awakening), not a P.S.:

In the 60’s, while in college, I remember a front page headline: “rabbits uprooting marijuana plants from the cannabis research patch.” I wondered how a rabbit could have that strength; and, how they got the plants out of the fenced field.

Now, I wonder if my ex was one of the “rabbits.”

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Welcome To My World

I bumped this last week to post a sweet Thanksgiving memory. Here it is again.

For those of you just tuning in to “Conversations with Cynthia,” I’m tutored by thirty-seven years of disability (SCI), and living life triumphantly from a wheelchair. I have a varied educational background: Speech and language pathology, counseling, interior design, critical thinking (problem solving, not being critical), have run several small business ventures, and I’m an author.

My weekly conversations here are how I see things; sometimes from a serious perspective, sometimes philosophically, and sometimes humorously. You will often read song lyric references within my conversations because I think in song; like The Beatles “Help!” http://conversationswithcynthia.com/2012/08/17/help-not-the-beatles-a-wheelchair-assist/, and Jewel’s “Satisfied” http://conversationswithcynthia.com/2012/04/22/satisfied-in-spite-of-disability/ .

Anyway, ‎ I can be mid-conversation, mid-sentence with my cats and break into song. They’re used to it. With humans, I normally don’t embarrass myself that way. But, since you can’t hear me, “Welcome to my world, want you come on in…I’ll be waiting here…waiting just for you.” (Just listen for 2 golden minutes as Dean Martin sings it best http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qX7BAfXn85Y )

That’s my open invitation to R.S.V. P. with your responses concerning disability, or not, experiences relating to my topics, your thoughts, concerns, questions, reviews of my books, or suggestions for newsletter topics. I eagerly anticipate hearing from every one of you!

Let’s continue changing the world or, at the least, making it a better place. Be the best you!

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And, wouldn’t you know it, I have the perfect gift suggestion for you or a loved one on doing so. It’s my book: HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU, http://booklocker.com/books/6811.html . It’s a thought-provoking guide to discover, liberate, and live your true purpose and, for a little levity, strewn with farcical facts, food fun, and playful puns.

You would also enjoy my Memoir, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html a poignant, yet humorous, journey through my adjustment to living happily, flourishing from a wheelchair: my chariot. I’ve also included a Self/Help manual with products, equipment, and assistive aides that I have found most helpful in daily living!

I’ve had an excellent adventure this past year-and-a-half talking the eyes out of your head! So now, let me hear from you.

Let’s talk. I’m listening.

P.S. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks, but let me be the first to wish you the HAPPIEST HOLIDAYS!

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A “Matrix” Thanksgiving

Every so often, I relate an article unrelated to SCI. Let me share with you one of this year’s favorite Thanksgiving memories. It’s about North Hope’s, my soon-to-be 7-year-old grandniece, enjoyment of her papa’s fried Thanksgiving turkey.

Normally, our traditional Thanksgiving spread is two turkeys, one fried and one smoked; three casseroles: a yellow squash and onion, a spinach with jalapeño, and a sweet potato with Wild Turkey; cornbread dressing with giblet gravy; cayenne turnips; an apple/orange/celery/pecan/cranberry congealed salad; pecan pie, and sometimes a pumpkin pie, as well.

Her papa (granddad Patrick) carved the fried turkey. Amidst conversations of anticipated enjoyment of our Thanksgiving smorgasbord, everyone began filling their plates while Papa walked around the table serving our chosen pieces.

North called for a leg that looked the size of her head. I wondered if she could pick it up.

The second the leg filled her plate, she effortlessly picked it up and bit through its charred crusty salt-seasoned skin. I wanted to turn away but was transfixed as the crunchy, yet gelatinous, skin took on a life of its own. It was like watching “The Matrix’s” Agent Smith morph into another form.

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With a full mouth, she garbled, “I love the skin.”

I thought I would be sick. With each chew, it slipped off the leg, mercury-like, disappearing into her mouth.

Still holding the leg’s exposed naked meat for her next bite, but mentally ruminating its savor, she articulated her satisfaction: “I ate the skin.” then attacked the meat. Although I was laughing at my precious little carnivore’s descriptive narration, I was totally nauseated, holding back gags.

No one else was listening. She wasn’t talking to anyone. It was an innocent child’s monologue expressing her immense delight of fat-fried turkey skin.

How precious! How in-the-moment. How gross!

The moral: that we would live our truth, honestly, openly, and unapologetically.

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Winning, Warnings, and Wheelchairs

As with any of you living with a disability, my journey toward independence has been showered with ubiquitous “ups” and, at times, littered with dubious “downs.” One of the downers is shopping.

Just like the able-bodied, I use earth-friendly bags, paper bags and, less often, the plastic bag. Unlike an able-bodied person, I do the stack-on-my-lap, carry-with-my-teeth, and hang-around-my-neck tricks transporting my haul. In the “FYI” chapter of Views From My Chariot http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html , I proudly share some of my inventive uses of plastic grocery bags for you other chariot (wheelchair) riders…even catching chipmunks. Yes, it’s a fascinating read and an excellent gift!

But, here’s one proven not so ingenious use. DO NOT try this at home, at work, or anywhere else.

I wanted to check my mail. From the street, my driveway slopes down to my house. My mailbox is halfway down my driveway, equidistant from the street and my house. (The P.O. approved my putting it off the street since I’m disabled.)

The wind was whipping as it began to rain. Being a SCI quadriplegic, I don’t have the dexterity to hold an umbrella and wheel uphill, so I thought I’d use an opaque plastic bag over my head as a rain hat; you know, like the clear plastic ‘rain hats’ your grandmother used after leaving the beauty shop on rainy days. It would keep my hair dry, and I could safely see through it.

ill-boding bag
ill-boding bag

I put it over my head and face, its handles hanging down over my ears like earmuffs. To secure it, I held the handles with my teeth and began my grind up to the box. Of course, to prevent a runaway wheelchair from sabotaging my errand in the rain, I had to brake my chair at the mailbox.

Once all my mail and catalogs were safely balanced on my lap, I unlocked my brakes. Again, to prevent a “runaway wheelchair” from skidding off the back of my covered carport, I held them in tension against my wet tires; yet, speedily grinding downhill.

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Instantly, the wind’s pressure swooshed the plastic bag airtight against my face. My hands otherwise occupied, I couldn’t remove it…and I couldn’t breathe!

Although I could clearly see my carport, it seemed an eternity away. With bulging eyes, I finally screeched to a frantic halt on its level pavement, snatched off the suffocation bag, and gratefully gasped in depleted air. Whew! I didn’t pass out!

Lesson learned: The “Warning: To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from babies and children….” lacks clarity.

I still use the multi-purpose opaque plastic bags. But now, on rainy, windy days—not only as a creative solution, but also representative of my winning attitude, I stick my tongue out against the bag. This gives me an air pocket when it tries to suffocate me.

Is my disability the result of oxygen deprivation, you wonder? It’s up for debate.

 

 

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Worth, Value, and Nostalgia

Disability aside, have you ever hitched a ride or picked up a hitchhiker? Whether for a single mile to get gas for your/their empty tank or for a thrilling cross-country trek, you know a bad ride.

And, if you have ever been the host ride for the tenacious cockle burr, you know the aggravation and pain of these small ½-inch long, brown burred seeds with sharp, hooked spines. They are hitchhikers from hell, traveling the world by stealthily sticking to your clothing and/or your pet’s fur! My bloody fingers have felt like pin cushions after unwinding my Irish Setter’s long silky hair from their snare.

What made me think of hitchhiking? A math compass from a drafting course I took in the 1800s (a little before my SCI) that has mysteriously found its way to my keyboard tray. How is it that some things stick with us after high school and college graduations through multiple storages, transfers, uproots, marriage, and divorce?

What greater worth does a 6-inch metal math compass have over a luxuriously overstuffed, expensive upholstered chair that I left in one of my moves! For that matter, a couch in another? Nostalgia.

Before living with a disability, I used to love browsing through hardware stores. Yes, small town hardware stores! They reek of yesteryear. I loved the feel and smell of suede gloves, the fantasy of an overstuffed and oft’ used tool belt, puzzling assortments of hammers with every length and shape of nail, drawers of miscellaneous pulls and knobs, every type of rake and hoe…which brings me to Goldie.

Goldie was an avid gardener. She nurtured fields of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. She canned, pickled, and/or froze the produce, even pressed and dried her flowers. But, what most impressed me was her hoe. Yes, her garden hoe.

It was the only hoe she had ever used, was almost as old as she was, and boasted a filed down 2-inch blade, compared to its initial 3 1/4-inch depth! To maintain its best hoeing self, she sharpened it after each season’s use.
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I grew up on a farm and we always had a garden; but, I had never known anyone like Goldie who took such care of their hoe. I thought her attention to its excellence was as extreme as my dad’s cleaning of his firearms after each hunt. The seed was sown. I wanted a hoe to cherish. I wanted to wield it for as long as Goldie had. Goldie was the inspiration for my first organic garden.

At twenty-six, I prepared, composted, hoed, planted, groomed, irrigated, and cultivated that garden. Its greatest yield was two dozen pints of hot chow-chow/relish. (My dad called it “pea ruiner.”) Disappointingly, bugs got the Brussels sprouts and broccoli; my Irish Setter got the cantaloupes and watermelons. When they were mere hardball size, he picked them for lone games of toss and catch!

As destiny would have it, I experienced a SCI before the next planting. My hoe blade was never sharpened. But, my metal math compass has inexplicably made its way to my keyboard tray. For a finger function substitute, I use its sharp point as a flip-top opener for sodas and juices. That’s its helpful function.

With every pro, there’s a con. The “con” of its sharp point: piercing one of these tin cans! The carbonated contents of a Sierra Mist spewed four feet onto the nearest wall—showering its ant attracting sugar across papers, files, books, and bills—until the liquid level fell below the can’s pierce. I finally wised up midway through its geyser and tilted the can away from the wall to lower the liquid’s level and stop its display.

No matter. It’s my little nostalgic hitchhiker treasure of bygone days. It’s not a sharpened hoe blade, but it makes its point.

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SCI and The Law of Possibility

At one time or another, most of us have used a crutch or have used something as a ‘crutch.’ Whether as a prop or for support, I think when our lives are newly interrupted by disability, denial is as good a crutch as a crutch.

In the beginning—the first ten years—I used it (denial) to my advantage. I wasn’t going to be in a wheelchair the rest of my life and tried to live as if I were still able-bodied; but, obviously, needed help because of my disability. Others telling me how I inspired them wasn’t a help. My wake-up call, out of denial’s slumber, was realizing my pride and stubbornness.

Yes, I charged back into work, and being independent, but I look back at the foolishness of thinking I was more capable than I was, putting myself, and others, at risk.

There were several falls: a back flip off the toilet, a nose-plant onto my pantry floor, a “…tilt me over and pour me out” in my carport, and a semi-twirl off my back porch. The law of universal gravitation is especially cruel to those of us with effected muscular function/responses. Dead weight falls hard. Why hasn’t someone invented an ‘Iron Man’-like rocket boost for wheelchairs?

Anyway, the most dangerous denial was ignoring signs of autonomic dysreflexia (also known as hyperreflexia). http://calder.med.miami.edu/pointis/automatic.html

Autonomic dysreflexia in the SCI has numerous stimuli but most commonly results from an extended bladder or UTI (urinary tract infection), over-exposure in hot weather, constipation, and pain. I would ignore symptoms until a rocketing blood pressure-induced migraine escalated into distorted s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n speech, always requiring emergency assistance. If not treated, stroke, coma, and death can result.

Time, experience, and gained confidence work out the need for ‘crutches,’ but facing the truth on the wings of hope deals with denial.

Whether we improve physically or not, emotionally we can get better, day by day. If you lean on a crutch in the transition, that’s okay. If you’re honestly seeking to fit the puzzle pieces together for adjustment, this fellow SCI even recommends it. A little propping up, a little assistive support, goes a long way on the flight of optimism.
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After all these years, those initial ailments have either changed or improved. More importantly, I’ve become wiser dealing with new ones.

I’ve learned: that opportunities are peeking out from under every weight of limitation, and that some things are “in our head:” Possibilities.

“The Law of Possibility:” the unaffected space of weightlessness in the aerodynamic mind where possibilities abound, and gravity has no influence!

 

 

 

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Proportional Relationships

You’ve all heard of, know someone who has, or have experienced sleep walking antics (in my dreams!), even the Ambien-induced zombie driving, cooking, eating, or whatever activity undertaken during/after the drug’s kick-in. Well, pathetically, I have no excuse. I was awake!

It had been a l-o-n-g day in my wheelchair: my back hurt, my boo-tā needed relief, my feet felt like stuffed sausages, and my face screamed, “Nourish me!” If a CSI quadriplegic can hurry, I was trying to!

Whether or not you’re living with a life interruption (my coined expression for SCI, a prolonged illness, injury, or disease), you know the urgency of a getting horizontal reprieve. It’s more expedient than a need; more urgent than a must; more demanding than a have-to. It’s an emergency!

In the throes of discomfort, after tending to the boys, turning back my sheets, preparing my bed with my nightly supplies (if you’re SCI, you know what I mean), and turning off all slumber-robbing lights and electronics, I remembered seeing a white tube of face cream next to my stash of Young Living’s medicinal, therapeutic essential oils on my kitchen table.

Okay, I’m on that side of sixty. Get a grip! You’ll be there in the blink of an eye.

Anyway, assuming it to be my anti-wrinkle-undo-sun-damage-of-my-youth cream, I squeezed its emulsion into my palm, and slathered it generously upon my face—around my lips, cheeks, eyes, eyelids, eyebrows, and forehead.

Instantly, I was distracted from its odd, but vaguely familiar, scent. OMG, did it burn!

Still in the dark, I wheeled to the bathroom to administer a soothing gel. After a couple of minutes of no soothing, I smeared on a hefty portion of hydrating lotion. Still, no relief. Hmmm.

I reasoned that my face was extra sensitive after washing my hair, head down, in the sink, rather than in the shower. I figured, “Oh, well; overnight, my skin’s pH will balance.”

In the night, I had a rememory of something work-related I had forgotten to do. In the morning, in spite of a tight, itchy face, my feet hit the floor running (in a manner of speaking) to my office. After a while, a growling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten.

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Back to the kitchen table in daylight, I noticed the writing on the tube of “face cream:” Sally Hansen® Crème Hair Remover for face. OH, NO!

YES, I do have facial hair…it’s peach fuzz…and is only noticeable in sunlight…if you’re using a magnifying glass…sort of.

In horror, envisioning the hikimayu practice—shaved eyebrows, I skidded to a screeching halt in front of my bathroom mirror to see if I still had eyebrows, or eyelashes. Disability is one thing but a bald face is another.

Amidst scattered red splotches and snake skin scales were two brows. Below, circling both eyes, there were lashes.

Through extreme gratitude, I can’t explain why those hairs defied removal, but it did explain the pain! Oh, and yeah, “…the vaguely familiar scent.”

I believe my oft’ recurring missteps are directly proportional to the air in my wheelchair tires, not to the air in my head.

Are there any mathematical geniuses out there that would agree?

(“In pre-modern Japan, hikimayu was the practice of removing the natural eyebrows and painting smudge-like eyebrows on the forehead. Hiki means “pull” and mayu means “eyebrows.” -Wikipedia.org)

 

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SCI Grenades: Weapons of Mass Distraction

For you fellow SCIs, or other involved, animal lovers who have one trouble-making “alpha,” this is my harmless, but effective, ammunition for breaking up pet fights. (I was bullied into its invention because I can’t squeeze a spray bottle to interrupt unwanted behaviors.) Before I get to it, everyone else has to hear my short spiel:

Becoming a pet owner is a big responsibility, and research is tantamount before adopting.

I’m a proponent of adopting from shelters. Even though most are Heinz 57 varieties, you can identify a predominant breed characteristic. Thus said, breed types, temperaments, longevity, veterinary bills (annuals, neutering or spaying, health issues), must be taken into consideration. Too many pets are chosen on looks alone, then rejected because they’re destructive (meaning bored with no exercise), require too much attention, need veterinary care, and/or aren’t suited for the owner/family’s lifestyle.

Please, know that animals should be an integral part of your life, not a possession you tire of, ignore, or abuse. As He did us, God created them on the sixth day and saw that “…it is very good.”

Fred Astaire-the debonair
Fred Astaire-the debonair

Now, to my feline “boys,” Fred Astaire and Laptop. (I dedicated the chapter, “A Little Bit of Heaven,” in Views From My Chariot http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html  to my pets. You know they’re exceptional!)

Fred was a feral I tamed. Two years later, I saved Laptop from being euthanized. All went well until Laptop turned three or four; I can’t remember exactly.

Initially, the skirmishes were tame. They would start out as brotherly grooming—Laptop ministering to Fred. Things were copasetic for a time…until Laptop (a head taller and five pounds heavier) began exercising his alpha-ness.

Laptop begins lovingly grooming Fred’s head and ears then, atypically, body slams Fred to the floor, deceptively licking all the while.

Laptop's deceptive "come hither"
Laptop’s deceptive “come hither”

Fred’s a lover not a fighter, so he complies. But somehow, during the body slam, Laptop maneuvers into a tactical spooning position over Fred as he licks. Fred complains ever so slightly until…with all four paws embracing Fred in a body hold, Laptop goes for the jugular.

If you could feel it, Fred’s screeching would send chills up your spine! The aftermath of cat fur looks like evidence of a feather pillow fight.
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Here’s my SCI-approved device for interrupting an all-out fight, equivalent to the ding-ding-ding of the boxing round timer: an empty 16 oz. plastic water bottle loaded with 5-10 pennies.

Normally, a rigorous shake is enough to send them running in opposite directions. But, when the battle has reached a screeching fever pitch, it’s expedient to hurl the device into their midst.

Since I can’t hop out of bed to break up night skirmishes, I’m armed with three in my bed; otherwise, one is in my kitchen and one, in my office. There have also been surprise attacks when I have thrown whatever liquid was in my hand. Clean-ups suck!

I digress. This morning, Laptop had two of his “Submit!” demonstrations over Fred. I was semi-armed for the second.

The skirmish erupted in the kitchen at the east end of my six foot long table. I was at the opposite end without a grenade, but my vitamin bottles were out for my week’s daily dosages. I grabbed the nearest, shook it for all it was worth, like pulling the pin, and hurled it into the battlefield.

Well, this one wrought a triple whammy of distraction: the warning rattle, the explosive landing, and the shrapnel of 60 vitamins ricocheting everywhere.

It worked! But, instead of running for cover, they acted like drug-sniffing cats.

As penance for not screwing the cap on tightly, I picked up each capsule, one by one; and some, over and over and over. Sort of like writing on the blackboard: “I will tighten my vitamin bottle caps. I will tighten my vitamin bottle caps. I will tighten my vitamin bottle caps…”

I will not soon forget!

 

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No Compute-Grrr

Rarely am I silent, but last week was one of those times, for two reasons: I was without a computer, and I have been on bed rest to avoid a breakdown–SCI side effect: decubidus ulcer, that is. So, this will be short ‘n sweet, ‘cause I’m still on the mend.

I’ve been procrastinating the purchase of a new computer; not that my old one hasn’t given me grief. Let me tell you, “It has!” Especially when preparing my colorful, picturesque monthly newsletter, “Chariot Notes” for you. (I always include something to help simplify your life in “What’s New,” a joke or humorous incident in “Chariot Chuckles,” and a Note from me. I’m missing talking to you if you’re not on board!)

demented computer
demented computer

Anyway, I’m still learning to navigate this digital world, so my brilliant, gracious friend, Amanda, has been tutoring me long-distance. She’s acted as a VERY PATIENT computer instructor. But, on most of our telephone conversations/hands-on instructions, my screen acted like the demented evil identical twin—showing disturbing DISsimilarities to Amanda’s screen and displaying paranormal behaviors, like disappearing (timing out) before I could “save” my time-intensive works and grossly distorting what should be on my screen!

There were times that I was so bullied by my computer’s disruptions, compounded by my physical and mental disabilities, that I was forced to email my contents to Amanda for her to format it for me.

No longer! I bit the financial bullet and charged it. But, the evil twin possessed the new computer’s hard drive by transferring its dementia through the installer’s hands to fry it. I blessed the second computer; it escaped the evil one. Though it talks in a different language, I’m learning to translate!

As for my boring, but expedient, bed rest: you may see my body lying there, but I’m long gone in my imagination on one of my oft’ soul-soaring adventures

http://conversationswithcynthia.com/2012/09/14/soul-soaring-no-wheelchair-needed/    ‎

Let’s meet somewhere. Shall we? ‎

 

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Be Your Favorite Color

Here’s the hook: The only way to find out what “be your favorite color” means is to read my new book, HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU-from A to Z. It’ll be worth it!

My purpose for writing Views…was to share a little of my journey adjusting to disability and to open discouraged hearts with hope. No matter the life interruption, there IS life after. As a follow-up, HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU is to open eyes and minds to discover that purposeful future.

Aware of the many advanced self-improvement books written by highly educated doctors, PhDs, scientists, etc., I decided to write one on an elementary level, a four-part 101, of things that worked for me. I begin with leading clues to discover the real you, and how-to get to know yourself after losing touch.

Part Two is the common denominator for the sober awakening that life has passed us by—the impact of thoughts on physical, spiritual, emotional, and mental health.

Part Three offers 6 states-of-mind to assist in identifying what roadblocks may have detoured you on your journey of self-discovery. They are: boredom, denial, excuses, laziness, fear, and ingratitude.
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And of course, a tongue-in-cheek Part Four on my deep thoughts to stimulate yours. Like, what’s a burp? And, how-to prevent them; as well as, a chapter on the association, connection, and benefit of color in our lives. You CAN be your favorite color!

No matter what has delayed the fulfillment of your destiny—never knowing, parental brainwashing, incident/disability, or forgetting—it’s never too late to discover your north star, your passion and purpose in life.

P.S. Because of the fancy formatting, fun fonts, and novel use of color, HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU http://booklocker.com/books/6811.html  could not be converted for iPad, Nook, and Kindle readers. It’s one-of-a-kind! I’m working on a PDF for you who are digitally addicted.