Tag: humor

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The Third Time’s The Charm!

I want to thank everyone who has purchased my first book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, and send a special SHOUT OUT to those of you who have contacted me with your kind comments. It’s been a fun reunion, of sorts, catching up with old friends and classmates, as well as making new friends!

Writing Views… was a cathartic experience and the impetus for writing this second book, HOW TO BE THE BEST YOU-from A to Z.

My original goal was to finish the novel I began several years back. But, I began writing a short 10-15 page eBook. When the idea of writing it in color came to me, having never seen one before, it was like receiving a blood doping transfusion. Talk about a performance-enhancing drug!

Then came the downer: somehow, I deleted it at seven thousand words! (In the “Prologue,” I relate how I declared writing war one (WWI) and became “Wheelchair Warrior” the next day.) Amazingly, one month and seventy-five pages later, I stopped to reassess: It would have to be a book.

I learned from my first book that the printing process can add fifteen or more pages. I also knew that color books price higher due to their exorbitant publishing expenses. Therefore, I wanted to stay under one hundred pages for a retail price of $24.

For anyone considering a writing career, pay close attention.

I shot it off to the editor, down under. Three weeks-worth of ping-pong emails—rethinking and rewriting—is arduous work. Then, I sent my edited manuscript back to the publisher for book formatting.

DING! Round two of my writing war (WWII): I’m told I owe an additional $225.

What! For what?

It was now an estimated 110 pages.

NO WAY!

After a half dozen email volleys, inquiring and arguing that I kept it under 100 pages, I found out that my editor had enlarged the font, to ease her read, and forgot to return it to its original size. A larger font increases the number of pages. Duh!

I PAID for her mistake, because I didn’t discriminate the size difference. Now, it was off to the graphic artist for fancy formatting and fun fonts.

This is another couple of weeks of intense eagle-eyed comparisons, assuring that all my bullet lists, graphics, and colored text have been entered and colored correctly.

Once this task is completed, and I approve it, it goes to the printer. Within the week, a sample ‘galley print’ (book) is mailed directly to me for the final approval before it’s listed for sale.
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Aside from writing it, I’ve also read it umpteen times by now. I’m a speed-reader! I can spot an undotted “i” and uncrossed “t” lickety-split; even faster.

I spy a misspelled name. SHOOT! Why didn’t the editor catch that? I choose to let it go.

I see a one-letter color bleed that had previously been corrected after I called attention to it. DARN! Will anyone else see it; hopefully not.

Then, the deal breaker: I had noticed a color change the graphic artist had made to some subtitles. I reasoned that it didn’t matter and dismissed it. BUT upon reading the physical book, the color change caused even me, the author, confusion.

Pay $100 to pass GO!

WWIII: Back it went to the graphic artist for a handful of correction; then boomeranged on to the printer and back to me. FINALLY!

Within the three days to list it with all the book stores, two friends read it. It was when directing my second friend to a specific section that I realized it wasn’t there.

I scrolled through a gazillion email attachments to discover that the designer had accidently deleted it midway through our collaborations. Neither of us caught it. Sale freeze!

WWIV: It went back to the graphic artist (pro bono), the publisher (who extended grace and charged me half the ‘new file’ fee, $98), the printer, and on to me—for the third time, and the third sample book.

The third time’s charm; the paperback is READY to read! Glory, glory hallelujah!

ORDER AWAY! http://booklocker.com/books/6811.html

P.S. I’m weighing the conversions. The only way to replicate the colored fun fonts and fancy formating is to make graphics of each, then manually insert those graphics! That’s conversion cost plus the added labor expense. And, only the iPad, Kindle Fire, and Color Nook read in color. Most people have the basic Kindle. What to do!

 

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Conditional Pause

Well, pressure mapping has taken a back seat for a more pressing de-tail. (I’m holding up my LAUGHTER card.)

Ever hear of someone wit SCI bending their coccyx while seated? Now, you have. That’s what I did. After sitting in a wheelchair for 36+ years with osteoporosis, it was found that the stress pressure on my spine had bowed my coccyx, making a posterior misalignment. Then, when getting into bed the evening after being bumped and slung around in a transport van to a doctor’s appointment, I felt my tailbone move further out of line, to the left, to the left (as Beyoncé sings); and it bulged. Ouch!

Although my SCI doctor suspected a stress fracture, the previous week’s x rays had shown no spinal breaks. Now, with the pain from a new issue, she advised me to get a cat scan which would definitely show even the least fracture, and the condition of my tailbone. In addition, I had my sister take pictures of my out-standing coccyx to send to my doctor. (My doctor’s nurse and I have become really close.) Thus, began a week’s bed rest for a suspected deep tissue breakdown that she (my doctor) miraculously spotted on my fanny pic! There were 2 problems with the doctor’s orders.

The first problem was: I couldn’t sit up; much less get into a car! The only solution to have my condition checked was to call an ambulance for a non-emergency transport.

The second problem was: no insurance. Digging deep wasn’t going to help. This non- emergency screamed, “Emergency plastic card!” $714.86 worth! Again, OUCH! But, there was a silver lining in this cloud.

Our local ambulance is through Northstar Paramedic Services or Northstar Emergency Medical Services (NEMS). Weston Bolen, an AEMT, and Ben Patrick, an EMT, arrived in the Basic Life Support (BLS) ambulance. (To forestall assumptions of doom and gloom, I had already called my nearest neighbors to inform them that it was merely a matter with my butt, bû-tá, derriére, badonkadonk, arse.)

Anyway, these two young men could not have been more professional. They were compassionate and understanding of my directions to circumvent added pain from my disability, gentle in the lifts, transfers, and rolling transports on the Ferno stretcher, while being patient and congenial during the wait.

I enjoyed them so much that I wanted to invite them in for dinner, but I couldn’t sit up, and they were still on duty. Wes and Ben, thank you!
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The bad news is: the cat scan showed nothing different than the previous xrays showed. AND, after 2 ½ weeks of bed rest, my coccyx bowed further. How can that be!

Pressure mapping has been delayed until March.

Wondering what condition my condition is in?

It’s conditional.

Has anyone else experienced this?

R.S.V.P.

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My Hero

Before I get to my hero, here’s the back-story:

I have three cats, but this is about “the boys,” my two male felines, Fred Astaire and Laptop.

Fred was a feral that I domesticated. Intentionally, I didn’t use the word “tamed” because his first year in captivity he eat through my screened-in porch, four times! I decided it was cruel (and expensive) trying to make him an indoor cat. Weather permitting, I let him out once-a-week.

Two years later, I saved Laptop from getting euthanized. By three-years-of-age, he weighed a hefty eighteen-and-a-half- pounds. I decided he needed more exercise than he was getting indoors. So, he and Fred get an hour romp outdoors weekly. (As of this posting, Laptop has lost 3 pounds.)

I let them out into the wild through my kitchen door. Thus, my kitchen door has become the stimulus–the association for escape, like food was to Pavlov’s dogs’ salivation responce. Even when I casually pass by the kitchen door, the boys rush me. And, as guests say their good-byes at the door, Fred sprawls in front of it or circles their legs meowing. Laptop doesn’t waste energy until the door is opened; then, he springs for it. My disability prevents me from running after them. Unless they’re napping, it’s a zoo trying to get out without a prison-break!

In spite of being stealthy and giving directions to friends not to give the boys a heads-up–a polite knock on the door–the sound of the UPS truck belied my best-laid plans.

I heard the brakes as the truck stopped in front of my house then, the sliding of its merchandise door. I went to the kitchen to meet him. Immediately, eight paws with two expectant tails pointing north joined me.

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Through a barely cracked door I coaxed the man in brown: “When you come in, stomp your feet to deter my two cats from escaping. They will try to run out.”

He affirmed by nodding his head.

With a scanner in his left hand and two large stacked boxes in his right, he side-stomped through the half-open door. As he walked toward the kitchen table, Laptop saw the opportunity and made a break for the wide-open. I shrieked.

In mid-stride, the man in brown side-pressed Laptop, now in mid-air, against the door with his left calf then, swiped him like a credit card back into the kitchen…never losing his balance or a box. I slammed the door behind him with, “Thank you! You must have pets.”

He slid the boxes onto the table, quickly scanned them with, “Oh, yes.” and was back out the door.

It was a bird…a plane…the UPS man. My hero!

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Make My Day

I have lived happily, independently, and triumphantly from my chariot (wheelchair) for thirty-six years now. I have worked as a speech and language pathologist with special children, dabbled in interior design, designed and built my wonderfully accessible home, hosted a multitude of international exchange students (You can read about them in the “Bless This Home” chapter of my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html.), counseled teens and young women in a life coach capacity (as well as boosting their self-confidence through make-over workshops), ran an antiques home gallery, and design(ed) jewelry.

When it comes to entertainment, beauty, and joy, I’m a low-maintenance kind-of-girl. I am entertained by a good book, an old movie, or stimulating conversations. I find beauty in the simple yet magnificent pleasures–all my little sanctuary’s animal, mineral and vegetable gifts, nature’s seasonal raiment, and sunshine. I live a blessed life.

Routinely, the first delight of my day begins by feeding and loving on my 3 cats. Everyone is hungry, wants to play, be brushed, and have one-on-one time.

Once satisfied, the boys–Fred Astaire and Laptop–scamper onto the screened-in porch to relish nature’s activities. Before hitting the office to write and research, or whatever else is on the day’s agenda, I have my espresso and spend more time with Ciati, my only female feline. (Picture in memory. Ciati transitioned to Heaven’s rosemary fields–her favorite–at 22 years spry)

Then, there are the occasional days my body requires extra TLC (with my Young Living essential oils) from over-worked muscles. On such a day this week, a monstrous house spider (Sorry, God. I do not, not, NOT like spiders.) blatantly crept into my kitchen.

I’m OCD about spiders. I know they are uninvited pests in everyone’s home. I’m fine with “out-of-sight…” Though, when I do see one, I do not allow it out of my sight until I have read its rights…or, I’ll just say, “The last thing on its mind is reading material.”

With focused contempt, I scanned the room for a book or magazine to drop on it, which is exactly what I did. SPLAT!
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Whether with a bow-and-arrow, shotgun, handgun, or horseshoes, I was an excellent shot. I may not manually hold any of the above at this time, but I can still  judge speed and distance.

It requires skill and strategy to heave the written word in such a way that it lands horizontally on a scurrying target. This takes the printing “press” to a whole ‘nother level. Agree?

Even though I wasn’t up to par, and that spider stealthily deliberated its exodus, I assuredly dared, with squinted eyes and a frown, “Make my day.”

It did! I felt much better.

 

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I Never Complain, but…

QWERTY middle finger picAll this talk of viruses disabling computer programs. There are other ways of disabling us users, and I’m not referring to disability.

What is it with this younger generation, anyway? They come out of the womb air typing—like they already know QWERTY’s keyboard layout. Really! It took me a high school senior class to memorize my typewriter’s layout, though my class drill assignments looked like Greek on a modern-day sheet of papyrus. I mean, with 50-65% typing errors, it was sort-of illegible.

Even now, I have deceptive looking hands. My five-year-old Grand Niece says my hands are “tangled,” meaning: I can’t grip things. They look like they belong to a keyboard maestro with long skinny fingers and a palm spread to rival The Shaq. Hey, I’m not complaining about my unusual hands, I’m complaining about our 21st century digital communications.

Since I was born in the first half of the 20th century—a long time ago—hertz and gigahertz mean nothing to me but frustration. Forget kilo, mega, and gigabytes. Our brains store information, hopefully; computers store space or bytes? Where I come from, a byte means a “bite of food,” or a limb, if you’re a child in the throws of anger. Anyway, we used to have bully bullies. In addition, we now have cyber bullies. I can’t take it anymore! I’m tired of being pinned against my password wall!

I’m being bullied into taking “Brain Energizer” supplements to boost memory and ward off disabling Alzheimer’s Disease; because I can’t remember all my passwords to my varied treasure chests of Gold? NO! They’re to my many portals of business goings-on. It’s not my fault!

For security’s sake, when I come up with a password, I’m asked if I want my program to remember it. Of course. It’s a time saver to click “Yes;” so I click “Yes.” If they remember it, why should I. Right? Wrong!

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When my Shaq fingers make a mistake, they ask me to verify my password. Excuse me! They were the ones who asked me if I wanted them to remember it. When I type in my username, that horizontal line of bold black dots clues me that they remember; it’s right there, hidden in plain sight, to login.

My question is: “How does this clock-and-dagger password drama relate to my identity?” Hackers, BE HACKED! Computers, my brain intelligence has out-witted your byte space. I’ve been byte-n enough.

I have a manila envelop titled “Usernames and Passwords” filled with each venture’s name, email address, username, and password…written in reliable, old-fashioned long-hand.

I love my long digits; especially my multi-functional middle finger—for the express purpose of typing, of course.

P.S. Just returned from my Chicago convention. I’ll have the update, and warnings of “accessible” tours, next week. Stay tuned.

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“Help!” (Not the Beatles) – A Wheelchair Assist

WELL! I have had an eye-opener-of-a-day!! (Pay attention to double exclamations.) I went through my drive-thru shower this morning only to realize that I COULD NOT make the landing (transfer) onto my helipad (commode). Wheelchair positioning alongside the right of my commode is essential for a successful transfer. Three-fourths of the way, I could not disengage from my rubber ROHO!!

“Help, I need somebody,
Help, not just anybody,
Help, you know I need somebody, help.”

–the Beatles

For a safe transfer, I depend on my shower-wet rubber cushion. It was not in slip-n-slide mode. My left buttocks sat on a dry cushion; my right, on the dry left side of the toilet seat. I was stuck, literally. Teetering, I balanced with my left hand on my cushion, while trying to heave my dead weight over onto the toilet seat. NADA!!

I’m not a once-does-it kind-of-girl, so with Olympian efforts amidst multiple Hail Marys (prayers, not passes, although it was in desperation), I finally retreated back onto my ROHO, reentered my shower for a second water-lube, and tried again.
Forget it. It wasn’t happening!

“When I was younger, so much younger, than today,
I never needed anybody’s help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I’m not so self-assured,
Now I find I’ve changed my mind and opened up the doors.”

–the Beatles

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To assist my regular commode transfers, I sprinkle baby powder on its seat. Powder lessens the skin-against-wood toilet seat friction. After a shower, I depend on water for an assist.

I used to have an antique ball-and-claw tub fitted with a hydraulic-lift seat secured by suction-cup feet under its base. That was definitely when I was younger. The precarious struggles off the rotating seat, over the tub’s rim, and into my wheelchair gave birth to my drive-thru shower design. (I’m also an interior designer.) A drive-in shower seemed much safer, and certainly has been until, lately, when my body and strength changed.

“And now my life has changed in so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,…”

–the Beatles

To remedy my impasse, I had to transfer into bed, dry off, slather up with my lotion, and dress in bed. But, I did it!!

“…Won’t you please, please, help me, help me, help me, oh.”

–the Beatles

Waiting for some “Help!”-ful comments; but not from you, Paul.

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Disabled or Enabled Thoughts

I may be living with a disability, but I have enabling thoughts, most of the time.

I enjoy reading and writing, and I love words, but there are times when OCD (Obsessive-compulsive disorder) sets in—like the Howard Hughes moment when I catch myself repeating, in my head, the same set of words over and over and over and over and over…. I catch myself repeating a slogan on a billboard, a car sticker silly-ism, a TV advertisement, or a thought reminding me to do something.

I fall out of the formal diagnosis of ritualistic behaviors because there is no mental compulsion driving me to relieve an identifiable anxiety. Except, I must confess, on rare occasions since I was a young girl, when a group of birds fly overhead, I am compelled to count them before they disappear from sight. Of course, that’s totally normal. Don’t you also need to know the avian population? No worry; I don’t keep count from one counting to the next and add them up. That would be CUCKOO, and compulsive. Repeating the same set of words in my head is recurrent, it isn’t compulsive, unless I don’t have a pen and paper readily available, or until I turn the oven off…turn the oven off…turn the oven off….

“STOP!” I say out loud, only to hear myself repeating the same stale words moments later. It’s like dictating a Western Union telegram—Stop (period). No such luck! It’s really aggravating.

To get to my point, research has shown that our thoughts (able-bodied and disabled alike), positive and negative, affect our emotions and physiology. Long before this type of research was accepted, James Allen wrote As A Man Thinketh. The following are food-for-thought quotes from his contemplative writing:

“The body is the servant of the mind. It obeys the operations of the mind….”

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“Disease and health, like circumstances, are rooted in thought. Thoughts of fear have been known to kill a man as speedily as a bullet….Anxiety quickly demoralizes the whole body, and lays it open to the entrance of disease; while impure thoughts, even if not physically indulged, will sooner shatter the nervous system.”

“Strong, pure, and happy thoughts build up the body in vigor and grace.”

“If you would perfect your body, guard your mind. If you would renew your body, beautify your mind. Thoughts of malice, envy, disappointment, and despondency, rob the body of its health and grace. A sour face does not come by chance; it is made by sour thoughts. Wrinkles that mar are drawn by folly, passion, pride.”

“There is no physician like cheerful thought for dissipating the ills of the body; there is no comforter to compare with goodwill for dispersing the shadows of grief and sorrow.”

And, along those lines—A REMEDY: When you find yourself feeling depressed and sorry for yourself, do something kind, thoughtful, and generous for someone else; not just once, often. He’s not heavy; he’s your brother. Your heaviness will be lightened, as well. I have always found this to be true.

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Wheelchair Delights

Until you read my book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, let me add a little more personal information, aside from the tidbits included in all my articles about my living with a disability.

I’ve been riding in my chariot, i.e., wheelchair for thirty-five+ years now, at break-neck speed—probably not funny because that’s what I did (broke my neck), but it made me giggle as I typed it.

In fact, I was making a phone call a while back checking on something, maybe accessibility, I can’t recall. My sister was at home with me. Midway through my conversation with whomever I was speaking, Candace reminded me—like a backseat driver—to offer that I was handicapped.

As I began to explain that I was disabled, my sister and I broke into hysterical laughter. The harder we tried to regain appropriate solemnity, the more boisterous we became. Finally, I just hung up. Neither of us could compose ourselves enough to explain. I’m sure they thought it was some sick prank—totally disrespectful of the disabled plight. What can I say? That’s how I roll.

Besides my sister, here are some of my favorite things: Nature’s cooperative communication—like a school of fish changing direction in a split-second (I used to scuba dive.), and a flight of birds swooping in a 180° turn in unison; expressive music (Carmen’s “Champion” is my favorite Easter song; for Christmas, Michael English’s “Mary, did you know?” and in general, the Chordettes’ “Mr. Sandman”—a VERY old oldie.); cashmere sweaters, scarves, and barefoot sandals; breakfast, spicy Indian food, and mahimahi;  beets, turnips (boiled, roasted, and sautéed),and roasted garlic; the aroma of freshly baked bread, rosemary, and lemon verbena; the scents of gardenia, honeysuckle, and vanilla; azure skies, full moons, and shooting stars; the exuberance of orange, and the peacefulness of white; late winter daffodils, bright Gerber daisies, and red poppies;  ancient Asian peonies, graceful crepe myrtles, and their leaping lizards (which will make sense when you read my book); a tugboat’s baritone horn in the night, a train’s distant whistle, soothing wind chimes, and a child’s voice; movies, movies, and more movies; cats, cats, and cats (I have three, and I’ll be posting some of their antics.); a good book, and time to read it; oxymorons (Are you thinking I’m clearly confused?); a smart joke, a fun game with friends, and laughter; champagne, dry red wine, Maker’s Mark Whisky, Glenlivet Scotch, Jose Cuervo Gold Tequila (I’m fasting liquor. Can you tell?); coffee (coffee candy, coffee yogurt, Tiramisu, anything coffee), and espresso.
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I have been tediously repetitious with things that I love, but I DO LOVE LIFE! If you think about it, all of the above are simple sensory delights available to the able and the disabled alike.

And now, like any of you, after my coffee’s adrenalin surge, I am exceedingly alert with dilated arteries and accelerated blood flow. I think I’ll go run it off.

Uh-oh, I can’t run.

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Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity IS HERE!

Annually, around 11,000 SCIs occur in the United States. Fifty years ago, the life expectancy for people living with a SCI was only a couple of years. Now, it is next to anyone else’s with the same number one cause of death: heart attack.

Celebrities, like Christopher Reeve, have helped raise awareness of living with SCI, as well as money for research. But, there are the rest of us, with limited funds, who continue to beat the odds by living healthy, happy, productive lives. I am one of those among you living triumphantly from a wheelchair. Let me tell you how I’ve done it.

That’s me!

My book, Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity, recounts snippets of who I was before my car wreck—living an adventurous, enviable life among movie stars and musicians—and snippets during my adjustment on my chariot ride that changed me into the whole person I have become. It is a two-part book.

The first part is a fun, humorous, yet pithy vignette Memoir. When my flight of fancy was interrupted by disability, a journey of self-discovery ensued, revealing a secret, even I was incognizant of: I was a fearful, detached person. This revelation allowed me to break through the crippling chrysalis that had bound and paralyzed me before my wreck, into an emotional freedom and physical independence I had never known when walking.
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The second part, Appendix: Let’s talk, is a self-help/reference guide for gaining this emotional freedom and physical independence. It is chock-full of humorous, personal anecdotes in dealing with and alleviating daily vexations (mischievous pets included), as well as descriptions, prices, and sources for purchasing helpful assistive aides, products, and equipment I have found to be essential, or just because I like them. They range from pain patches and health care, home renovation and decoration, kitchen gizmos with recipes included, to exercise equipment, and much more. All these are referenced in the Notes at the end of my book—a wealth of information for anyone adjusting to an interruption of disability, disease, or illness; also, a must for family, friends, caretakers, and professionals on the journey with us.

If you are accomplished at reading-between-the-lines, you will glean extra credit on your life journey toward peace and productivity.

TODAY, I AM ANNOUCING: Views From My Chariot: A Wheelchair Oddity IS NOW AVAILABE! Click http://booklocker.com/books/6235.html  to get on its page, and you’ll be on your way to have it conveniently delivered to you. I’ve offered a FREE excerpt for your preview.

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Living With A Disability

How do you, live with a disability? I think we live as any regular person lives, though a little differently.

I advanced my education after my car wreck. Instead of walking, I rolled to my classes. Later, I was hired as a speech and language pathologist in a school for special children. Due to the diversity of speech and language disorders, I scheduled much of my caseload in individual sessions, or as one-on-ones.

On a particular day, this seven year old, who didn’t want to be in school, decided his session was over. I saw it coming; he had previously used me as target practice with a metal toy truck (one of several vehicles) I was using to teach vocabulary for modes of transportation.

Seated across the table in front of me, he rose from his chair—wearing the face I knew so well—and backed across the room until he reached the wall, never once breaking eye contact with me or even acknowledging my request to return to his seat. Challenging me, he stood firm.

I backed from under the table and wheeled left toward its end. Before I could round the table to guide him back to his seat, he ran to the table’s right end. I backed up and headed toward the right end. He scurried back to the left, never taking his eyes off me.

I knew I could not win this stand-off. I rolled over to the intercom, buzzed the principal’s office, and requested his audience, by name. Instantaneously, David had a change of heart, breaking the sound barrier to get into his chair. After that incident, I was assigned an aide for a couple of my unruly students.

With this one exception, children have always shown a compassionate understanding of my disability. I never had children, but I sat for everyone else’s.
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When I requested that they not go upstairs, outside, or anywhere that I couldn’t be with them, they complied. Since I couldn’t pick them up, I taught them the two-step-climb up into my lap. This was a multi-purpose skill, not only for reading stories, or to love on them, but also to assist them onto my dining room table to change a dirty diaper. Yes, it’s a little unorthodox (I always sterilized the table surface afterward.), but the joy was the same, and the job was accomplished.

With children, here are two perks of having a parent, sibling, or friend, living with a disability. The first is: They can develop early language skills because we talk them through most developmental tasks, i.e., learning to dress, and give directions for performance abilities (keeping their rooms straight and floors clear of toys; if not, we can’t step over things to put them to bed.).

The second is: Their confidence and independence—doing things for themselves, and us—set them up for success, as well as nourishing a sensitivity and consideration for all others.

I think we do rather well living with a disability, thank you very much.

Remember, R.S.V.P.