My Moby Dick, emphasis on dick

The Urinator went from really gross and annoying to somewhat dangerous Friday, and I am not sure what I am going to do.

I went to the bathroom Friday morning, and there was pee on the seat. I had to go, so going downstairs was not an option. Neither was going back to my office for Clorox wipes. So I wiped the pee off with toilet paper and sat down.

It was then that I noticed that he had left a little puddle of pee on the floor and my foot was in it.

When I was finished using the toilet, I learned that pee is kind of slick. I stood to clean myself off ... or tried to. My foot slid on the pee. Luckily I was holding on. I finally managed to clean myself and pull up my boxers. I then transferred to my chair and moved to a dry area to pull up my pants.

I talked to the woman in the office who uses a chair, and she said I have to tell people. I agreed, although I still doubt anything can be done.

I told my boss, and he gave me a harsher note he had already written based on this speech (transcript). It was quite good. He also suggested I talk to the building services manager.

He liked my boss's note but thought it went a little far. He promised, however, to do something.

Not fast enough, though. No new signs appeared yesterday, and every time I used the bathroom I had to clean the seat off.

Elevator revelation

Finally, I have it figured out: The walking people who use elevators aren't lazy, they're F---ING IDIOTS.

I came to this conclusion today when I got off my train and went to board the waiting elevator. Two walking people slipped on before me. A third was already on, but I give him a pass because he had some luggage.

I said, I need to get on there, thinking they'd make room for me. Nope. Just a little shuffling.

Even louder, I said, I'm supposed to be on it not you! One person moved a little to hold the door open button but did not move herself off the elevator. The guy near the door motioned that there was room or something. I guess he assumed that a) my wheelchair would automatically shrink to fit, and that b) I could leave Claren to take the next elevator.

Eventually, I just waved them away in frustration and got the next one. I learned then why those delicate souls were unable to move: A puddle of liquid kept them frozen to their spots lest the soles of their shoes touch the water.

When you get on an elevator in the metro, it says "Please give priority to seniors and persons using wheelchairs," so even if you ignore the many signs, you really can't miss that the elevators are for those like me.

Like I said: F---ING IDIOTS!

No days without an accident

I must be getting comfortable in the new house: Last night I sat on the couch to watch Glee and Reservoir Dogs and this morning I did something stupid and fell.

Our floors are wood -- ash if you are wondering. Every morning I put on my shoes tightly so I don't slide getting out of bed.

But this morning, I didn't tighten the laces and one of my shoes fell off while I was still in bed. No problem, I thought, I'll just grab it again.

Then the part of me that is trying to get me killed spoke up.

You can easily get out of bed, dude, it said. It used "dude" to put me at easy and make me think it was cool.

It then reminded me that the transfers in the bathroom on the no-slip tile are going smoothly. What could happen on the wood floors?

Turns out that ash is really, freaking slippery. I eventually got off the floor by putting my other shoe back on.

To make matters worse, this was the first morning my sister did not get up to oversee my feeding of Claren.

In other news:

• We did move into the new house, hence my silence. Tired, no Internet, then Glee and Reservoir Dogs are my excuses. The house is a work in progress but awesome.
• You know what really pisses me off, besides bloggers with life-threatening conditions who stop writing with no word of warnings? Gentlemen who urinate standing up in the wheelchair stall but do not feel the need to either raise the seat or clean their pee off the seat. Special place in hell, guys.
• Speaking of special places in hell, I got to my subway stop and got to the elevator as seven walkers packed in. One woman, bless her heart, got off for me. The other jackasses just squeezed a bit to make a tiny bit of room for me. Assholes!
• And finally, a woman came running out of a restaurant as Claren and I walked to the subway and was like, Can I take a picture of your dog? 

Breast cancer: Still shitty

 I believe I have made clear my feelings on breast cancer (See: "I fukcing hate breast cancer"). And on Saturday I will be marching against it.

Well, I'll be rolling, not marching.

I do totally rock the pink bracelet I have been wearing 24/7 since July, but still not a fan of breast cancer. I mean I don't even like the color pink.

I don't even need the bracelet; I have my badass Superfriends wacth anyway. It just needed a battery.

It should be super easy, even for one used to sleeping in on Saturdays. All I have to do is remember to charge my chair the night before. And even if I don't, then someone else would need to push me. Actually, that might be fun: not charge my chair and kind of will myself to make it, like Kramer and the gas gauge in the car. See how far you cam really go.

Oh, and I need to not roll off any sidewalks. Not as simple as it seems.

Crash

When I started looking for a condo to buy, I would get into the front seat of my Realtor's sedan and he would load my manual chair into the trunk or backseat. Sometimes, my little sister would come, too, and she'd be on wheelchair duty.

I didn't give the loading and unloading a second thought until about halfway through the process he bought a brand new white Ford Escape.

I can remember saying something like: It'll be a relief to get that first scratch on it, won't it? Because, my thinking went -- and still goes -- everything gets scratches on them. As long as they work, awesome.

This was not the way my Realtor felt. Oh, I hope I never get a scratch, he said, and just like that, getting into and out of his car became fraught with peril as I tried not to scratch the Escape.

I am going to feel the same way when we move into the new house. My brother-in-law and sister are pouring their blood, sweat and tears into the house. And here I come with my wheelchair and bang the heck out of a wall or doorframe.

I was thinking of buying a manual chair to use in the house. Insurance put the kibosh on that plan, although it is hard actually to call what I have insurance.

For durable medical devices like wheelchairs, the plan covers 80% and you pay 20%. You also have to pay a deductible -- $1,500 for in-network, $2,500 for out-of-network.

I might manage to meet the in-network deductible because of a $200 pharmacy bill every three months for just two drugs. Once again, it is hard to call that kind of coverage insurance.

But ... there are no in-network providers within 100 miles. Seriously. Insurance is on the list. I hope Teddy Kennedy is haunting insurance execs these days.

I know my sister will say it'll be fine and my brother-in-law already calls me "Crash," so he is probably expecting it. But it's not about them only. I don't want to ruin my house.

On ticks and ticket brokers

Mom and I spent the day at the national fish and wildlife refuge run by my uncle/godfather.

He has been there 10 years and one of the many things he did was put in wheelchair accessible pathways. I have always meant to go, but he is leaving for a new job at the end of the month. So I had to make it now or never.

Better late than never. It was great. I could go anywhere the paths went, and they went almost everywhere.

The only potential hazards: fox poop and turtle nests. More than once, there were baseball-size holes in the packed-gravel path. Real smooth holes. My uncle said turtles dug them, laid eggs and the little guys are left to fend for themselves. I frankly don't know how we still have turtles.

I didn't see any other wheelchair users -- we hardly saw anyone really -- but that's not really the point. You can have a gathering or go hiking in the refuge and not have to worry that your friend or brother or sister might not be able to come because it isn't accessible.

It's like Clemyjontri Park, a wheelchair-accessible playground for kids in McLean. I have been a handful of times and it has always bugged me that I am the only wheelchair user there. I am being stupid, I know. That isn't the point. The point of the park, I suspect, is that kids in chairs can do everything there that their more able-bodied friends can. It's not like there has to be someone in a chair to make Clemyjontri work. It's just there if some kid in a chair wants to go to a park.

I have been thinking about accessibility because this story from the Minnesota Star-Tribune has been sitting open on my browser for a week: Sweet seats, except they're for fans with disabilities.

I found it via WHEELIE cATHOLIC. Apparently, the Twins new stadium has almost 800 seats for people with disabilities. Great! The problem is that those seats are finding their way into the hands of ticket brokers. Bad!

What I was surprised at when I first read the story was how many commenters seemed to think that people who are disabled should not have reserved seats. Unless every seat is accessible, you really have to do that. Jerks.

The trip to the refuge was almost perfect; just one problem: ticks. I didn't get any.

Mom picked off some. Claren had a few, not a great testimonial to Frontline, which I gave her less than two weeks ago. But me not a one, at least that I felt.

Even blood-sucking parasites shun me. Is it any wonder my self-esteem stinks? Ticks are now on the list.

Goddamn geese, you have made the list

I have been meaning to start an enemies list. I don't think I have any actual enemies, though.

I did tell someone at work that she could tell people she was on my enemies list if I ever become infamous like Nixon, but that was just because people seem to be so proud of being on Nixon's list.

At the top of my list, at least today: Wild geese.

They overrun work ever winter. Normally, the company hires the Geese Police to "get the flock out." They chase the geese with border collies, who really excite Claren. They haven't been around in a while, though. I am afraid the Geese Police may have fallen under the budget axe.

I pointed out to a guard at work that it was only a matter of time before people start saying I smell. It won't be me. It'll be my wheels because they are covered in goose poop.

This morning I wheeled up the driveway to give me more space to avoid the nasty green landmines. I could tell the sidewalk was an impasseable mine field.

It didn't help. When I wheeled away from my desk, I saw Claren start to sniff at the little green streaks.