Eww, de toilet

In my youth, when I was still learning the intricacies of the bathroom, I used to sit on the rim of the toilet, not the seat, so as to dip my derriere in the drink. So to speak.

This totally grosses me out now. If FA were contagious, I would be sure that I got it from the toilet.

I almost returned to those thrilling days of yesteryear this afternoon when I saw down on my toilet and the seat busted. I slipped right off on to the floor. I wasn't hurt, but my pants were pulled down and whenever I tried to stand I heard a pitiful groan that I guess was me.

I finally called mom who was in the other room and she helped me up.

I guess I should be happy I didn't fall in.

Learning from poop picking

I miss my nephew. I decided this as I picked up dog poop.

Don't get me wrong, I'd still be picking up dog poop if he were here.

My nephew may be unique in his respect for his uncle's ability and total disregard for my disability. At least I hope that is what it is.

How else to explain the night we walked Claren? She pooped, and without any semblance of guilt, my nephew said: "I'll hold the leash." And he did, leaving his wheelchair-using uncle to bend over and pick up the poop.

I am lucky to have him and also the people who do pick up the poop because it is a smelly pain.

Crappy sidewalks, crazy people and wheelchair haters, or my evening walk with Claren

Claren and I started out on our stroll tonight and everything was OK ... Actually, not OK but normal.

Whoever planned the sidewalks in my town should be introduced to a steam roller or a level. Each segment of sidewalk is at its own height, even if that height is an inch above or below the next segment.

There are also manhole covers, where the manhole is rectangular and about 2 feet by 3 feet. These, of course, are rarely level with the sidewalk.

And I dare not forget the curb cuts. They are bone-rattling. I tried to go up one particularly nasty looking one slowly, but my wheelchair did not have enough power. When I turned it up to get the power, the chair bounced up the alleged curb cut and avoided tipping, somehow.

But crappy sidewalks, I am used to; crazy folks, not so much.

I was passing these two women who were also out walking. They were not white. Coming toward us was a white guy with big earmuff-like headphones and a scruffy appearance. I nodded to him because that is my flight or fight response: Nod and pray like hell that people leave me alone. It usually works.

As the girls and I passed the guy, he yelled something. And again. And again. I guess he could have been asking the time, but the voice was angry-sounding.

He could also have been yelling at either of us: Me for nodding at him or being in a wheelchair; the girls just for being. My town is not immigrant-friendly.

One of the girls grabbed the other's hand. I just kept going and hoped that I would not get attacked on a busy street.

Finally, I was nearing my street, but I saw ahead of me in a driveway that a minivan had parked across the crappy sidewalk, so I had to go into the more-crappy grass to get by.

What really annoyed me was the pink ribbon magnet on the back of the minivan. What this tableau said to me: "The people with breast cancer are the real heroes; pray for them. People in wheelchairs, ahh fuck 'em."

I really wish I was making this up

I am staying at my folks again tonight even though they aren’t here. They are on some boat cruise party.

I had dinner at my sister’s and watched a movie. Then I came back to mom and dad’s with my nephew and the fun began.

I took my antidepressants but there were only two, not three, and readers will recall how that effed me up before.

I was taking my pills when my bladder was gripped by this sudden realization that it was FULL and had to empty NOW. But my nephew was in the bathroom on the lower floor. I tried to wait, but he was not in there for a quick one.

So my options: Go to the bathroom in my pants or outside. Not much of a choice. But where outside? It had to be facing away from my sister’s house and dark but not too dark and somewhat accessible.

I settled on the sidewalk to the dog pen. So I got down there, slid my wheelchair feet to the side, unzipped my pants and just about slid off my chair onto the ground because the shorts I was wearing are real slick.

After recovering, I did my business and came back in.

No one was any wiser, though Claren wondered what the hell was up.

Still mad

When I was in grade school, a woman died, and although I did not know her, I'll never forget her.

She was the daughter of a family we knew and went to our church. I was told she accidentally mixed alcohol and sleeping pills. My teacher told the class as we were walking through the science fair that she killed herself.

I waited till we were on our way back to class then told my teacher she was wrong; it was an accident. I don't know if she believed me, but I stood up for something ... against a teacher (a nun no less) ... in grade school. That was not like me.

She also sticks in my mind because of her mom. The daughter was the only girl in a big family, and for years after the death her mom looked as if she had just cried and was about to start crying again.

She called God "that son of a bitch" for taking her daughter. She was angry ... until, she told my mom, she got tired of being mad all the time.

I am tired of being mad, too, mad about my life and my disability, but I am not by a long shot ready to forgive God.

I am at the beach for a few days. I have a beach wheelchair that requires big doorways and a pusher. Mostly today I just sat in one spot. I am with people who would do just about anything for me, but it is hard to focus on me to the exclusion of everyone else. I am not sure I'd want it. And it is hard to watch people play in the surf or just walk down the sand, probably oblivious to how lucky they are.

I feel I should not have come, and that makes me really mad because I love the beach and the breeze and the sand and the smell.

That son of a bitch.