I was looking for sinks, I swear

I don't think it will come as a surprise to anyone when I say that I am not the most experienced fellow in the world. But google's image search just showed me how naive I am and perhaps opened unexplored but icky avenues for me.

I was looking for photos of wheelchair-accessible sinks. In fact, I was going to write all about my search. I found a few ones I like, especially this one.

Then, keeping in mind that I was searching for wheelchair-accessible sinks, I came across a picture of two scantily clad ladies engaged in some behavior that their mothers probably would not approve of.

I was intrigued -- they didn't look like plumbers to me -- so I clicked on the photo and was transported to a hyper-disturbing world, where one can see, for a price, photos of many things that mothers do not approve of. One category of such things is for people with a wheelchair fetish.

I just read a blog post from a woman in a chair about this and learned that people fake being in a chair or dream about being in a chair to float their boats or others' boats.

Eeewwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

If Dad hadn't just taken a shower and depleted the hot water, I think I'd take a shower. Oh God, now these freaks are probably turned on by that image. Ick, ick, ick.

It isn't that women in chairs are objects of attraction -- I know plenty of hotties in chairs. But speaking as a guy in a chair, I would like nothing better than to take a sledgehammer to my chair, except than I could not get anywhere. It doesn't seem that you could build much of a relationship when the thing one person likes is merely a tool the other person uses because they must. Plus, it's just a piece of metal.

I also learned from my one-hour crash course in wheelchair fetishes that it is mostly men liking women in chairs. I feel a little safer, just a little disappointed

Trapper Matt, MD

My brother who also has Friedreich's ataxia once wrote that he wanted, early in life, to be a surgeon because of the doctors of MASH. The FA made him change career choices more than once and now he is an ass-kicking peer counselor.

I liked MASH, too, but never once thought about being a surgeon. Sticking my hands in someone? Gross! I just wanted to be a wise-cracking skirt-chaser.

I do think I crack plenty wise; I crack myself up. The skirt-chasing? Not so much, damn FA.

I have rarely thought that the medical field might be a good one for me. I am pretty sure that hypochondriacs should not be doctors. Imagine this conversation:

Patient: Doctor, I have had this weird cough.
Me: Does it sound like this? [Coughs] Because I have had that cough for weeks. What do you think I should do? I am thinking it might be a bronchial embolism. Any advice?

I could not be a disease specialist either. Bad news makes me sad and you can't make jokes about cancer ... Well, you aren't supposed to; some people don't appreciate my talent there.

And if I specialized in a body part or system, that would be trouble, too. I am uncomfortable around way too many body parts. I could be just looking in someone's nose and I would just start to giggle and not tell my patients they were OK.

Even in research there would be trouble. I'd likely cause the resurgence of typhoid by accidentally dropping a sealed sample.

The worst might be Matt as a nurse or a technician. I am thinking of me about to administer a local anesthetic and I sneeze and the local goes in my skull but I can't feel it because I am anesthetized. The patient just looks horrified and I am like: "What? Where is it?"

I think we can all agree I am not cut out for medicine, but this does not stop me from feeling guilty I have shunned a medical career. Whenever someone I love is sick, I start thinking I could cure that. If I had gone into medicine, instead of wasting it in liberal arts, we would have no cancer, no paralysis, no late-night calls that someone is in surgery.

Yes, I am cocky and unrealistic. I am not that smart. But at least I'd be doing something. And who knows, maybe an MD could out-duel FA to make skirt-chasing possible.

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.

Don't you think I want to stand?

Mass promised to become quite interesting this morning when the priest walked up to the altar with two hand crutches.

He, however, made a long explanation that he had just injured it skiing, and Mass quickly seemed inaccessible once more. The four steps up to the altar, the very words at the start "Let us stand."

This is part of the reason I am a Christmas and Easter Catholic.

There is also my poor hearing and my need for sleep.

It is not that I don't believe in God. I am certain God exists. It is just that I am not always sure God cares for me and I am even less certain that I care for God. We talk, or I rage. God is not too loquacious.

I wish I was certain about God and me, or even pretty sure. It seems to provide an overwhelming sense of peace in a maddening world, one where we went to church and my sister-in-law was OK, we came and she was in surgery, and by evening she seemed to be improving.

Mom told me years ago that she would believe God loves me until I was able to. When will that be?

A Christmas story

I was on the family room couch after dinner listening to Mom talk to my brother who is still in an Atlanta hospital with his wife who seems to riccochet between good and bad and leave of us those who love her dizzy.

This brother has Friedreich's ataxia, and his heareing is worse than mine. Mom's hearing is not great either. The point being: Mom needed to concentrate for this call.

I had other ideas.

I had to get up, so she noticed and took the dinner plate off my lap. I did not need her to do that or any of what followed. I am 99% sure I'd have been fine.

I then stood to get in my chair and slipped. I didn't fall and was recovering OK but Mom got up to help me while still on the phone. I then was up and pushed against the couch to go back into my chair. This would have worked except my arm slid past the cushions of the couch and I was stuck in the couch. Finally, I managed to free my arm and sat back in my chair with Mom's help. But I came into the chair at too low an angle so the cushion folded in half under me. I didn't want to stand back up so I put both feet on the couch and lifted myself up to get the cushion to unfold. It finally did, with Mom's help.

Then I left her to talk to my brother, whose wife is better today.