Until I Was Ten, I Thought I Was Fine...

 even though I've never been abled, so it wasn't really that I was much better off, physically.(more portable, perhaps
I mean, I could always see that other kids could move faster, or had more freedom, or things like that.  Sometimes I thought they were lucky, or maybe I'd want to switch with them for a day or so the way other kids might wonder about having different parents or a brother instead of a sister.

(And yeah, it was a little bit easier being in grade school, where other kids would...sometimes lose control somehow, and, well, if everybody you know has a set bedtime, it's easier to know there's not craziness you're not invited to.)
And, maybe,  if "well-meaning" adults, capitalism, and my other loving but distant relative the Media hadn't taken it upon themselves to grant me shame about the ways I stand out, I might have gotten shot down all the time. But maybe having people break you down pre-emptively isn't "Toughlove" or indeed, any kind of love at all, but just not being able to bear someone else's flash of confidence. Maybe it would have been better to get shot down blind, than to be endlessly prepped for it.

Not to sound like one of those crapzillions of articles and stories about the middle-aged lady who reconnects with her Inner Harriet the Spy and rediscovers her passions(as well as a notebook empire)

You Wouldn't Want A County Recorder Like Me...

 because keeping count has proven at least as hard as meeting the writing goal(once I got through last winter's caregiving problems, anyway) and I lost count a lot. So between the early undercounts and trying to compensate by padding through the fall--and knowing I wrote tons this year, I'm giving myself credit for meeting the 150,000 word writing goal I set with Dreamwidth last year.

If, technically, I did not.(I have dycalculia...if someone did somehow pick through and find me at slightly less, I suppose I'd accept their count.) But I didn't add to my clips this year, nor learn a valuable lesson by throwing myself at the buzzsaw of Rejection to toughen myself up, although i guess in one sense, it did help; the cycles of pain do get shorter with each rejection slip. There just isn't much  of a path forward in form-letter land.(If everyone thinks I am so amazing, say yes!)

I needed this win, plus I went to two craft classes this year and worked on technique more than I have in at least a decade, so I'm claiming those bragging rights.(Nothing is less braggy than three grafs of disclaimer, though.  "Could I be less into myself?" probably not without being an actual penitient or something.

So, yay, I did it, I think!

The Weirdest Book I've Loved This Year: The Pisces

 

New Yorker Review of "The Pisces"

Melissa Broder’s “The Pisces” is the weirdest book I loved this year.  It’s lyrical, though, funny(the tongue-in-cheek portrayals of support-group participants and what they do and don’t understand about their lives will be familiar to anyone who’s ever been in one, no matter how briefly) and honestly erotic in ways that at the same time make whatever barriers either disabled partners or those in a mixed-ability relationship look like child’s play by comparison, since Lucy and Theo can only meet on a rocky spot on the beach or on Lucy’s sister’s living room sofa after Lucy pulls him across the sand in a little red wagon.  Definitely puts complaints about narrow doorways into perspective.

I might not recommend this to someone who has a problem with graphic sex scenes, or indeed other bodily depictions of any sort, though I enjoyed them for the most part.

Sad Crosspost...

Ady Barkan has died. 

A Mixture of Relief And Loss...

 as Actual Mom and I clean out our closets and bookshelves. We'll have more space now, but there are a few things that I felt some sentimental attachment to, but that had, in fact, been shelved on in a closet for years.  Well, I'll have the memories;  I guess I don't need the actual objects.

Not Quite A New Curse Out Of Boston...

 but there is *no* tension in the Frasier reboot. I get that the current era has been a rough one, but lately showrunners are reminding me of my mother when I was a kid trying to tell me Tom and Jerry were just playing(Although there are a lot of cartoons of them.  Some of them are more like that, more like the sheep and the wolf  clocking in.) But seriously, no tension, and I say that after watching eight years of stuff mainly going right for Vincent Chase on "Entourage" ..I'm not even talking about Norman Lear/ "Better Things" style Fighting About Stuff That Actually Hurts, which I do think Better Things is brilliant about, but I am living with my mother.  It could be a little too much.

-is being a dropout so early in college really a crisis?  Also, Freddy left *Harvard*--he looks better for leaving Harvard than I do from sticking with my grubby state college.(it's not 1968.  Lots of famous people left college for opportunity...maybe a good place for a Damon-Affleck joke.) Maybe that part would work better if  he: washed out and faked that it was he choice, or if he was further along in school or some prize-winner and he gave it back.

-Would your dad be SO disappointed about the fire-fighting?(Around here, Frasier would love that, although maybe not that Marty's connections would open more doors than him being the "I'm listening," guy for years.  In Phoenix, there isn't really such a thing as getting on at the fire department without a family connection. ) But in the Crane family, I seem to recall a cousin on the Greek side that was a mime on the street.
Maybe, again, let's say Freddy needed to prove himself to the other guys by leaping into the most dangerous stuff, first, or something like that...that's actually a good choice, because Frasier would have a lot of thoughts on the death wish and stuff like that.  As any Freudian worth his salt might, he might conclude that it's a normal, even universal thing.  

But he wants to be a good dad, and he wants Freddy to appreciate chairs with more of a pedigree than I have, so, you know, Not For My Kid.

I have officially thought more about this  more than the folks in charge, who totally just wrote  Kelsey's number on a napkin with a box around it that read Frasier In Boston.  Sigh.

Catching Up With Bob's Burgers...

 and it feels like I wouldn't be doing my(somewhat fake) job if I  didn't comment on Tina having a robot. Watching it in 2023 is probably a little more poignant in the aftermath of years of remote learning and all that, although of course it's enough for this blog to see an abled character cope with mobility challenges.

Your Bohemian Crip wonders if maybe she shouldn't comment on what it feels like when your tech-enabled persona is so much easier to embrace than you in all your awkward flesh, but much like Tina herself< I'm not really good at hiding what I'm thinking. Sometimes, it's true, but I have mixed feelings about the way people can play their dramas in front of me as if I'm a dog or someone's grandma on a bus. In one sense, kind of an Austen-tip, it helps me as a writer.  Sometimes I miss feeling like i could be in the mix, myself, though. Nobody's really like "When I grow up, I wanna be in the Greek Chorus."

Wonder if Jimmy Jr would ever stick to it enough to really write a song(excuse me, musoem) or two.

Mr Frond is like every social worker I've ever had.  Except sometimes the women wear big ugly earrings.

A Little Something, Part 2...

 

I’m sorry?” I say, thinking “Please don’t hurt yourself, Hannah or Emily.  The wisdom I’ve gotten from it isn’t worth the hype.  So far, anyway.” But I don’t speak, which I am really freaking glad about because she says:

“I’m really nervous about cold-calling strangers.”

The absurdity, as well as the relief of not actually proving I’m a complete nutcase makes me giggle.  Even if I’m sad not to be hitting the road with a Real Psychic.  “Oh,” I say, through my laughter.  “On the phone. “ Back in my normal voice I say “You’ll be calling our people and they are really friendly.  Almost always.”

“Excuse me,” she replies, always polite.  “What did you think I meant?”

“Never mind.” On that Thursday, for once, my day starts with a smile.

There's A New Version of This...

 So I guess you all might read this one.

Probably there are people who propose marriage, or couples getting that pink line after a long medical slog at the fertility clinic who have greater reason, and, yes, mobility,  to dance after someone says yes, but they are not looking for volunteers so early in an election cycle. The longing is there, even if, honestly, the moves are not. I wouldn’t want any of “my” volunteers to hear me huffing and puffing on the phone line either, of course.    The pleasure and relief are even stronger because I had been prepared to hear that she needed the week off to move all of the furniture in the civilized world, and had shaped my mouth to say “That’s okay; these things happen,” and let her off the hook.  Even though doing it sometimes made me feel like a dirty liar.  Some of what they say…well, I won’t say it doesn’t happen, but most of these people aren’t great at working around obstacles, and they are the people that thank me the hardest.  “It’s really great what you’re doing,” they tell me.  “Keep up the good work.” Not the first time somebody gave me a lavish compliment instead of being there, so it definitely takes the shine off it, but I can’t let it show because we will be hearing each other’s voices again.  Or maybe seeing some frozen image in a webinar…there’s no good way to make myself I. P. Freely(though I don’t, exactly, with the wheelchair and all) and have a big laugh at their expense.

I’m thinking so hard about handling defeat, though, that I almost miss the victory as the shy little newbie with the quiet voice—a lot like mine ten years ago, actually-says yes, she’ll make calls on Thursday. “That’s okay…these things…you did say yes, right?”

“Yeah.  Sure. Thursday’s my day off.” And she chuckles, and for the briefest instant, it feels like love.  I love that hesitant voice, I love Thursday, I love the feeling there’s nothing this movement can’t do.

Unlike in my romantic life, though, I do play a few games here.  “You’re lucky…nobody has signed up for Thursday yet.” I say, acting gruff and no-nonsense, even though the only times it’s really that hot is three days before, and backing a clear winner so they can post on social media and claim a little credit.

 I don’t know if anyone even cares about my hot-ticket act, much less believes in it, but I’ve learned from my friends and the TV that helped raise me that there are things that you say:  I’ve never done this before.  It’s not you, it’s me.   Maybe one of mine is “Wow, you’re so lucky, a spot opened up on Thursday.” Besides, it was true…that one time.

It doesn’t hurt to risk some vulnerability, once you have her interest.  “Just checking.  Everyone seems so busy this week.”

“Oh, wow,” Newbie says.(I know her name, but it doesn’t really matter for these purposes.)  Call her Hannah.  Call her Emily.  Something smart and shy, for a girl who’s on our list cause she doesn’t like to see people get picked on, and still manages to pluck ten bucks out of the air every month because she loves the forest or hates book banning.  Even if she had backed out, I swear I’d find some way to be nice.  Eventually. “I could never do what you do.”
This is so much what I’ve heard about, well, everything, my whole life—which now is much longer than people expect, given that I live like an intern-- that I look down as if she can see me through the phone.  Maybe she’s a psychic who needs a manager.  Maybe that would be more fun than this.

I say what I always say.  “I think you’d be surprised what you could do if you really had to.”

“I guess I’m going to find out.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, thinking “