I'm on crutches.
Luckily, its temporary. I don't think I have the temperament to deal with all the jackasses that come out of the woodwork when you're impaired. I'd be dragged off to jail, hobbling. Take the TSA. Me on crutches: "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to go through security." TSA Jackass: "They'll hold your crutches when you go through the body scan." Me: "Ummmm...I can't stand up without the crutches. I can't put my weight on my leg." Jackass: "Hmmmm....they'll give you a cane." Note to anyone who doesn't know - you can't just give someone who needs crutches a cane and wish them Godspeed. Walking aids are not interchangeable and should be prescribed by someone with an actual medical degree, not a guy with a bully club and a highlighter pen. Me: "I can't use a cane. That's why I have crutches." Jackass: "Hmmmm...can you take your shoes off?" Me: "Does it look like it?" Jackass pointing: "Well...they'll have to do a full body pat down then. Wait over there. She'll take care of you." TSA World Women's Wrestling Champion: "Can you take off your shoes?" Me: "No." WWW Champ (three times my size, pulling on latex gloves): "I'm gonna have to pat you down. Do you want to go to a private room?" Never go to the second location. Me: "No." Champ (snapping gloves): "Okay. Raise your arms up at your sides like this." She mimics Christ on the Cross as a helpful visual aid. Me: "I can't STAND WITHOUT MY CRUTCHES." Champ: "Hmmm...okay, well...do you have any foreign objects implanted in your body?" Besides that giant dildo? Me: "No." Champ: "Okay....well...front first." So, there in front of an entire airport full of people, the Champ gave me a thorough grope. Zealously serving and protecting her country by ensuring my boobs weren't locked and loaded and a scud missile didn't lurk in my crotch. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" Me: "No." I thought we'd covered that. By that time hubby finally made his way through wearing that look he usually reserves for deviants and TSA's. He wasn't allowed to accompany me. He had his own security to maze to meander in case he'd stashed a life threatening quarter in his pocket or the surprisingly deadly extra ounce of shaving cream. Champ: "I need to put those crutches through the scanner." Me: "I CAN'T STAND UP WITHOUT THEM." Champ: "Oh....right...I'll get a chair." I sat. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" After I cried Uncle and hubby helped take my shoes off, Champ swooped off with my crutches. After it was determined I'd stashed no James Bond type foolery in them and I posed no threat to national security, they let us go. This trip to the airport was the first I'd been on other than therapy. While on it, I saw the light. For the most part, the general population has an appalling disregard for the physically limited. They shoved past me to get ahead. Can't possibly go half a second slower. They ran me over to get on, and off, the elevator first. They jumped ahead of me to get on, and off, the plane. For me, this is a minor blip in an otherwise healthy life. For my six year-old granddaughter Adelia, it's a lifestyle. She has Cerebral Palsy and can't walk without braces and a walker. Her everyday life is an exhausting struggle to get from point A to B. God forbid she should ever decide to get away from it all and take a trip where she can expect public embarrassment and complete disregard for her dignity as a rule. I learned big lessons that day and will forever be on guard. That old cliche is a cliche for a reason. You can't know what its like to be someone else till you've walked, limped, or rolled, in their shoes. It won't kill me, or you, to take a breath and show some consideration for someone who relies on the compassion of others. We don't really need to harass the disabled, do we?
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I read recently that France has lost its chic. Its je ne sais quoi.
Their President is out of control. While the French have always looked gracefully, and stylishly, the other way where "the other woman" is involved, particularly Presidential women, de Gaulle forbid he should comport l'affair on a moped, in the passenger seat, wearing a suit with cheap shoes and a giant Daft Punk helmet. A President cheating on his wife and his mistress with yet a third woman is the height of panache. But, in a bad outfit? Mon Dieu. The French are up in arms. I so get it. There is never an excuse for bad shoes. Except for hip surgery. My once impeccably shod tootsies are mourning their old, fashionable life, when their daily wear looked like this:
The perfect gladiator look. Minus the toga. Wouldn't be caught dead in a toga.
I remembered why these were so awesome in the 80's. Because they're awesome. My leg is coming from who knows where.
Marie Antoinette was so right. Eating cake in these shoes is so much better. That's what she meant, right?
I agree. These are fantastic.
I have hip problems because I apparently only have one leg. But it's wearing an adorable shoe.
There it is! I do have two legs. These are my Goldfinger shoes. I think James Bond would love them.
I'm a sucker for an ankle strap.
Brought these back from Italy. Can you blame me?
A shoe that looks like a velvet corset. Sigh.
Another pair from Italy. Had to.
I can't resist a pink shoe. Or a rhinestone buckle. Or shoes, period.
I hate getting caught on the Yellow Brick Road unprepared.
Gained an ankle strap. Lost a leg.
These are for when I mean business. 5 inches of business.
This is what I'm reduced to after crutches. These might as well be flat. I'm pouting just looking at them.
These are me, now, on crutches. The heel is so non-existent that it wasn't worth showing. Except for its pink. To make myself feel better I bought these in several colors. But still. So, not the same.
If you hear I've bought a moped. Shoot me. I'm a wreck.
Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out. I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above? Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store. Or, maybe I did... Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch. Oh, those were giddy days. Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off. I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares? I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted. Bed hair. From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged. Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty. I froze. Crusty? Ewwww. The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out. Red. WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction. Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all. Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt. I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it. Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh. I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping. In for a pound... If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl. "Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said. "No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes." I'm a college basketball fan by marriage. Ok. That's a stretch. I've watched a lot of college basketball since I've been married. Ok. That's a stretch too. I've been in the room a bunch of times when college basketball is on TV. Now, college basketball is all over our TV. It's March, baby! That means it's March Madness time. AKA the NCAA Division One Basketball Tournament. Despite what the name indicates it doesn't start and end in March. It starts in March and lasts a couple of years. So, now its time to throw your hat in the ring (or on the court) and fill out your brackets! AKA Bracketology. It's the last day to participate. I'm sure that'll put the fear of the basketball Gods into you. For those of you in the know, Bracketology is a familiar term, and a real word. For those of you in the dark, it's like those office football pools. You pick who you think is gonna win but you gotta pick winners for every game. All 64 of them. Whoever picks the most wins…wins. I win a lot. And no, I don't pick by favorite uniform color. How dumb would that be? I use a complicated, detailed, well researched, and delicately balanced system. Never before revealed. Until today. For you. A peek at my Bracket: The first thing you need to do is look at the numbers.
The teams are rated by numbers, one is the highest. I have no idea what the lowest number is. Who cares? They call these numbers seeds. Asinine, I know. As far as I know nothing is growing, except my impatience for the whole damn thing to get over with. Anyhoo, if you're a number one seed that means you're the most likely to win. So, I pick a lot of those top numbers, say one through three, first. Duh. Occasionally a number ten will beat a number two. This is called an upset. Mostly because when it happens no one's picked that number ten to win and they get REALLY upset. Hubby yells at the TV and drinks more. Now my system gets a little more complicated. Feel free to print. I always pick Gonzaga because I like to say it. I always pick Xavier because it's, like, the coolest name ever. Just rolls off the tongue like a fine French wine. I always pick Kansas because my daughter was born there. I never pick UNC because their coach, Roy Williams, gets on my last nerve. The few times I've seen him on TV (when I wasn't in a self induced coma) there's just something about him I don't like. To add insult to injury, their team is called the Tar Heels. WTF? I never pick Georgetown because when I visited there I was disappointed in their restaurant scene. You see my point. I always pick Wisconsin because my mom was born there. I always pick UCLA because who doesn't love Westwood? Hip, cool, on the fringes of Hollywood. What's not to love? I pick Oklahoma because the Pioneer Woman lives there. I always pick Florida (I've picked them to win it ALL) because Versace's house is there and hubby and I ate a zillion dollar dinner there on vacation once. They have the best drag queens too - which is big. And, finally, I've taken Duke pretty much off the list because their coach dyes his hair and lies about it. He's almost 70 years old and his hair is pitch, shoe polish, black. Who ya kiddin, Mike? Nobody. No good can come from that, my friend. Remember when air travel looked like this? Me neither. But, I've seen Mad Men and this is what it looks like there. I know it must be true because Jon Hamm would never lie to me. I might not be sure about yesteryear, but I'm positive about now. It's the seventh circle of hell. It makes hitchhiking from Los Angeles to Miami with the Mayor from Toronto seem like a good idea. Never in a million years did I think Americans would tolerate the whole airport fiasco…er…process. We're the people who revolted, left England and a monarchy to create a country where everyone is welcome, a democracy. A place where we could do whatever the hell we wanted. Okay, we didn't do any of that but we've seen it on Netflix. Still. Its amazing to me that we'll refuse to wear a helmet on a motorcycle but we'll let some felon with an anal probe grope us in our bare feet. Yes, the shoe-less shit really climbs up my ass. Have I mentioned I love my shoes more than life? Not keen to throw them in some dirty bin that just seconds before held a pair of Crocs. Gotta empty your purse, take off your jewelry, watch, wallet, why don't we all just go nude. The line would go a lot quicker, I can promise you that. All of this crap before we even get on the plane. Remember when no one knew what a carry on was? Everyone checked bags. Now it looks like this. Go ahead. Check bags. Make my day. Bahaahaahaahaaaa. Why do we get into what looks like a gigantic phallic symbol with wings, made of what…aluminum...whatever…that goes, I don't how many thousands of feet in the air, flown by these clowns? You're right. I don't know if I've ever been on a plane flown by these two exact clowns but I've been in thousands of work places in my life. They're full of clowns. Why would the airline industry be any different? What are they doing back there? Why is the door shut so we can't see? Why do they try to talk to us mid-flight about the scenery in that creepy porn pilot voice? You know what I'm talkin' about. Thanks porno pilot, I'll look at the scenery when I'm actually in it. On the ground. Why don't they just shut up and fly the damn plane? On a related note…can anybody tell me why the whole plane isn't made of whatever the 'black box" is made of? Seems like a no-brainer to me. Welcome to your airline experience. I'm so glad we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Yeah, it's not a big deal. The flight's only 14 hours long. Oh, right. That's why we paid a kazillion dollars for these seats. Because they serve food. This guy sat across the aisle from us. And by us I mean hubby. And by sat I mean stood. He never sat down. He spent nearly the whole flight fiddling with something in the overhead bins. Maybe snacks, I don't know. Hubby had to lean sideways, toward my side, for most of the flight to avoid a nose inside crack situation. Finally, my flying pet peeve. Apparently, along with our dignity, we've lost our hearing. The second you step on the plane the steward…I mean…flight attendant starts yelling at you. "THIS IS A FULL FLIGHT." DING DING DING. That's a mysterious very loud noise that goes off for no reason, that intersperses with the Flight Attendants screaming commands. "IN THE EVENT OF AN EMERGENCY…" DING DING DING. "I WILL BE COMIMG DOWN THE AISLE SHORTLY WITH YOUR DRINK SELECTION." To add insult to injury drinks are not free. She leans over to inquire: CAN I GET YOU SOMETHING TO DRINK? Of course, by this time, you're stone deaf. So, you're screwed. Hope you had a grand time FLYING THE FUCKING FRIENDLY SKIES. |
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