Dear Santa…

So, in between near-arrests of the cardiac variety induced by the Colts and Cubs, I was perusing my monthly issue of New Mobility magazine (aka the crip’s leading periodical) and found the following description:

…the SuperFour, a hybrid-drive, all-terrain power wheelchair that opens up the outdoors far beyond the range of any current power wheelchair–up to 124 miles…its hybrid drive, which transitions from battery power to a virtually noise-free gas engine…powers a four-wheel drive, with 19-inch ATV-type wheels and 5 inches of independent suspension travel…With a roll bar, halogen lights, and fender flares, the SuperFour leans more toward ATV aesthetics than those of a power chair–a look that promises utmost outdoor liberation.

As much as I hate to get all geeky 12 year old boy excited about mobility equipment, I must say: Fuck yeah. It’s not as if I feel a burning desire to go all off-road and primitive–though it would be nice to not have to worry about getting my ass bogged down in my neighbor’s overgrown, over-watered lawn. But damn, if I could cut through a crowd without fear of personal injury…headlights blazing, the clueless and the slow deflected harmlessly off my fenders…sweet! I’d never again see my life flash before me while Christmas shopping or looking for seats at a concert. The only way it could be better is if it came with an air horn.

Of course, the SuperFour is currently only available in Europe (where nationalized health care helps insure that cutting-edge technology like this gets used by those who need it), and when/if it is sold in the U.S. it will likely cost in excess of $20,000. See Santa, this is where you come in. I’ll drop “dirty weekend with Kiefer” and “boobs that don’t go under my arms when I lie down” from this year’s list, and you park one of these bad boys in my garage…

If I may…

I’ve been wallowing in self-pity this week. It’s not something of which I’m proud, but I can’t lie.

This has actually been a bit of a marathon mope, as the ridiculously sparse entries here over the course of this summer can attest. In my defense and with no hyperbole, this has been the worst summer of my life–eclipsing by an order of magnitude the year I turned 17 and my boyfriend left for basic training. And I was one whiny bitch back then.

My health has been shaky since May, with a variety of infectious and inflammatory processes going on that left me with the energy level of a narcoleptic sloth; all of the attendant medications and side effects that go along (light sensitivity, diarrhea, yeast infections, nausea, skin problems, blah, blah) zapped most of the rest of the life out of me and ensured that I spent 98% of my time in my bed. Spending weeks in bed feeling shitty and useless and alone fed my depressive and obsessive-compulsive tendencies and the whole sickly, needy, sad circus left me someone I swore I’d never be: the shut-in cripple, complete with greasy unwashed hair and smeared glasses. I hate her.

This summer of my discontent has, I think, finally reached its nadir with my annual commemoration of the anniversary of “the accident” (as we call that particular traumatic event around my house). It was Wednesday. My family doesn’t mention it anymore–and this year I didn’t either–but the shadow still looms large, even nine years later. My approach to September 12ths in the past has been to focus on the positive…that I survived, which was certainly no given; that my brother was uninjured and my family is intact; that my brains didn’t get a stir, or even as much as a concussion, in such a violent wreck…This year, however, I’m taking a different tack.

Fuck that positivity shit. Since I’m wallowing, I’ve decided to go all in. I have compiled a list of some of the things that I haven’t done since September 11, 1998 that I miss the most and, you lucky bastards, I’ve decided to share it with you. I’m writing it, I’m posting it, I’m letting it go…

Stand under a hot shower. Wear cute shoes, a skirt, real zipper-and-button fly jeans, eyeliner, a dress, sexy underwear, my beautiful purple full-length coat, or rings. Drive. Fuck. Dance. Dry, style, color, cut, or curl my hair. Wipe my own ass. Cook. Live alone, or at least be able to shut my bedroom door when I need privacy. Flirt. Throw a football. Cut up my food. Get a mani/pedi. Soak in the bathtub. Shoot pool. Make out. Drink beer from the bottle. Stay out late. Even later. Spontaneously go…anywhere. Swim. Play darts. Have an orgasm. Get a promotion. Go on vacation. Fuck. Run on the treadmill at the YMCA. Get a dog. Sew. Date. Shave my legs. Sleep on my stomach. Go somewhere alone. Walk in the park. Iron. Masturbate. Roll in leaves in the fall and in snow in the winter. French kiss. Smoke Marlboro Ultra Light Menthols while drinking good bourbon at The Noodle. Feel sand between my toes. Bake in a tanning bed. Feel pretty. Did I mention fuck?

Pfew. I’m not sure whether I feel better or worse after that, but I bet you’re now bummed out, too.

Right, so I’m committed–no more lingering over what I’ve lost or what I’m missing. It’s time to move on, to look forward, all that Norman Vincent Peale/The Secret positive thinking horseshit. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve turned over this particular new leaf, but what the hell. As I said every single time I swore never to touch tequila again, “this time I mean it…”

Pardon my wide stance…

As any regular reader of these blatherings can attest, I have made no secret of my love (and, oh hell, I admit it, my carefully burnished lust) for Keith Olbermann. It goes back to his SportsCenter days, but has certainly become more ardent over the last few years as he has honed his smart-assed, truth-telling newsman persona to its current vicious point while performing actual (GASP!) television journalism–add in his editorial “Special Comments” and Countdown makes me feel as if I’m watching the love child of Ed Murrow and Howard Beale. Only tall and funny and handsome, and in good suits.

I think part of the reason I enjoy my (imaginary) boyfriend’s show so much is its embracing of a simple fact of journalistic life: sometimes the news itself is so patently ridiculous, so completely surreal, that to cover it without a smile on your face insults the audience’s intelligence. This week’s big story of repression, denial, and hypocrisy is a prime example. Using only the text of a police report, a public restroom, and what can only be described in the loosest way as a “wig,” the folks at Countdown have hit comic gold…

Perfect. It’s damned funny, but still manages to be really informative–I’m a total news junkie and never saw any other coverage of exactly what was contained in that police officer’s report–and to point out the absolutely ridiculous nature of the poor closeted Senator’s outright denial. After hearing those observations read a la Joe Friday–the minutiae of the signals (the shuffling and rubbing of feet, the little waves under the stall), all time stamped and written in standard clipped cop-speak, the obligatory ‘don’t-you-know-who-I-am’ moment with the business card–a reasonable human is left to conclude one of two things: either a) Larry was looking for a little manly help with his little congressman, or b) Sergeant Karsnia is a compulsive and wonderfully creative liar.

And my Keith gave you all that while you had a laugh.

As for the soon-former Idaho senator, volumes too many have been written in the past week to make any comment from me necessary, but it’s my journal, dammit, so here goes…I am philosophically opposed to the practice of “outing” people who wish for aspects of their private, mutually-consenting adult behaviors to remain private. I don’t believe that Senator Craig should be more or less employable whether he’s straight, gay, bi, or Thai, or any more than any accountant, firefighter, sales rep, or shortstop. I also know from personal experience that American society, particularly in conservative places like Idaho or Indiana, is still a remarkably cruel place to let your freak flag fly; I very nearly lost my first managerial job because my boss didn’t like the way I conducted my personal life on my own time, and I was just cocktailing part-time and dating. Men. Vigorously.

However, I am passionately appreciative of the outing of public hypocrisy. I was furious at my upright, conservative, “Christian” boss for chastising me about my sex life and while she was shacked up with her 40-years-older boss and living high on his dime. I applaud every time some self-styled “law and order” swaggering suburban cowboy takes a perp walk after getting caught with his hand in someone else’s cookie jar/pension fund or wiping his ass with the legal system. And yes, I do a little dance (a pitiful dance, granted, sitting on my ass in my wheelchair and pretending to snap my crippled fingers while “Superfreak” plays in my head) whenever another moralizing “family values” sex-baiting, Bible-thumping, one man-one woman spouting, abstinence-only windbag asshole is nabbed cheating on his third wife with his research assistant Candee or soliciting knob jobs in airport men’s rooms.

My advice for the next closeted/conflicted member of this sad parade–and let’s face it, there will always be another as long as this loud minority is allowed to use sex to divide and conquer–learn to find your anonymous kink on the Internet, like regular people.

But why…

Obviously, I’m still not kicked back into writing mode. As usual, I have lots of theories to explain my lack of literary productivity:

1. because my family chipped in and bought me the MLB Extra Innings package and I’ve been gorging on baseball for a month…
2. because I’ve been too busy laughing to keep from crying…
3. because in the last two weeks I’ve read incredible works of fiction and journalism and thus don’t feel qualified to use written English…
4. because I’ve actually been using my computer for honest-to-dog work and have therefore been typing-fatigued in my free time (hey–I only use my thumbs to type–you try it!)…
5. because it has become obvious in recent weeks that my cat is rapidly aging (not grooming properly, having trouble getting into and out of bed, becoming in general a cranky bastard) and won’t be in my life for a lot longer, and that fact is blowing my fucking mind…
6. because while watching the otherwise awesome film Bad Education I kept getting distracted by the realization that Gael Garcia Bernal in drag is a dead ringer for Julia Roberts circa Erin Brockovich. My fantasies of cougar-rape haven’t been seen since…
7. because I’ve been loaded with antibiotics and pain killers preparing for extensive and, I’m certain, painful dental surgery early next month…
8. because said surgery will be so expensive that I’ve had to finance it for twelve months, meaning my teeth and my car will be paid off around the same time next fall…
9. because I’m completely in awe of my new American heroes (Godspeed, men; keep your chins up and your heads down)…
10. because I haven’t broken a sweat through exercise since 1999, and this old guy could totally kick my crippled ass…

Take your pick. My money’s on this last guess, though: because the Chicago Cubs are in first fucking place on August 22nd.

So you see, I’m dealing with a lot of shit here.

My family…

This is an actual conversation from yesterday afternoon.

To put it into context, allow me to describe the scene. We are sitting in a dental office waiting room. I am waiting for my name to be called with the same enthusiasm ‘Fredo Gonzales must greet…well, pretty much anyone asking any question about the last 15 years of his life. To cut my nerves and stave off the inevitable pain experienced when a trained professional pokes at damaged teeth with pointy metal objects, I popped two Darvocets before leaving home; the resulting buzz plus my nervousness have made me excessively chatty. As a result, at the time of this exchange I had been speaking nonstop for about 20 minutes.

My mother, seated to my left, is used to this verbal diarrhea of mine; she has developed a response which is half inattention and half encouragement (my terror seems to amuse her–probably because she’s most often the family basketcase). My father, though, is usually sheltered from this particular flavor of my nuttiness and sat silently stunned. Either that or he just wanted me to shut the fuck up so he could watch the waiting room TV in peace. Same effect.

Aaaand action…

Me: “…so as soon as this dentist ordeal is over and I’m done with the eye doctor, I’m going to start the process of getting a new wheelchair. I can’t decide, though, if I should go with a black chair or white one. I mean, I’ve done the bright color thing, but this time I want to go more subdued, maybe it won’t stand out so much…”

Mom: “I think you should get one with flames on it.”

I can’t decide which bothers me more: that she enjoys yanking my chain so much, or that I had to blather on for another five minutes about where exactly one would get flames put onto a wheelchair (because come on–they don’t come that way from the factory!) before I felt the tugging…

Hi…

Yeah, I’ve been absent for a while, blogging-wise, and that absence is likely to continue for the next days. I’m not feeling well–physically, mentally, or emotionally–and don’t have it within me to organize thoughts in a coherent form at present.

Please don’t forget me and keep watching this space…I shall, in fact, return.

Kel

Born under a bad sign…

Today is my birthday. As of 5:37 this morning I am 39. For the first time, anyway.

As is, I think, appropriate for someone who has lost interest in seeing a cake aflame with candles symbolizing each birthday, our approach to celebration is pretty low-key here at the homestead. My parents gave me an outfit (which I picked out in advance–they know my bitch so well). Because of my tendency to binge on pastries and wallow for days in a haze of hyperglycemia and self-recrimination, we no longer buy whole cakes. Instead, I pick a restaurant dessert and get it to go…still, have you SEEN the size of “a slice” of cake from a restaurant? This year’s choice, Ultimate Chocolate Chocolate Cake from O’Charley’s, is five layers of chocolate cake, filled with chocolate icing, then frosted with chocolate ganache and some kind of fudgy stuff darker than the bowels of Hell. The wedge they sold me is roughly a fifth of the cake–I ate two layers last night and had to lie down…and I am no amateur dessert eater. But sweet diabetic Jesus it’s good.

My brother and I were to go to a concert Sunday night–an early birthday gift to me. We made it to dinner at a great place called Binkley’s (crab cakes and a monster called Veggie Deluxe Salad, if you care). Over the next hour, though, the bro was stricken with something–a virus, food poisoning, sudden onset ebola–that can only be described using words like projectile and required us to proceed immediately home (stopping only at a gas station along the way) and necessitated a change of clothes for the poor guy when we got here. So alas, yet another missed concert. At least these tickets were only $13 each–much cheaper than The Who or Eric Clapton (both of whom we missed because of my health issues). My luck, it seems, still sucks.

I am also determined to buy a gift for myself. My movie auctions were successful enough that I cleared around $50, which I am determined to blow on frivolity based on the premise that it is found money. Thing is, I’m such a nerd that all I can think about is buying books with it. This despite the fact that my desk and bookshelf are piled with BookMooch’ed things I haven’t touched and that I haven’t been able to read very well for the past couple of months with my relapsed devil eye dilated all the fucking time.

Finally, a couple of things that make me laugh because dammit, it’s my birthday. First, a baby gift I bought for friends who are expecting in September. God, I hope the ultrasound tech was right and it really is a boy. Second…well, just enjoy:

Who knew such fun could be had in a Philippine prison?

(A note: anyone who actually got to attend the Rocco DeLuca & The Burden show at The Vogue in Indy on the 22nd, please let me know what I missed. I’ll take any scrap of info–set list, pics, amateur reviews, ‘Rocco’s so hot,’ whatever…Thanks.)

A confession…

Today, a tale of a very rare occurrence indeed: an incidence of bitchiness for which I feel…guilty.

To begin, then, at the beginning and with the victim recipient of my bitch. D was a nice guy, really–funny, smart, hot in a nice Irish-boy way with big square Matt Damon teeth–and killer charm, which (along with a healthy dose of alcohol) convinced me to go home with him despite all of his wholesome and positive characteristics that normally would have made him completely unsuitable. I mean, really–he even had a full-time job!

Unfortunately, more than D’s smile and wit was quick; he came within 30 seconds, immediately going limper than the proverbial wet noodle. This is not a desirable trait in a one-night stand, but I want to point out that this is not where my bitch flag unfurled. I liked him, for starters, and thought maybe he was better boyfriend material than fuck buddy. Besides, he was pretty drunk…and we had fooled around for a long time before getting down to it–maybe he just got too excited…and he made sure I was comfortable before he went to sleep, fixed me breakfast in the morning, and asked me out on a real date before I left. He deserved another shot. Er, chance.

The next weekend D took me to a little pub in his neighborhood for dinner and drinks and to watch a Pacers playoff game, then to a downtown club for better music. Though we were both consciously limiting our alcohol consumption, the same powerful chemistry seemed to percolate between us. Even better, we were really having fun–and god, could the boy kiss. Surely the sex would be better…but no. Half a minute, tops. Twice. Different positions–no difference. Less foreplay–just pissed me off. Slower strokes, shallower strokes, no strokes–same hair trigger. But I really liked him. On our feet, we were a smoking couple. So, still, I was bitch free.

The third night we spent together was an impromptu situation. I went out with a girlfriend, ran into him, and brought him home with me. This was the worst yet and my impatience must have been obvious; D left before daylight as I slept, and in such a hurry that he left his watch (a crappy digital) on my nightstand and his jacket hanging in the closet (a purple Lacoste pullover). Still not succumbing to my inner bitch, I left him messages, but when he didn’t return my calls I fully expected never to see him again.

Fast forward six months, when I again run in to D at a club. I hadn’t heard from him, he explained, because he had been seeing someone else. They had broken up, and was I still single? He really missed (fucking) me. Oh, and by the way, didn’t he leave his jacket at my place? A purple pullover? This, after all the bad sex and the early-morning sneak out, is what cued up my bitch moment.

You see, my brother and I were sharing an apartment at the time and were, unmistakably, flat damned broke. His watch had broken a few months before, so he had adopted D’s because he couldn’t afford a new one. The following month was a good friend’s birthday and, since buying a gift was not an option, we searched the house and found…a nearly new purple pullover. A couple dollars for dry cleaning and a dollar store gift bag later, our crisis was averted.

So, all those months later when D was single/horny and got around to asking about his long lost preppy gear, I gazed sweetly into his pretty blue eyes, smiled my red-lipped best, and lied. “No, D, I haven’t seen it–and I’ve moved since then, so I’m sure I’d have found it when I packed my things.” I even told him he was welcome to come to my new apartment and look for it.

Then, in a fit of Idon’tknowwhat–remorse, optimism, indebtedness, all three–I fucked him again. Alas, he remained Speedy McQuickCum. Two things did change, though. One: my right hand and I made sure I got off first. Two: it was my turn to ignore a ringing phone.

I don’t feel guilty in the slightest for dumping him because of the jackrabbit sex; we all have deal breakers in our relationships and that happens to be one of mine. I’d have done the same if he was a bigot or chewed with his mouth open. The guilt, even the pangs that linger years later, is because I broke my own rule with my dishonesty.

Seriously, though–I’m coming up on nine sexless years. I think I’ve paid my debt to IZOD…

A little marketing…

As part of one of my periodic organizing and purging spasms, I’ve decided to get rid of some unneeded/unused items, and I’m starting with a stack of DVDs I think I can live without.

This might be particularly interesting to my Kiefer-loving readers, since the list is heavy on dirty blond goodness.

All of these are currently for sale on eBay; all but two have intact factory shrink wrap and/or seals:

• Cowboy Up
• To End All Wars
• Melissa Etheridge: Live…and Alone (2-disc concert film)
• Flashback
• A Few Good Men (Special Edition)
• Ground Control
• Freeway
• Promised Land
• A Beautiful Mind (2-disc Awards Edition)
• Breaking And Entering
• Last Light
• Woman Wanted
  

Win more than one of these auctions and sweet talk me a little by email…I could be persuaded to cut you a deal on shipping. Or sweet talk me just for the hell of it–I don’t mind.

Chaff…

A few really quick bits meant to assuage my guilty feelings about neglecting this space:

• It turns out that, in my case, iritis is nearly as hard to keep dead as this guy:

and nearly as ugly. Long story short, I finished my treatment, got cleared by cutie pie doctor on a Monday, put my contacts in on that Thursday…and woke up the next Wednesday with a bloody throbbing eye. I am now back on both the stinging and itchy-making drops and will be for the next six to eight fucking weeks–also meaning that I am stuck wearing these damned glasses.

I am going out on the 22nd for my birthday…dinner, concert, new outfit…and might just have to slip in a pair of lenses for a few hours. Don’t tell.

• How in the Sam Hell did this get so breathlessly reported as news? A gut feeling–are you shitting me? This clown runs, among other things, the most sophisticated and far-reaching spy operation in the history of the free world and the best he can come up with to scare me is a gut feeling? And it makes the NEWS? That’s like the National Weather Service issuing a tornado warning because my Mom’s thumb swells up.

• As part of my continuing quest to find the perfect lip gloss, I was thrilled to find a surprise ally a few days ago. I’ve been in love with products from e.l.f. for a couple of years–all kinds of makeup and tools, and every item is $1.00–but I’m such a cheap bitch that I dreaded paying for shipping. Besides, it’s hard to pick things like makeup colors from a picture. Now, though, the e.l.f. line is selling at some Target and KMart stores. I spent seven dollars for a bagful: mascara, this cool color stick, and five awesome lip glosses for Summer. Kelly happy.

Yeah, I know it’s shallow and stupid to be so excited about makeup. Here’s the thing: I had a very healthy body image before my disability came along. I took care of my body for the sake of my physical health, of course, but also as part of my mental and social health as a single woman–it was important to look good, too. I spent a lot of time developing a personal style; it was based on clearance racks and discount stores, sure, but it became part of me. For one reason or another, whether for skin integrity fears or side effects of my condition or the nearly-unavoidable weight gain associated with sitting on my ass for nine years, every aspect of that style has been taken away. Except for my face and, to a lesser extent, my hair (since I need help to wash, dry, and style it, I have to keep it short). So I slather my skin with lotions and potions and yeah–I buy a lot of lip goo. Sue me.

• I continue to be amazed at the traffic still finding its way to this site via my dirty dream post. Every once in a while when a hit pops up in my blog stats I imagine that the subject of that dream and so many others has, through the wonder that is the intertubes, found his way here and read it. That’s not a very far-fetched fantasy; I haven’t exactly buried my real identity under layers of poetic subterfuge in these pages and anyone who knows me personally could quickly make the intuitive leap from who I am to who He must be. I thought when I wrote the post that I’d be mortified if he saw it. By now I think I hope he has.

And, if he’s reading this: you aren’t just a sex object. I also had a dream where you were helping me paint my living room. Granted, I think we fucked on the drop cloth afterward…