All The Things That Sizzle

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Summer is now officially here. For the next three-odd months, we’ll have plenty of time for backyard barbecues, fresh locally-grown produce, and oodles of opportunities to get a sunburn. I am one of the lucky ones that gets burned by simply thinking about the sun. For example, just reading an article in National Geographic about solar radiation is enough for me to get a second-degree burn. I wish this wasn’t just hyperbole.

While my pasty, sensitive skin is a major reason why I dislike the summer, the heat we experience in Patterson is the primary source of my disdain. It gets crazy-hot here. And, for someone in a wheelchair like me, it’s just not pleasant. Frankly, it majorly blows. My black-seated electric wheelchair is like a damn beacon for heat— the summer sizzle zeroes down upon me like a missile. You know, like one of those nuclear warheads that Kim Jong Un promises to get rid of but everyone knows that he never will? Yeah, just like that.

The wheelchair also traps heat—once it enters the perimeter of my seat, it just doesn’t fucking leave. It’s like living in one of those Insta-Pot pressure cookers that everyone has been raving about for months. If I’m in my wheelchair out in 100° weather, it won’t be long before my ass turns into a perfectly-cooked pork tenderloin. I wish this was an exaggeration, too.

Despite all my negativity about this season (of which I have a lot, as you can tell!), there are some redeeming things about this time of year. First of all, I like that cold and flu bugs go into hibernation in the summer. As I’m a germaphobe, this is a big relief. I fear getting sick the same way that some people fear a giant asteroid hitting the Earth at 25,000 miles an hour. And, no, I’m not being dramatic. If you’ve been following my writing at all, you shouldn’t be surprised by this statement. So, YAY to summer! It’s definitely wonderful that at this time of year I don’t have to worry about catching the flu while shopping for laundry detergent. It makes the idea of having clean clothes way more enticing.

While this is a major reason I tolerate the heat of the summer, the biggest redeeming factor of this season? All the yummy local produce that becomes available. We are so fortunate to live in one of the most fertile agricultural regions in the world. Our markets burst with wonderful things to eat. So, take advantage of it. Buy locally-grown produce when you can. Visit farmer’s markets. Enjoy all the things that truly put Patterson, and this region, on the map.

It will make these long summer days all the more tolerable.

So, stay cool, stay healthy, and happy summer!

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A Korean Romance

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I think the Koreans have caught royal wedding fever. And, truly, how could they not? The nuptials of Harry and Meghan were a feel-good bonanza. A romantic ratings-buster that took the globe by storm. The Kensington Palace Instagram account is collecting followers in a way that The White House can only dream about. (And believe me, Trump has!)

As I’ve made no secret, I have been swept away by all the fairy-tale grandeur, too. A tale of love and unity NEVER goes out of style. Just like cropped pants.

But, it appears that Kim Jong Un and Moon Jae-in— leaders of Korea— are ready to cash in on this phenomenon, too. They want a piece of the love train. A hunk of the buttercream “let’s-join-our-lives-together-so-everyone-can-see-us-on-TV” cake. The kind of cake where if you eat too much of it, though, you could go into diabetic shock and die.

But, this hasn’t stopped them from giving it a go. In a really— I’m not going lie— really weird way. Today, the leaders of North and South Korea met… and talked… and hugged. Yes, you read that right. They hugged. Here’s a picture if you don’t believe me:

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Okay… so… this is probably one of the most awkward hugs I’ve ever seen. It reminds me of the kind of hug that little kids are forced to give each other on the playground. You know, like after they’ve got into a fight over tetherball? It feels like a 1980s afterschool special gone really, really wrong.

But, I see the intention behind it. Every good love story needs that moment of closeness. That kiss. That hug. That nuclear disarmament treaty. A moment where the two royal lovebirds demonstrate their commitment to each other by standing physically close to each other and smiling while everyone looks on. Because, if they are smiling, then it all must be true… and real. Just like Charles and Diana.

Oops, never mind.

But, if this is only the beginning of this process, the mere engagement, what does the future hold? Will they have the wedding of their dreams, or will it be spoiled by a wedding crasher? Like a Trump? Or, even worse, a Camilla??

Only time will tell… but, I’m sure we won’t have to wait long for Lifetime’s latest production. A dramatic reenactment, “Moon & Un: A Korean Romance.

Oh, the ratings!

Dimensions, Dictators, and a Whole Lot of Weed

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I’m not going to sugar-coat it, roll it in cinnamon, or top it with frosting. I’m going to be honest. The kind of honest that you usually only see from small children or really elderly relatives— but, rarely see from politicians or men that run around grabbing women by the ass.

Okay, here goes… The year 2017 was… just… straight-up weird. So weird that it made me wonder if we had somehow veered off into a parallel universe. I know you might think I sound loony. But, stick with me for a moment.

Stephen Hawking, the super-genius, theoretical physicist, writes a lot about this concept. He says that black holes could be portals to other countless universes— very much like our own world, but, just a little different. So, there could be infinite planet Earths… countless other cities of Patterson… and many versions of me.

This is a troubling thought. I wonder if all versions of me are as scared of spiders? Or, like pumpkin spice lattes? Or like to drive so fast in their wheelchairs?

I also wonder if all the versions of Patterson have quite as many palm trees? Or, as many pizza places? Because I don’t know if it’s possible for a town to have as many locations to buy pizza as we do right now.

Seriously.

Anyway, what if the Earth was swallowed by a giant, unknown black hole, and we slipped into another dimension? Maybe that would explain why 2017 was so weird… and it would also explain why Patterson suddenly seems to want so many marijuana dispensaries.

Between the record-breaking hurricanes, deadly earthquakes, and massive fires, it could be argued that Mother Nature didn’t care much for 2017, either. Nonetheless, we mustn’t forget the victims of these disasters— many organizations are on the ground now helping those that are affected. Donate time or money, if you can. Don’t be a Scrooge.

It’s important to note that not everyone has had a difficult year, though. North Korea’s Kim Jong Un spent the year honing his missile launching and nuclear skills. After scattering hardware all over the Sea of Japan and threatening the West with death and destruction, he still found time to attack a village of Hobbits with a potato cannon. So, all in all, it was a pretty solid year for dictators. Just ask Vladimir Putin.

We also found out that Americans can become obsessed with solar eclipses— so much so that they will call-in sick to work, and drive hundreds of miles to watch the shrinking sun through a peephole in a modified box of Honey Nut Cheerios. I suspect that many of these same people spent the prior year, 2016, chasing cartoon Pokémon on their smartphones.

So, I suppose this is an improvement.

Scientists made several discoveries this year, too. A new species of orangutan, a close primate cousin to humans, was recently discovered hiding in an isolated forest in Indonesia. It’s been a century since a new species of great ape has been found. So, this is an incredibly exciting— and surprising— development. After all, who knew that Donald Trump wouldn’t be the only new orange-colored primate to burst into the international scene this year?

As we say goodbye to 2017, here’s hoping that the year to come will be a healthy, safe and happy one.

Just watch out for those black holes.

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Nutcrackers, Holiday Decorating & All The Lies We Tell

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Around three weeks ago, I was in a store and holiday music was already playing. Even though I snorted in disgust at the prematurity of it all, that didn’t stop me from admiring a collection of miniature Christmas trees roughly the size of Kevin Hart. You’ll be happy to note that I didn’t buy one, but I seriously considered it.

That set my mind into motion— into thinking about the holidays and when I’d put up my own decorations this year. I always tell myself that I’m going to wait until after Thanksgiving, but that never seems to happen. It’s more what I tell other people if they ask me when I put up my Christmas decorations. I always chirp, “Oh, I wait until after Thanksgiving.” But, in reality, I’m secretly hunkering down in my house around November 15th with empty nutcracker boxes strewn all over my dining room table and a rim of peppermint mocha residue around my lips.

It’s one of those secrets that we all keep and then lie to others about. You know, like how many times a day we floss (which is never), how many times a week we empty the lint compartment in the dryer (which is not enough) and if we wash our hands after we blow our nose (which should be all the time, but never is!).

When you are disabled, like me, you have to rely on others to help you put up your Christmas tree. You have to cajole and charm someone into climbing into the recesses of your garage to pull out the 7.5 foot plastic tree crammed in a cardboard box large enough for Kim Jong Un to stuff at least two dead bodies.

I’ve had the same artificial tree for quite a few years now. I don’t like having a real tree. It’s too much commitment. I have a hard enough time remembering to water my two houseplants, I definitely don’t have time to attend to a needy spruce tree. Plus, I don’t want something that will drop needles and crap all over my living room floor. If I wanted that, I’d just borrow a toddler.

Each year, there’s always a big moment of dread right before turning on the Christmas tree lights for the first time. That sinking feeling of wondering if this will be the year that it finally takes a giant poop. I’m sure I don’t need to describe this feeling any further. After all, if you’re a San Francisco 49ers fan, you feel this nearly every week.

Anyway, the last couple of seasons, my tree had begun to show its age. The lights began to dim, and large segments of the tree would randomly go dark, only to perk up again hours later. So, this week, I decided to take the plunge and get a new one. My new tree seems okay so far, but the branches were so smashed from being in the box on the long journey from China that the branches required considerable fluffing to stop them from resembling large marijuana joints. I suppose that’s one benefit to real trees, though— they are already fluffy.

However you may spend this holiday weekend, have a safe and happy one. If you need me, I’ll be here fluffing my tree, consuming large quantities of stuffing, and canoodling with my nutcrackers.

IMG_4507 (2)Happy Thanksgiving!

Margaritas & How To Stalk A Physical Therapist

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Earlier this week, I made the journey over to Stanford for my post-Spinraza-loading-doses evaluation. The neuromuscular team wanted to check my progress after beginning treatment. They are closely monitoring every aspect of my condition for their records— and to prove to insurance companies and other doctors around the world that, yes, Spinraza works on adults, too (not just kids). That way the insurance companies can stop being discriminatory, money-grubbing, ageist fuckheads so doctors can do their jobs and TREAT THEIR PATIENTS!

Whew, sorry. I got a little worked up there. Usually, I only get this riled up when Starbucks is out of caramel sauce… or I see motorcycles cutting people off between lanes in traffic… or I have to listen to Donald Trump speaking words together in clusters (i.e. sentences).

Anyway, at the beginning of the entire Spinraza process in February, I had an entire battery of tests. I saw physical therapists, respiratory therapists, occupational therapists— basically every kind of therapist that exists, except for the psychiatric kind. Which was unfortunate, because considering how drawn-out and stressful this whole thing would end up being, perhaps seeing a psychiatrist at the outset wouldn’t have been a bad idea. Maybe then I wouldn’t have needed as much Xanax, Netflix, or chocolate fudge ice cream.

They measured everything that could possibly be measured. The strength of my muscles and lungs. The flexibility of my joints and limbs. My fine motor skills. My ability to do long division. And if I knew the difference between their/they’re/there.

Okay, I might have made those last two up.

But, I think they should have tested that.

Anyway, this week, I had to repeat all those benchmarks again. As I am a high-achiever, obsessive-type, I had begun prepping for these tests at home. If there was going to be a test, I would get a good score. If there was a gold star or a happy face sticker to be earned, I wanted two of each. Maybe three. Yes, I am that person. That person in your high school class that always wanted to earn a higher score than you did.

In the days and weeks leading up to my follow-up evaluation, I did stretches at home, lifted small weights, exercised my hands with a squeeze ball, and did deep breathing. I was determined to score better than last time.

Upon arrival, I was weighed. I discovered that I had gain several pounds since February. While I’d like to think this was muscle weight gain, I suspect it’s more likely due to the extra chocolate fudge ice cream.

One of the last tasks in my first evaluation was to lift a pound weight from my lap to a table. I couldn’t complete the task last time. I couldn’t even move the weight at all. The cuff weight just sat in my lap like a useless lump as I poked at it with my tired fingers.

This failure haunted me. I’m sure Kim Jong Un feels the same way each time one of his rockets crashes into the sea.

So, I worked on this maneuver at home. I found a 16-ounce bag of dried split peas in the pantry and practiced lifting it from my lap to my desk. After a few days, I could do it quite easily. I was ecstatic. On the day of my recent evaluation, this was the test I was ready to tackle. I wanted to OWN it. And, in celebration, I promised myself I’d have a margarita on the rocks— with lime.

Unfortunately, I had to do nearly ALL the other tests first before this one. I showed off my slightly stronger biceps, triceps, my increased grip, and the wider range of motion in my hands. I was working muscles that hadn’t worked this well in a few years.

The downside to all this (you knew this was coming, right?), was that by the time we approached the lap-to-table weight test, I had begun to tire. I was able to lift the weight into the air (which I couldn’t do months ago)… but I didn’t have enough oomph to get it on the table.

I began to panic. I tried again. And again. And forced the physical therapist to stay longer in the exam room so I could try again. I could feel the gold star slipping through my fingertips. I did NOT want my damn rocket to self-destruct over the Sea of Japan. No, no, no.

I knew the physical therapist had other patients to get to and I could tell she was annoyed with my obsession with completing this one particular task. I was like a dog with a bone. I wouldn’t LET. IT. GO. I was like Donald Trump still obsessing over Hillary Clinton. I just couldn’t move on.

But, the physical therapist had had enough. When she left the exam room, I nonetheless shouted after her as the door closed, “If I can do this task on video will you give me the points for the task?!? Will you?!? Will you?!?

Yeah, I was that person.

It didn’t seem to matter that I went on to ace my pulmonary function test… that each measure of my respiratory ability had improved. I was still obsessing about the goddamn weight test. I wanted those points.

After a short rest, I had my friend start videoing me… I managed to lift a weight from my lap to the table in the exam room. Inside, I cheered… HELL, YEAH! I did it. I had proof. However, the physical therapist was gone by then.

But, if we’ve learned anything about me so far, it’s that I don’t give up easily. Upon leaving the neuromuscular department, the occupational therapist came over to chat. Before we parted ways, I burst out, “oh, and could you please tell Tina that I got a video of me putting the weight from my lap to the table?! Could you?!” I took a breath and added in a desperate rush, “I want those points!

Yeah, I was that person.

Despite that emotional hiccup, everything else went well. And I was happy with how things had unfolded. The whole evaluation took nearly three hours, though, so I was exhausted by the time we loaded up in the car.

But, on the entire 2+ hour drive home, I thought about the celebratory margarita I’d have later that evening. I had moved that weight from my lap to the table. I had video proof of it, even though it may not have counted. And that’s all that matters, right? That margarita would be mine.

I think I deserved it.

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