Death by Bureaucracy

#DisabledLife is filled with unexpected surprises. Sometimes, it’s having a caregiver call out, leaving you scrambling to find someone to come get you out of bed before your bladder explodes. Sometimes it’s getting into your wheelchair, desperate for coffee, only to discover that the motors have died. Mind you, this is just 18 months after you spent $1,000 to replace those same motors. Good luck getting insurance to pay for it… those miserly wankers only dispense wheelchair repair money in tiny allotments— like it’s radioactive uranium.

#DisabledLife is also all the time you burn navigating the minutia of a society not designed for people like you. Inaccessible places. Healthcare bureaucracy. People that won’t wear masks. But, if that wasn’t enough, #DisabledLife is also spending hours trying to get medical professionals to believe that you know more about your own needs than they do. (Heaven forbid!)

This weekend, I had another one of these #DisabledLife surprises. In my mailbox, there was a packet with one of the most dreaded return marks in the corner:

SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION

When I saw it, I knew that nothing fun would be inside. There would be no Target gift cards, or 50% off coupons for pumpkin spice candles. There would be no sweet messages with heart emojis or stickers that smell like root beer. Instantly, I knew that no matter how good my day had been going up to that point, that the rest of my joy (and patience) was going to be drained by the contents of that envelope— like a damn black hole.

“Fuck.”

Yes, I actually said this aloud.

Then, I stared at the envelope for a few moments, debating when/how to open it. I eyed it suspiciously, like a bomb squad specialist defusing an explosive. When I couldn’t take the anxiety anymore, I grabbed my homemade letter opener (with a long handle designed for my weak, skinny hands), and sliced it open.

I read the top of the page:

“The Social Security Administration must regularly review the cases of people getting disability benefits to make sure they are still disabled under our rules. It is time for us to review this case. Enclosed is a Disability Update Report for you to answer to update us about your health and medical conditions, and any recent work activity… Please complete the report, sign it and send it to us in the enclosed envelope within 30 days…”

In case this jargon is confusing, let me translate: Social Security has given me 30 days to prove that my permanent, genetic disability hasn’t magically disappeared… like classified documents do at Mar-a-Lago.

I grumbled. And cussed some more. Then, I changed my weekend plans from “Binge Abbott Elementary on Hulu” to “Fill Out Useless Paperwork.”

My irritation was massive. It took all my willpower not to set the packet on fire. (Truly.) Yet, I managed to complete the forms. For the sake of my own sanity, though, I added the following letter for good measure.

Think they will reply?…

…

October 8, 2022

SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION, P.O. BOX 4550, WILKES BARRE, PA 18767-4550

SENT VIA UNITED STATES MAIL

Dear Person Working At The Social Security Administration:

Hello. First, I’m sorry that you work at Social Security opening mail and reading letters just like this one. Everyday. Even after you’ve been sick with the “flu” — or, as is more likely, just hungover from too many margaritas.

Second, I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Elizabette. I live in California with a cat named Charley that likes to steal my breakfast. I was diagnosed with Spinal Muscular Atrophy, a genetic neuromuscular disability, at the University of California, San Francisco, just before my 2nd birthday. I started using a wheelchair at the age of four, when most kids are just learning how to pick their nose. My disability is progressive, so I transitioned to a power wheelchair at the age of seven.

Third, I’d like to assure everyone at the Social Security Administration that, yes, I’m still disabled. My genetic disability can’t be cured by clicking my heels together three times. In fact, I couldn’t even click my heels together if you asked me. Because, yes, I’m THAT disabled.

I need help with all my daily needs— like getting out of bed, showering, getting into my wheelchair, and cooking meth in my kitchen.

Anyway, here are a few more facts that might help you determine my disabledness. (Yes, I just made up that word. Feel free to use it, if you want.)

— I’m unable to drive, so I must hitchhike everywhere like a 1970s hippie just before they were murdered by the Zodiac Killer.

(Just kidding. Folks drive me around in an adapted minivan. You know, the kind of car that hauls around eight-year-olds and smells of stale Happy Meals.)

— I’m a patient of the Stanford Neuromuscular Clinic. I am followed by their team of neurologists, pulmonologists, physical therapists, respiratory therapists, nutritionists, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers. My last checkup was on March 15, 2022. My next checkup is just a few days away.

— I’m attaching a copy of my health record from Stanford, just in case you don’t believe how damned disabled I actually am.

— I work from home a few hours a week as a bookkeeper. This part-time job gives me the flexibility to rest when necessary, and to tailor my work-schedule to my physical and medical needs. I can’t work a full-time job, or work away from home.

— My job pays me $600 a month. You folks at Social Security only give me $596 a month because you think I live in an alternative timeline where everything costs the same as it did in 1958. I use all my money to pay my caregivers. Every. Single. Dime. And it’s NOWHERE near enough to cover the total cost. This is why I sell my body on Craigslist.

— My lung capacity is 42%. Given my respiratory weakness, I am at-risk of severe complications from most illnesses. So, I avoid crowded, public spaces. This is a bummer, yes. But as most people kinda suck, I actually don’t miss this as much as you’d think.

— Oh, and I am unable to wipe my own butt. So someone else has to do it for me. Further, I poop twice a day. I know you didn’t ask this on the form. But, as Social Security seems to want to verify EVERYTHING about me, you might as well know this, too, right?

I guess that’s it for now. Let me know if you need me to provide anything else— like my firstborn child.

Most sincerely,

Elizabette

“Nobody wants to see that.”

In my writing, I haven’t shied away from making a joke or taking a snarky jab at people in power. I can’t help myself from doing it. It’s a compulsion. Like cussing and eating too many pumpkin-flavored products. As you might know, President Trump has been a recipient of this on multiple occasions. It’s just soooo easy when the man rabidly tweets nonsense at 3am, has a squirrel nest living on his head, and can’t address someone without adding a schoolyard insult in front of their name like he’s Biff from Back to the Future.

Yesterday, The Atlantic published an investigative report (the content of which has since been independently corroborated by The Associated Press, The Washington Post, and Jennifer Griffin of FoxNews), that the president has repeatedly disparaged military service members, calling those who died “losers” and “suckers” and that wounded and disabled veterans should be kept out of military parades. This article, and its contents, are currently being dissected all across the Internet, the Twitterverse, Middle Earth and Narnia— so, there is no need for me to delve into the article, as a whole. That’s being done by many others.

However, having said that, there is something in the piece that I do want to highlight. Something that I haven’t seen properly examined. Something, that as a disabled person, I read with deep sorrow, and, yet, it didn’t come as a surprise in the least.

The editor in chief, Jeffrey Goldberg wrote:

“‘He has a lot of fear,’ one officer with firsthand knowledge of Trump’s views said… Several observers told me [Goldberg] that Trump is deeply anxious about dying or being disfigured, and this worry manifests itself as disgust for those who have suffered… Trump has been, for the duration of his presidency, fixated on staging military parades, but only of a certain sort. In a 2018 White House planning meeting for such an event, Trump asked his staff not to include wounded veterans, on grounds that spectators would feel uncomfortable in the presence of amputees. ‘Nobody wants to see that,’ he said.”

Many have attacked this article as being unbelievable. A hit job. And “fake news.” That the president would never say such things. But, as a disabled person that has lived in the United States of America since my birth, I can say without hesitation, that the message and the view that I quoted above is utterly believable.

For centuries, the disabled were hidden away from view, believed to be curses from God, and were not allowed to live full, meaningful and proud lives. The ultimate evidence of human frailty and mortality, the disabled were to be shamed, pitied, and in some cases, exterminated. For disabled people of color, this marginalization is even more profound and insidious. Something we, the disabled, are definitely not? The mascots of strong, advanced, and powerful civilizations. (Just ask Russia. In 1980, they said that disabled people didn’t exist there at all.)

Some think these attitudes are a thing of the past, that we’ve come far as a society. After all, a few buildings now have ramps and crippled folks have designated parking spots to use— but, truthfully, these are often filled by privileged wankers who park there “For-just-five-minutes-while-I-drop-off-this-package-of-LuLaRoe-yoga-pants-at-UPS-to-ship-to-my-cousin-DeeDee-while-I-keep-my-motor-running-so-you-believe-that-I’m-not-breaking-the-law.”

But, deep-seeded notions, including those about disability, don’t disappear overnight. They persist. It’s why FDR knew he had to hide his disability to be President of the United States. There’s no way this country would elect a man in a wheelchair to be Commander-in-Chief. No way.

It’s probably also why Chadwick Boseman sadly hid his medical condition until after his death because he knew Hollywood movie studios wouldn’t continue to employ a man (especially a black man) with a serious illness or disability. Chadwick understood that if too many people knew, he would have been sent on his way with pretty words, a hug and maybe a really big fruit basket.

So, is it surprising that the current President of the United States allegedly thinks these things about disabled veterans? Hell no. Is it surprising he said these things out loud? Maybe to some people it’s surprising. To me, it isn’t. And I suspect it isn’t surprising to many other disabled people, too.

Say what you will about Mr. Trump. But, one thing he surely is? A mirror. A mirror that shines back at us some of the ugliest truths about ourselves. Some people are disconcerted by this lack of filter. But, maybe, just maybe, we should try to learn something from it. To look at how we elected this man to the highest office in the land— and what that says about us. About what that says about the things we say to ourselves when no one is around to hear.

But, in the words of Mr. Trump, “Nobody wants to see that.”

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Flossing & the Magical Days of 2020

(appeared in today’s PattersonIrrigator.com)

When there are things that we don’t do often, sometimes these activities can take on a shiny, magical image in our minds. This happens when you do something only rarely. It becomes idealized in your head. Like what happens when you think of going on vacation, buying a new car, or flossing your teeth when your dentist isn’t around to see you do it.

It’s the rarity of these activities that makes them special. The scarcity. It’s the fact that you don’t do them every day. Every four years, there are several of these rare events. Lucky for us, 2020 is one of these special years.

For starters, at the end of July, the summer Olympics will begin in Tokyo, Japan. Hopefully. Well, provided that the entire eastern half of the world hasn’t died of the coronavirus and human beings are still allowed to assemble in large groups. But I’m sure the Japanese will figure out something. I mean, they invented a toilet that can heat, clean and dry your butt, so tackling the coronavirus should be a piece of cake.

I love the Olympics. So, this is an exciting time for me, and for all people that don’t really watch sports. Yes, we actually exist. And, no we don’t all own six cats. Some of us only own five.

The great thing about the Olympics is that it’s the ideal sporting event for people that don’t watch sports. Why? You don’t have to worry about deflating footballs, coaches stealing baseball pitching signs, or whether a driver might die when a NASCAR explodes into the air at 200 miles an hour. By the way, the fact that Ryan Newman isn’t dead after last week’s Daytona crash makes me wonder if something weird is going on. Did Newman make a deal with God, Jesus, or Charlton Heston? Because, thankfully, it seriously looks like that.

Anyway, 2020 is an action-packed year. We also have a presidential election in November, but I don’t think I need to remind anyone of that. There’s really not much to say about the election, anyway. Well, other than that one super-billionaire and 29 senators are running to defeat an incumbent president that really likes to spray tan. Oh, and I should also note that when the leading Democratic candidate talks, his right fist moves around in the air like it isn’t even attached to his body. Like a Muppet.

But, every four years, something else happens. Something miraculous. Out of the ether comes an entire extra day. This Saturday is that day. Leap Day, February 29, appears like an apparition. Magic. Suddenly, you have another day to do whatever you want. You could do something that you’ve always wished to do, like plan a vacation, or floss. Or you could do absolutely nothing at all— like the U.S. Senate.

So, I hope you enjoy this Leap Day. Do something special. If not for yourself, then for someone else. Savor every minute— because a day like this won’t come for another four years.

P.S. Don’t forget to floss, though.

2019: A Reader’s Digest

If you’re taking the time to read this, I’d like to commend you. While 2019 was a year of many events— on the local, national and international levels— there’s one activity that didn’t rank too highly in our collective lives this year. Reading. You know, the process by which the brain computes letters into words that eventually become ideas that we can think about inside our brains?

Frankly, it’s not surprising that no one reads anymore. Given our online world, if something can’t be shared in a meme, a 30 second video, or a 140-character Tweet, we are not interested. We’ve conditioned ourselves to only digest information in small amounts— like penguins regurgitating fish guts to baby chicks. So, to that end, I’ll try to keep this year-end summary brief.

On the international front, once again it was a great year for dictatorships. Vladimir Putin expanded his sphere of influence in Syria, Turkey and Ukraine, bringing Russia into a golden era of power not seen since Comrade Stalin gobbled up Eastern Europe like PAC-Man.

But, the real power-player of the year was Xi Jinping of China. After previously declaring himself the Wizard of Middle Earth, Jinping contained a huge public protest in Hong Kong, all while secretly detaining over a million people from ethnic minority groups into concentration camps— which the Chinese government lovingly call “Education Centers for Naughty Hobbits.” It’s very important, though, that no one talk or write about any of these events in Middle Earth because no one wants to pay more than $5 for a bottle of aspirin.

Science made a lot of discoveries in 2019. Astronomers released the first-ever photograph of a massive black hole captured by an intricate system of telescopes. Black holes are described as having gravitational forces so intense that nothing can escape— including light, atomic particles and Lori Loughlin’s career.

In New Zealand, biologists discovered ancient fossils from an unknown species of giant parrot that could grow to be three feet tall. That’s a really big bird. I bet it’d be a challenge to find a cage large enough for a parrot that is the size of a human toddler.

But, hey, maybe US Immigration could part with a few of theirs?

On the domestic front, the news-cycle has been dominated by tweets written by President Donald Trump at 3 o’clock in the morning. These tweets are widely shared because, as we established earlier, 140-characters is the maximum amount that most Americans can read at one time. This short-attention span has been very beneficial to the president because when Robert Mueller’s long-awaited 448-page report was finally released in April, no one actually read it.

In Hollywood, movie adaptations of the Avengers, Spider-Man and Captain Marvel all raked in the most cash at the box office. There are only two possible reasons for this. Either Americans can’t be bothered to read books made of cartoon drawings, or we’re desperate for a hero to save the world from certain doom.

In political news, we began 2019 with 25 Democratic candidates running for president. In the months since, an additional 379 people have joined the race. This includes a surprising number of billionaires— like Mike Bloomberg, Tom Steyer, Bruce Wayne and Scrooge McDuck. The candidates all claim to be able to beat Donald Trump, but their platforms and ideas exceed 140-characters, so I fear their chances of holding onto an audience are pretty slim.

Meanwhile, Congress has been awash with hearings of all kinds— hearings on presidential impeachment, hearings about executive abuses of power, and hearings about whether using the Oxford Comma would be seen as too socialist. No one knows how it will all turn out, but it still remains that less than 20% of Americans can find Ukraine on a map.

Back here at home, California is still no closer to building the high-speed train that was begun during the Millard Fillmore administration. Budget and cost overruns have plagued the high-speed rail process. Yet, at the same time, Governor Gavin Newsom’s pearly white smile remains suspiciously well-maintained. I don’t know if these two things are related, but I once bought Crest tooth whitening strips at Target and they cost more than the pair of pants I’m currently wearing.

In Patterson, it’s been an eventful year, too. As the revitalized Patterson Family Pharmacy is constructed, several new establishments have opened, as well— including a Starbucks and a Round Table Pizza. The latter establishment unfortunately joins the 692 other places that sell pizza in town. But, the new Round Table does distinguish itself by giving customers cool space-age wristbands. After these high-tech wristbands precisely dispense beer into cups, customers have the option of getting beamed onto the Starship Enterprise.

As 2019 comes to a close, we have much for which to be thankful. We can be thankful for our family, our friends and our great community. Lastly, we can also rejoice that we won’t often need to use those reading glasses we bought at Walgreens.

After all, it’s pretty easy to squint or trombone-through something that’s 140-characters, or less.

Wishing all of you a happy and healthy 2020.

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Facing Voldemort

When you’re disabled, you learn to adapt… tweak… make-do. These skills are essential, because as much as the modern, progressive world likes to think it’s ‘woke as **ck‘ — it’s really not. Full inclusion of disabled people in society is a long way off, and these issues barely register on even the most liberal political agendas. In fact, during this election season’s rounds of televised Democratic debates, I haven’t heard one of the 318 presidential candidates even say the word ‘disability.’ Considering disabled Americans are the largest minority group in the country— one that spans race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic background— you’d think it would come up. At least once. (Just like Bernie Sanders yells and shakes his fists at another candidate at least once a debate.)

It’s possible the candidates are just being thoughtless in ignoring disability issues in the debates— like when careless people forget to put another roll of toilet paper in the bathroom after they’ve used the last square of Charmin. But, perhaps there is another, more sinister meaning. What if they are subconsciously afraid of saying the word ‘disability‘ aloud because then it acknowledges that we actually exist? And, maybe, just maybe, they are frightened of us? It could be possible. After all, this was why everyone was reluctant to say Voldemort’s name aloud in Harry Potter.

Let’s not forget that even The Ministry of Magic discouraged folks from saying it at Hogwarts. They worried that if someone voiced the name of Voldemort, the most dreaded wizard in the land, it would give him the power and recognition needed to rise up. And that was definitely not okay… because then all the normal wizards would have to face the fact that they were only one Death-Eater attack away from a nursing home run by Hufflepuffs.

So, yeah, you can see why they’d prefer to pretend like we don’t exist. It’s scary to imagine the power potentially wielded by 1 in 5 Disabled Americans. Because not even the mighty Teamsters Union can muster these kinds of numbers— even though Joe Biden desperately wishes that they could.

I think maybe it’s time for us to be a little scary. Be a little loud. Because we are not only fighting for ourselves. We are fighting for everyone. After all, we are also the only minority group that anyone can become member— at any time. Plus, if you live long enough, you’re probably eventually going to need the homecare services we are fighting so hard for, too.

I hate to break it to you, but not even the best Patronus charm can do a damned thing about that fact. Eventually, you’re going to need someone to help you get out of bed in the morning. You’re going to need someone to help you prepare your meals. Hell, you’re probably going to need help wiping your own ass. But, here’s the thing: unless you meet the impossibly stringent & poverty-driven Medicaid guidelines, you won’t qualify for homecare services.

Despite what you may believe, Medicare and private medical insurances currently do not cover homecare. So, you could lose your house, your retirement and all the things you worked your entire life to achieve just to pay for medically-necessary care costs.

Thinking of just going to a nursing home? Good luck with that— the care received in institutionalized settings are substandard, dangerous, and far, far more expensive than the costs of providing care in your own home… in your own community.

Given that homecare is cheaper and safer than institutionalized care, isn’t it surprising that it’s not covered by Medicare and private insurances? Wouldn’t logic say that it should be covered? Well, yes. But, denial is a powerful thing. And the denial of the notion— the reality— that anyone could become disabled at any time in their life is even more powerful. It’s no wonder no one wanted to say Voldemort’s name in Harry Potter. That was some scary shit, yes?

But, if these services existed— and were more available— maybe disability (and even old age!) wouldn’t be so fucking scary to everyone. Maybe then we could change the whole narrative around it.

However, first, a narrative must begin. And, to do that, someone needs to talk about it. But, I’m afraid that with the current slate of presidential candidates, that’s not likely to happen. Why?

Well, the top contenders Joe Biden, Elizabeth Warren, Bernie Sanders and—yes, Donald Trump— are all over the age of 70. Given society’s subconscious aversion to disability and old age, these four main contenders definitely do not want to draw attention to how old they actually are. (I mean, no one wants to yell Voldemort in a crowded cafeteria, do they?)

Even though you’d think these presidential contenders would be ideally suited to discuss these issues (given they are closer to the age of needing these services), there’s NO damn way they are going talk about that. Just look how long it took Bernie Sanders’ campaign to acknowledge his recent heart attack? Look how evasive Donald Trump is in releasing his full medical records? (And, no, it’s definitely not because he’s got the most greatest health in the history of all American presidents— including, of course, all the leaders of the most bigly and powerful nations in Earth history.)

So, who is going to do the talking, if not us? Who is going to make people uncomfortable so that they can face the reality of their own human frailty? That they will need help someday? I guess that falls to us disabled folks.

This election season, perhaps you should give this some thought. Who will best fight for you when you need it most?

Because, like it or not, Voldemort is coming.

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Inclusion & Integration — Everyone Wins

(This piece originally appeared today in The Patterson Irrigator.)

Recently, this newspaper chronicled the story of Owen Tyler— a seventh grade student with Down syndrome that is an active and valued member of the Creekside Middle School wrestling team. A video from one of his matches went viral online, highlighting the story of his inclusion in school and community activities. When I saw the video myself, it made me smile. After all, where there is inclusion, all humanity thrives and flourishes.

I would like it if we lived in a world where stories like Owen’s became commonplace. That inclusion became the rule, not the exception. That videos like the one from his wrestling match became so ordinary that there would be no need for it to be on television news.

As a disabled adult, I can attest to the importance of inclusion. I spent my youth mainstreamed in school classes and welcomed in extracurricular activities. This allowed me to grow and shaped the adult I would become. Further, I learned that each diverse voice counts, and that includes disabled voices like mine. Like Owen’s.

We must remember that inclusion of disability doesn’t end in childhood— it must continue on into our later years, too. After all, we spend much more of our lives as adults than we do as children. So, as a society, we must commit to this principle. We must value these life experiences and the importance they bring to society at-large.

The disability community is the only community of which anyone (regardless of age, race, gender, and income) can suddenly find themselves a member. An illness, an accident, the effects of age, can all lead someone to become disabled. At any time. This is why valuing inclusion is so important. Because there’s a good chance that it could affect you, or someone you love dearly, at some moment in life.

There is a bipartisan bill sitting in Congress right now called The Disability Integration Act (S.117, H.R. 555). It seeks to secure the Constitutional right to liberty for disabled people and seniors who want inclusive lives in the community. It wants to help aging seniors and the disabled stay in their homes. It seeks to save millions of federal and state dollars by avoiding expensive institutionalization, which is far costlier and less-effective than home- and community-based services. But, most of all, it seeks to make the spirit of inclusion part of the law.

This bill needs public support to help it move forward. So, I urge you to learn more about The Disability Integration Act. Talk to your elected representatives. It could make a big difference to you and the future of your loved ones— whether you realize it now, or not.

After all, where there is inclusion, all humanity thrives and flourishes. Just ask Owen.

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1990: Revisited

With the passing of Barbara Bush earlier this week, the news has been awash with memorials of her life and the presidency of her husband, George H.W. Bush— or, as I not-so-secretly call him, “Old Man Bush.” I realize that calling the 41st president by that moniker sounds ageist and mean, but given we had another president with LIKE EXACTLY THE SAME NAME, how else am I to differentiate the two?? I suppose, in some ways, though, it’s better to be “Old Man Bush” than it is “Little Bush” — which is what I called his son.

Anyway, in all honestly, my recollection of the years when George & Barbara Bush lived in the White House are decidedly hazy. I was only around 8 at the time, so anything that wasn’t in the shape of a Lego really didn’t interest me. But, nonetheless, I do have vague flashbacks of Barbara with her shock of white hair and her bright suits the color of a Troll doll’s hair. Seriously, those suits were bright.

I bet she even glowed in the dark.

You know… it’s easy to imagine George and Barbara playing hide-and-seek in the White House. ‘Cause, if anyone were to do it, it would probably be those two lovebirds.

“Bar, ready or not, here I come!” A few minutes of scrambling later, and then you’d hear George exclaim, “Come here, you saucy minx, I can see you glowing all the way from the Lincoln Bedroom!”

Anyway, I do remember Barbara’s literacy programs in my elementary school, but as I was a certifiable bookworm already, Barbara was truly preachin’ to the choir with me. I don’t think it was possible for me to read any more books— after all, I had already made my parents broke by forcing them to buy me the entire series of The Babysitters Club. (I wish I was kidding.)

But, despite my early ambivalence to politics, I do remember one landmark moment during the presidency of Old Man Bush (sorry, I still can’t seem to help myself). It was that moment in 1990 when George signed The Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) into law.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that legislation had been a long time in coming. Many disabled activists had endured many trials and hardships to make that moment possible. Even though I was young, I could still feel the importance of that revolutionary document. On the news that day, I saw folks in wheelchairs at the White House sitting next to the president. I had never seen that before. They were people like me. (Although, in all honesty, they were mostly male and super white. At the time, of course, diversity was an unnecessary concept, not an actual reality. You know, like women CEOs and food allergies.)

The ADA would nonetheless go on to shape the civil rights movement for disabled people all over the world. It was a giant leap forward for accessibility, inclusion and equal-access. But, as amazing as the legislation was, it’s still an imperfect document. It has loopholes, exclusions, and falls short in various areas that could further improve the lives of people like me. So, I can say without hesitation that we still have a long way to go. There are still many barriers that must fall.

Despite this, there has been a movement recently to try to erode away some of the protections of the ADA. Earlier this year, the House of Representatives passed H.R. 620, a bill misleadingly named “ADA Education and Reform Act of 2017.” By removing the reasons for businesses to proactively comply with the ADA, H.R. 620 attempts to chip away at the rights of a disabled person to fight for the removal of barriers to access. It makes it more difficult, and nearly impossible in some cases, for an aggrieved disabled person to seek accommodation. Nonetheless, the shitty bill has moved on to the Senate, where it sits right now.

With the passing of Barbara Bush, it’s made me reflect on that moment when her husband first signed the ADA. Often more vocally progressive than her husband, I’m sure that moment in 1990 brought Barbara much pride.

Now, all these years later, we shouldn’t be looking to scale back the ADA, we should be working to expand it. Time marches forward, after all.

Unless you can’t walk. Because then you might not even be able to get in the building.

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(Old Man Bush signing the ADA in 1990. Photo via Associated Press)

Messy Drawers, Cassette Tapes & Vladimir Putin

There’s no right or wrong time to clean out a messy drawer, or that one cabinet that hasn’t been touched since audio cassette tapes were still a thing that people actually used. Don’t mistake this as a diss on cassettes— nothing could be further than the truth. I used to love to rock out to Michael Jackson’s Thriller album on my mint green boom box. In fact, I eventually wore the cassette tape out and had to use some of my piggy bank money to buy a fresh copy at the mall. This was a time when you had to actually drive to the store to buy music— so it was a serious commitment. You had to really want something if you were willing to make your mom drive you 40 minutes to the Vintage Faire Mall to get it. After all, in the 1980’s, the only thing you could download from a Cloud was some rain.

Cleaning out an old drawer or shelf can be a therapeutic experience. I know I always feel better, lighter, and calmer when I can de-clutter something. That’s a fact. Unloading possessions is deeply cathartic. While I know that some people get the same feeling from yoga and meditation, I suspect Vladimir Putin gets a similar zing of excitement when he invades Ukraine and polishes his knife collection.

Sorting through old stuff can yield surprising results, too. Once I found a $20 bill in a nylon fanny pack at the bottom of my dresser. Remember fanny packs? Yeah, I wish I didn’t, either. Aside from being horrified that I actually wore the damn thing, I instantly felt like I had won a prize by discovering the twenty bucks inside. It didn’t seem to matter that it was actually my own money, I was still a Powerball winner in my mind.

A few days ago, I cleaned out an old drawer in my bathroom. Inside, next to a crusty bottle of Johnson & Johnson Baby Powder, and in front of a curling iron that hadn’t been used in over a decade, I found a little box. Inside? My high school class ring! I hadn’t seen the ring in years, in fact, I had forgotten all about it. But, alas, here it was in my hand, smelling slightly of old talc, yet none the worse for wear. It was like finding a $20 bill, only way better. Vladimir Putin probably gets the same feeling when he imprisons dissidents and runs around the Kremlin naked.

So, the moral of the story is this: don’t wait to clean out that one messy drawer in your house. While you may only find old buttons, some matchbooks, and a few dried-up pens, there’s a chance you could discover something awesome. Like a $20 bill, your high school class ring, or— if you’re Vladimir Putin—your secret stash of Soviet-era nuclear weapons.

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If only everyone could be so lucky.

Muddy Habits

As the old saying goes, “Some habits are hard to break.” I tend to think that all habits are hard to break— otherwise we wouldn’t call them habits. They’d just be things-we-do-sometimes. Or stuff-we-do-without-thinking-about-it. Or, if you’re President of the United States, it would be called Tweeting-At-3am.

I have many habits; in fact, my life is awash in routine. I find it calming to live life this way. To use another cliché, I am not the kind of person to “fly by the seat of my pants.” In fact, this would be a physical impossibility since the seat of my pants is firmly affixed to my wheelchair. Unless Superman swoops down from the heavens, I’m not flying anywhere. This is not to say that I would object to this concept, though. I wouldn’t— because Clark Kent is hot.

Not all my habits are as healthy or as useful. For example, when I get anxious, I pick at my fingernails. As a kid, I used to bite my fingernails, but when I learned how many germs lurk underneath, I was totally cured of that practice. So, now I pick at them, instead. It is still somewhat gross, but less disgusting. At least that is what I tell myself.

We all have habits, like these, that we shouldn’t do. Given the heaps of rain we’ve had this year in Patterson, I know one thing that no one should be foolish enough to try— and that’s driving a vehicle into, or through, the mud.

Our agricultural land is rich— and heavy. The nutrients and clay make the ground in the Patterson area some of the best soil in the world. But, this heaviness means that if the soil gets saturated, or even slightly wet, it will sink anything that tries to drive through it.

So, please, don’t do it. I’ve seen cars, trucks, vans, tractors, school buses, and most recently, a USPS mail truck, get stuck in Patterson’s mud. It took three men to free the poor, bedraggled mail truck from the sloppy mess.

Take a wrong turn? Decide to try to turn around off the side of a country road? Think again. You better hope you find a friendly farmer or a dude with a huge truck to pull your dumb self out of the mud.

If, by sheer luck, you manage to not get fully stuck, you will make such a mess getting out of the mud that the resulting crater will be seen from space. Russian cosmonauts on the International Space Station will be too busy laughing at you to help rig any more elections.

I’ll make you a deal. If you promise to not drive in the mud, I will try to stop picking my nails. While I can’t make any guarantees, I’ll do my best.

Maybe these habits won’t be that hard to break, after all.

Rain, Pizzas, and Things That Annoy Me

We all have things that annoy us. The things that make us grumble and roll our eyes. Overpaid celebrities that complain about the hardships of being famous. Potato chip bags that are only 35% full when you buy them. People who don’t text.

If you are over 70, I will give you a pass on that last one. Otherwise, get with the program. And, for goodness sake, don’t leave a voicemail. Many of us consider voicemails to be, at best, an irritation and, at worst, a harbinger of doom— like a Sean Spicer press conference.

Yet, despite these examples, there are few things as trite as a Californian complaining about the weather. After all, we live in the land of sunshine, moderate temperatures and the Kardashians. What more could we possibly want? Plus, here in Patterson, we enjoy vistas of palm trees, lushly cultivated fields, and more pizza places than one town could conceivably need.

Seriously, though, we have a lot of pizza places. As a town, we must consume more pizza than I think. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have quite so many places to buy it, right? Our per-capita pepperoni usage must be— to borrow a word from Mr. Trump— huuuuge.

Anyway, given the drought plaguing our state, I’m thrilled to see all the rain. Truly. It’s been the focus of our hopes and prayers. However, when you’re used to sunshine and palm trees, if you don’t see the sun for the better part of a week, you start to feel blue.

The other morning, during a brief pocket of sunshine, I stopped in the middle of the Savemart parking lot, turned my face to the sky and let the warmth and Vitamin D soak into my face— along with UV rays that will eventually make me haggard and wrinkly.

I am fully aware that I sound privileged and whiny. I should be nothing but grateful for the rain we have received. Especially considering there are some places in South America’s Atacama Desert that haven’t had measurable rainfall in 500 years. That’s a long time. If you’re waiting for rain in the Atacama, you might have to live and die 7 or 8 times just to see it happen. And you thought waiting in line at the DMV was bad.

But, please forgive me for complaining. Sociologists would place me as an older member of the millennial generation. According to them, we millennials can’t help ourselves from exhibiting these behaviors. While I’m not certain I agree with this assessment, my hipster reward card does have enough stamps on it to qualify me for a free soy latte made with sustainably-grown coffee, organic vanilla and freshly-harvested unicorn tears.

Nonetheless, I will do my best to continue to be grateful for the rain. But, if that fails, I’ll just drown my sorrows in a pizza— or seven.