Hiya Darling Ones,

How goes it?

Here in the North Star State we’re in for a blizzard that could drop anywhere from 4-22 inches of snow on us according to the weather terrorists. Of all the things I’m good at, hunkering down is probably what I’m beat at. An introverted spinster who’s lived alone for 25+ years? I am the Serena Williams of hunkering down.

My hunkering plans include catching up on my many ignored crochet projects. I’m a month and a half behind on Temp Blanket 2026 and the less said about the State Fair one the better.

I’m very much the distracted boyfriend meme and Art Practice is my new obsession.

Do you know you can put colorful blobs and squiggles on stuff and be released from all that ails you for a brief and glorious moment? YOU CAN! It’s astounding.

Right now I’m copycatting things I see on Instagram (see above), doing the watercolor sketchbook, and working through a YouTube drawing class.

For the most part, I’ve been arting at least once a day. This week hasn’t been the best with the time change & an especially difficult eye treatment, but I still squeezed in some.

Taking up art feels like the best thing I’ve done for my poor damaged brain and janky body since I’ve existed.

Pre-stroke writing and reading were my favorite form of escape. I could go someplace else, immerse myself in someone else’s life. Post-stroke it isn’t the same. While I’m most grateful for audiobooks and the library that lends them to me, it’s not the same as reading a paper book with your eyes. The experience, for me, isn’t as immersive. I’m still aware of my body and its surroundings. This holds true for writing too. Even as I type there’s a part of my brain constantly noticing the tension and heaviness in my right side.

When I’m painting or drawing that noticing is much less frequent and I’m able to be more forgiving with myself. The heaviness and tremor are still there, my scoop will forever be floppy. But my brain is also noticing how the color looks on paper, how the watercolor moves across the surface. It’s thinking about what I should do next, what color, what blob, what squiggle. I can go entire minutes without thinking about my scoop or noticing my distorted vision. It is the best. THE BEST!

I’ve had a fraught history with my body. Last summer Sister #2 made a comment about how she could tell I don’t feel safe in my body. I don’t know if I responded, but I’ve thought about that phrase a lot, “safe in my body.”

Was that something people feel on the regular? What does it really mean? Have I ever felt safe in my own body? I would tentatively say, no. My body has never been a safe space. It has been a constant source of attention, often cruel and unwanted. I’d venture to guess that part of the reason I’ve chosen to live alone for most of my adult life is to protect me from that attention, even from well-meaning people who love me.

You know what though? When I’m arting I feel safe in my body. Is this how people walk around all the time with their meat sack not causing angst and fear? I hope so, because it’s kind of rad even when I experience it in teeny, tiny amounts.

Mind blown,
Jodi

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Hola Darling Ones,

Tomorrow, March 6th, marks the third anniversary of my stroke. Time flies when you’re learning how to be disabled, struggling with money, and grieving.

Three years since I called 911 and none of those men believed me when I said I had a stroke. Three years since I heard the cop making fun of me, “She thinks she had a stroke. She googled.” All cops really are bastards. I will never not be a hot ball of fury about how those first responders treated me.

Three years since I walked or drove or generally felt normal inside my own body.

It’s kinda nice the world outside of me has been pretty tame allowing me a singular focus on getting stronger. No wars. No ongoing military occupation of my state where thugs abduct or murder neighbors. No fascist overthrow of the US by the dumbest and cruelest humans led by an evil delusional gameshow host.

On this strokeaversary I’m so proud of how far I’ve come. Reading those early days after the stroke is rough. I was so beaten down and scared.

But even a damaged brain can’t keep a good spinster down.

Aside from my finances (my dole hearing is April 10) and the fascism, I’m doing pretty well. I think perhaps, maybe, I have finally accepted that this is the way things are gonna be and status quo is not a bad thing. Or maybe this is like grief and I will always be accepting it in some way.

Now that I’ve stopped beating myself up for failing at recovery, I’ve got a lot time on my hands, and so I’m starting an art/creative practice like its my job.

While I still crochet and write, it’s not the same as before. When I’m engaged in those activities there’s a whispering voice saying “this weird. why is this weird? what is wrong with you?”

To get that voice to shut up already I’ve taken up water colors. I want to try some drawing and collaging too. I’ve always been drawn to visual art and envious of those who create it, but haven’t taken an art class since seventh grade. Instead, I drifted toward photography and graphic art in school. That all came together when I discovered blogging and so I let crochet be my unplugged creative way to calm the brain weasels.

Now I need more. My brain weasels are bigger, damaged, and rowdy. I wanted something relatively cheap I could do with my hands. Something I haven’t done before.

My magical thinking has decided this new practice will be good for my Floppy Scoop and work some kind of wizardry my brain. It won’t fix the wooshiness that is my constant state of being, but maybe it will make it a little less gusty?

I’m only five days into the practice. It took me awhile to find cheap/free supplies and get over the fear that I’d art wrong and the world would end because of it. Right now I’m following a 30/60-day sketchbook challenge from Andrea Nelson on Instagram.

This old spinster is learning some new tricks. It’s fun to start a new practice and challenge myself to try something new that I’m not good at. Be gentle when I start subjecting you to all my creations. I’m just a baby at this.

Happy to be still kicking,
Jodi

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Hello Darling Ones,

A voicemail from my Poor People’s insurance company just prompted me to burst into tears.

The message was about connecting me with Second Harvest Heartland in case I needed help securing food. The tears were a mix of gratitude that I don’t need that kind of help and sadness that so many do.

‘Tis the season, ya know.

After Minnesota Octobers and the Boys’ High School Hockey Tournament, Christmas is my favorite season. And the older I get, the more I love it.

In the past I did not have good Christmases. Poverty and an emotionally-volatile dad triggered by Christmas ruined many a holiday as a kid. It took me a long time to figure out I could make Christmas as magical or mundane as a I wanted. Even longer to realize the point is enjoying making the magic and not so much waiting for others to delight in the effort I put forth.

Since I have $0.00 to spend on Christmas this year, I’ve been working my fingers to the bone making all the gifts. Past, more financially-secure me was quite the yarn hoarder. Thanks, you money-wasting ding dong!

I’ve been diligently crocheting tiny owls, chickens, dinosaurs, and more as prizes for the A Very St. Martin Christmas races. This is a game I invented last year whereby my family each pick a wind-up toy to race across the coffee table. The winner of each heat gets to unwrap a prize or steal from someone else.

I told my cousin Billy this year will be even better than last year. I want tears, jealousy, and vows of revenge, I said. He pretended to be excited, because he loves me.

At some point after Christmas Jaycie & Max will get homemade sweaters. On Christmas they’ll get yarn and buttons and the choice of patterns.

I’ve been enjoying the hell out of my magic making time. I work listening to either The Cider House Rules or that new Snocaps record. At night I crochet while watching gameshows from the early 60s and laugh like a goon. Frankly, it’s delightful and seems to be enough to keep my mind off everything I could be anxious about (periodontist appointment (Fri), MRI (Wed), no income, and appointment with the neurologist(Jan).

ALSO, and most importantly, last night I learned that I’m the same age as The Grinch, which feels like vital information to know.

Banging the Gah-Ginker,
Jodi

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Oh darling ones,

It has been a week, and it’s only Wednesday. I packed so many thing into Monday that I had to spend all day yesterday recuperating.

Monday was the deadline to submit my afghan to the State Fair Creative Arts competition. It did not go well. At the very last minute, literally hours before the 7 p.m. deadline, I ruined my submission. In my sleep-deprived, procrastinatory panic I decided I could just paint names on the blanket freehand style.

I could not.

Apparently in that moment I forgot about my Floppy Scoop and distorted vision. So I did what any logical person would do. I texted the Sister Club, cried, and rage barfed.

Sister #2 encouraged me to submit if only for feedback/learning purposes and Sister #4 came over to help me fix it.

With all my anxiety focused on fixing the blanket, I jumped in my janky ass wheelchair and Sister #4 hauled me to Michaels.

YES! I went out “in the community” in my wheelchair for the very first time. I’m pretty sure this was the first time I was in a store since COVID, for sure it was the first time since my stroke. Thanks, Michaels, for taking my shopping in a store in a wheelchair virginity. It’d be really nice if you made your stores a little more wheelchair friendly. I got stuck in a bunch of portfolios and my sister had to rescue me.

With some mineral spirits and some gold paint we raced back to Supergenuis H.Q. to perform some sort of artistic first aid.

Sadly, it did not work, but I submitted my fucked up afghan anyway and holy buckets am I proud of myself for doing thing I said I was gonna do. I expect nothing but feedback, but I’m already winner. I learned so much from this process.

1. It’s almost impossible to elegantly turn crocheted pentagons into squares
2. Trial & Error involves a lot of error. And time.
3. My hubris knows no bounds.
4. Procrastination will bite me in the ass.

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Dear 2000 Jodi,

Hey you! You’re never going to guess what 2025 Jodi did today. She? We? I? made an appointment at a Seating Clinic. Did you know that was a thing? Neither did I, but apparently it’s what you gotta do to get a better wheelchair. Also, we need a wheelchair.

I know! We’re only 53, but the 2020s have not been kind to us. However, you’ve kept this blog going for 25 years. How rad is that?

While I have your attention you 28-year-old ding dong, let me drop a little bit more wisdom I’ve gained over the years. I know you’re screeching, Don’t tell me what to do. I’m gonna try anyway

1. You worry too much about men loving you. It doesn’t matter. They will love you in the best way possible, maybe not always the way you want or when you want, but they will. Love you.
2. Stop ignoring your body. You’re gonna have a stroke when you’re 50 and it’s gonna suck.
3. And while we’re at it, stop with the all lowercase thing. We get it, e.e. cummings, you’re sensitive and literary. You’re also embarrassing your future self. Knock it off.
4. Your stroke is gonna make typing and seeing and reading really really hard. Type more while you can. Some day you’re gonna dictate these blog posts into a Notes app and each paragraph ends with “paragraph no no new paragraph no.”
5. Yeah, there is a five. “There is no five” was fucking annoying. I’m glad you knocked that off years ago.
6. That stupid blog you start when you’re smoking cigarettes in Prior Lake is going t change your life. It’s going to get you up for a career in marketing and freelancing. It’s gonna go on for 25 fucking years and bring the absolute best people into your life. It is your life‘s work.
7. I got some bad news. Grammu died. So did our dad. Uncle Danny died. Uncle George died. So did all dad’s brothers. Jodi Hanson‘s mom. Betty died and so did Burger boy. A lot of people died. Your heart breaks 1 million billion times and yet you go on. You love harder than you ever have before. It’s fucking amazing .
8. 2020 is gonna suck and 2021 and then your dad‘s gonna die and then you’re gonna have a stroke so buckle up, buttercup. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride. You’re gonna be fine.

Listen up 2020, 28-year-old Jodi, I know you’re one lonely motherfucker. Here’s the thing, you haven’t met all the people you’re gonna love yet. Here in 2025 you have so many people you love who love you right back. It’s bewildering and amazing. The hold you up in your darkest, bleakest times and rive you the strength to go on when life takes a hard left.

It’s all good and beautiful. You need that reminder right now. Not only do you have to go to a seating clinic, you gotta find a Social Security attorney. The government won’t let you on the dole. It’s a whole thing I won’t get into now. It will probably work out. Something will happen.

Love you, ding dong,
2025 Jodi

P.S. Darling Ones, I legit need a Social Security attorney. The government denied my appeal and so I can’t get any further in the process alone. Know anyone or where to look? Thanks! XOXO, Jodi

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