Hello Darling Ones,

For the past month I’ve been locked in battle with my Home Owner’s ASSociation (HOA) over a hornet’s nest attached to my neighbor’s garage. While it is attached to her garage, it’s in a spot she would never see unless she was standing on my patio.

In the past, when I had a much cheaper and better HOA they’ve taken care of these kinds of problems. The current $400/month HOA claims pest control is an owner’s problem. I claim maintaining the siding of my neighbor’s garage is the ASSociation’s problem. And thus we have been deadlocked.

Well, we were deadlocked until I caved. I’ve already lost a pot of zinnias because I can’t get to the patio and water them. If I also lose my Salsa Verde garden I will be very sad and/or angry.

So, I was looking for a pest control company to take care of this problem and I turned to the internet to find this information.

Have you all been on the internet lately? It’s a goddamn nightmare.

I typed “Shakopee Pest Control” into the search box and the horrors were unleashed. AI Slop. Sponsored Search Results. Yelp reviews. Maps to 883 pest control companies “in my area.” SEO garbage results with 1-800 numbers for companies located in Texas.

Whenever I have the opportunity, I like to spend my money as close to home as possible and give it to an actual human. All I wanted was like Pete’s Pest Control located over on 4th Ave here in Shakopee, or something like that. I did not want the Orkin Army, thanksverymuchgoogle.

Last night I was talking to my friend Em and I uttered words I never thought I’d say.

“I wish we still had the Yellow Pages.”

Yes, the internet has made finding relevant information such a clusterfuck that I’m longing for the olden days. The days when we had paper books inside of our houses filled with business information of places nearby. It was glorious!

There was a time, when the internet was new and helpful, when I loathed the continued deliver of telephone books. I hated having to deal with all that useless paper trash they just dumped on my front step.

I didn’t want Ma Bell’s garbage. I had the internet.

Well, look at me now.

Tech Bros have monetized the usefulness right out of using the internet for finding useful local information. Thanks, Pa Bezosburg. You ruined everything.

After much scrolling and clicking I found a company in Jordan (a small town next to Shakopee) who are going to come and take care of my problem. So that’s nice, but I’m still bitter.

Love,
Jodi, your bittersweetheart

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Hola Darling Ones,

When I turned 26 during my AOL days (geminmat@aol.com, y’all) in June of 1998 a guy I was IMing with on the reg wrote me a song. The only thing I remember is it ended with “you’re twenty-six years old.”

It was a sweet gesture and I treated it like the cherished artifact it was. I downloaded that WAV file (did we have MP3s in 98?) and saved it to a 3.5″ floppy disk, which I probably still have.

Today is iwilldare.com’s 26th Anniversary and I’ve been singing that “you’re twenty-six years old” line in my head over and over all damn day.

I’ve been a poor excuse of a writer this year, and I only feel a little bad about that. Why?

1. Nobody even notices.
2. Nobody cares (non-derogatory).
3. I’ve been busy.

And I have been legit busy. Swimming. All month I’ve spent a days a week at the Blue Ox Oasis, usually for four or five hours at a time. The pool is my happy place at the moment. I can walk! And I can dance! And for the most part forget the constant spinning in my head and the pain in my arthritic joints (get to go see an ankle specialist in a few weeks).

More time in the sunshine means less time for the writing, and all my other hobbies. Basically I just swim and recover from swimming and then swim again. Occasionally, I pet my cats and listen to audiobooks.

Being a piss poor excuse of writer doesn’t mean I’m not one, right? TWENTY-SIX YEARS, bitches. Can you believe that?

I’m so glad I started this blog, even when I’m too busy playing Ariel to update it. This is the best thing I’ve ever done and I’m glad you’re along for the ride.

Devotin’ full time to floatin’,
Jodi

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Well, Darling Ones,

I did it. I popped my post-stroke wheelchair user (PSWU) concert cherry last night. It was John Cougar Mellencamp, and I’m glad I saved myself for him and the Mystic Lake Amphitheater.

Last night was many PSWU firsts. I ate inside a restaurant with friends. I met my social media friends Carrie & Kyle in actual life. I accidentally hit a very angry man with my foot because Jonas, my motorized wheelchair, didn’t stop as quickly as that guy did. Also, I cried during “Jack & Diane,” but there’s a 99% chance that would have happened pre-stroke.

The Coug’s was in fine form last night for a dude in his 70s, and he did a pretty good job of filling out the sprawling venue. The crowd in our area was super into the show and knew all the words to all the songs.

Sister #4 and I were particularly enamored with a guy and his wife a few rows down from us. This couple had to be in their late 70s or early 80s. He was a balding white-haired man with a lime-green polo tucked into the grandpa khakis pulled up to his nipples. He clapped and air-drummed to each song, frequently standing up to dance. If I could have stood I’d have put him in my pocket.

The second song he played was “Small Town” and he thanked the crowd for coming ALLLLLLLLLL the way out to Shakopee to see him. The amphitheater is 3.5 miles from Supergenius HQ according to google maps. In my head I was all, “you just got done singing about small towns, motherfucker. This is a small town.”

I still refuse to call Shakopee a suburb even though it’s been one for 25 years. It’ll always be a small town to me.

Before singing “Rain on the Scarecrow,” The Coug’s gave his little spiel about family farms and how they’ve even destroyed. My sister said, out loud, “Yeah, this used to be a farm” and at the same time I said, “we’re on an old farm right now!” The ladies next to us were not amused, but more on them in a second.

Maneuvering the show in a wheelchair was particularly easy for the most part. I’m still so new to wheelchair driving I want a giant STUDENT DRIVER sign for my chairs. Working a wheelchair is not easy. Ableism made me think it’s be easy peasy. Working a wheelchair in a massive crowd is even more difficult. Not only are people incredibly unobservant they’re probably like me and think wheeling around is simple, like walking is for most people.

We got to jump the security line and had special accessibility seating that required wristbands, which was pretty sweet. Because the Amphitheater was built roughly 10 minutes ago (not even kidding), the sidewalks were smooth and there were ramps and an elevator that took us to the right level. We only discovered the elevator situation after doing the ramps, which were a little terrifying. Jonas isn’t as deep as Ruby Vroom (my manual wheelchair) so when going down inclines I’m convinced I will fall out at any second. Some of that feeling is probably tied to my constant-falling down feeling.

The only thing that wasn’t sweet were those ladies next to us in the accessible seating. This was an area on the edge of the second tier, fenced off from the rows of stadium seating. There were, I’m guessing sixteen seats in this area. Sister #4 and I had seats 15 & 16 and were at the end.

To get these seats you had to do a little digging on the site, according to my sister who bought my ticket. The rules clearly and repeatedly stated this was a section for wheelchair users and one companion. While the section had four or five wheelchair users aside from me, those ladies next to use were neither wheelchair users nor companions. They didn’t even use a cane or a walker! They were, however, with the four or five people in front of us in the non-accessible seating.

My sister was salty about this from the get-go and the more I thought about it the angrier I got. While I know there are many invisible ways to be disabled, these seats were specifically for wheelchair users. The wristbands even had a wheelchair person on them. And if they weren’t going to be for wheelchair users they should have gone to big and/or tall people since the chairs were armless and movable. These small, entitled white ladies should have sat in the regular seats with the rest of the hoi polloi. At one point Ms. Entitled #1 pulled a Shark Chill Pill fan and was cooling herself with her feet up on the fence. I wanted to smash the fucking thing on the cement.

Can you imagine having such audacity coupled with disrespect for wheelchair users to think you deserve that seat just because you wanted it? I’ve spent today putting so many hexes on those two women. No more green lights. They’ll never enjoy a fresh, crunchy potato chip in their favorite flavor again. They will have to wash all their clothes twice because they will never remember to put them in the dryer the first time.

Don’t mess with the Spinster Goddess of Minnesota.

Love,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written. I turned 54 a few weeks ago; got a motorized wheelchair named Jonas; planted a salsa verde garden; Sister #2 & Ben put laminate flooring in Supergenius HQ; and yesterday I ripped out my own beating heart and donated it to MPR.

Getting rid of Ruby was rough, and not just because Capital One was a pain in the ass about getting me a notarized letter saying that I did, in fact, payoff my loan in 2006.

Every time I think I’ve accepted all the stroke repercussions, that I’m cool with my new normal, a new one comes along to kick me in the shins. While I haven’t technically given up my driver’s license and nobody has officially said I can’t drive, I have chosen not to drive. Between my distorted vision and my feet’s refusal to respond to my brain in a timely manner it’s safer for humanity that I become a passenger princess.

Losing that autonomy sucks. I fought hard to get that license. I failed the driver’s test THREE times. When I finally passed, the DMV lady marked me as male on my license. It was a nightmare, and once I got the correct piece of plastic in my hands I vowed to never give it up.

1988 Jodi knew jack shit about what was to come.

Pete, the tow truck guy, was the only reason I did’t sit in my wheelchair (the non-motorized one named Ruby Vroom) crying my eyes out as Rubes was loaded up on the flatbed. He was a handsome and charming older gentleman whose wife, a total riot, helped him out. I love tiny, petite bossy women and the men who are smart enough to listen to them.

I loved Pete because he talked nonstop about how good Ruby looked for being a 27-year-old Minnesota truck. I could not have been prouder if I had manufactured her in my own uterus. We also had a nice chat about how wonderful MPR is.

When Pete finally left he shook my hand, and walked down the driveway, before he got into his truck her turned and said, “Someone will get her running again. She’s a good, little truck.”

Ahh, Pete, thanks for that.

Love,
Jodi, who is entering her snooty I don’t even own a car era

The post Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hello Darling Ones,

It’s been a long time since I took to the web to complain about a book, but I read one yesterday that infuriated me more than any book has in a long time.

For the most part I quit a book the moment it starts to annoy me. Doesn’t matter how far I get into it. I’ve DNFed (did not finish) at 75% though. Life is too short and all that.

Another thing I tend to avoid are books that are wildly popular. I’m of the rather snooty belief that for a book to be so universally adored it’s gotta be kind of bland. It probably takes no chances either in the writing or the storytelling. Often it seems the characters are flat or generic so readers can fill in the gaps the writer left with themselves.

However, Yesteryear by Caro Claire Burke has garnered a bunch of buzz and I’m fascinated by influencer culture so when my hold came through from the library I was pumped. To say I was disappointed is an understatement.

The novel is being marketed as a satire about tradwives and influencers. If it is, the satire was lost on me. I couldn’t tell what point Burke was trying to make. Tradwives are angry about everything? For reasons?

The gist of the story: Natalie is a tradwife influencer with five kids, a hapless hubby from a rich family who suddenly wakes up in the 1800s living the life she cosplayed for her millions of followers.

Want to know why this book was such an utter disaster for me? Because the author failed at the Number One tenet of writing: your character has to want something and your reader should probably know what that is, even if your character doesn’t.

All through the book I kept muttering, “what does she want?” I can’t tell you. She seemed to hate everything: her kids, her husband, her in-laws, all the people who worked for her, women who adored her, women who hated her, and even, sometimes, God.

Natalie wanted nothing. And not just in the material way of someone who repeatedly says “money is no object.” She is one of those characters with so little vitally and humanity that nothing would have made her happy. She was Burke’s distaste about religious tradwife influencers in the shape of a human.

Again, what was the satire? Is it that Natalie was supposed to be a pious, traditional, man is the ruler of the home kind of woman, but she was calling the shots and running a successful business? Isn’t that the real, actual hypocrisy of tradwife influencers? They run successful businesses while pretending to be women who give up their agency to their husbands so they can focus on parenting and housekeeping. We all know this.

The book made no sense and said nothing about women, “traditional” values, religion, or 1800s. It was so vapid. And the 1800s twist was quite disappointing and doesn’t hold up to any kind of deep thought. I won’t spoil it for you, but it’s a cop out.

Yesteryear is a muddy slush pit of all kinds of buzz topics: religion, misogyny, erectile dysfunction, social media, conservative politics, influencer culture, the manosphere, perhaps latent homosexuality, and anything else you can think of.

It also reinforces my snooty belief about books that are wildly popular taking zero riisks and end up not saying anything. Boo to this book.

Love,
Jodi

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