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

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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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Hello Darling Ones,

Now that the government has deemed me unable to work enough to support myself due to my disability I’ve been thinking about my career as a cog in the capitalist machine.

Really I’ve been thinking about Kinkos and, more specifically, resume paper.

You young’uns might not know that resume paper was a thing. According to a quick Google search it might still be a thing, but I suspect not quite as big a thing as it was before the turn of the century.

Back in my day (early to mid 90s) resume paper was a huge big deal and the paper you chose to print your resume on was a character-defining decision.

That paper was meant to telegraph who you were and exactly what kind of person you’d be hiring if you were to believe the resume. There were lots of theories and advice on the right kind of paper to use. Subtle, but not too subtle. White, but not too white. Perhaps a nice cream with some heft to it.

Since this was at the dawn of the useful internet this advice was passed down from graduating senior to soon-to-be graduating senior. We were led to believe the right resume paper would set you apart before they even read a word of your cover letter, resume, or clips.

We were journalism majors clips were also important, but before all else came the paper, which you got at Kinkos. At least me and most of my friends did. It was right across the bridge on Water Street, and they had an entire wall of paperly delights.

Many times I stood in front of that wall awestruck at all the choices trying to decide what kind of person I was and what kind I wanted to be. Even 30+ years ago I was crap at choosing just one thing. And I considered myself kind of a renegade. Some things never change.

I went with two kinds of resume paper. A lavender beauty with subtle purple speckles for the more conservative publications I’d be selling my talents to, and a multi-colored number that looked a little like it was made from torn bits of autumnal orange, brown, and green papers on a cream background for the cool magazine.

“It looks like you printed your resume on a crumpled Taco Bell wrapper,” my friend Melissa said, of this paper I was loved.

Character, defined.

If we still got jobs by mailing off our resumes, I’d probably choose the same damn paper. I’m not entirely sure how people get jobs now. I haven’t applied for a job since 2008. I found that one on Craigslist and emailed them the iwilldare URL (the job was for a blogger & I got it).

Thank you for strolling down memory lane with me. I hope you enjoyed your stay.

Love,
Jodi

The post The Days of Kinkos & Resume Paper appeared first on I Will Dare.

Well, Darling Ones,

The day I was anxiously anticipating has come & gone.

Yesterday was my Social Security disability hearing. Three years after my stroke, two(ish) years after applying, two rejections, and roughly 15 minutes of a hearing, the judge granted my claim for Social Security disability.

Ya girl is getting on the dole!

I’m relieved and overwhelmed. My friends and fam are over the moon for me. My mom even cried when Sister #4 told her. I love the way my friend Em responded, “Can I go back to just worrying about the dumb stuff you do instead of your basic survival?”

Permission was granted.

Today I am out of sorts. My head is extra wooshy, making me more discombobulated than usual. My theory is that my body has gotten so used to the stress and anxiety of imminent financial ruin that it doesn’t know what to do now that it has escaped danger.

Of course, being the half pessimist, I won’t fully believe the saga is truly over until there’s money in the bank. According to my lawyer that might as early as June. But there’s no guarantee. He apologized profusely for the delay and I felt bad for him. It’s not his fault the government moves slowly. Clearly he has dealt with a lot of angry clients in the past. I was just happy the judge gave us his decision on the phone, that was unexpected.

I was a little bummed the judge didn’t wanted to hear my soliloquy on the importance of punctuation in both HTML code and English writing. My ode to the period would have made grown men weep with its beauty.

My lawyer warned me the day before the hearing that nobody ever got in trouble for saying too little. HRMPH! I kept my answers short and to the point and did not go into what a tragedy it is lose the ability physically read books. While I love and give thanks to audiobooks, it’s not the same. You, the book in your hands, the words on paper, that cannot be duplicated.

Losing your longest-held, most-comforting ritual in your 50s sucks rocks. I deserve financial compensation. Beverly Cleary give me strength!

So now we cross our finger that I have enough money for the next few months and then we move on to figuring out what comes next when you’re not constantly worrying about money. This should be fun!

Not so dolefully yours,
Jodi

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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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