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

The post Getting on the Dole appeared first on I Will Dare.

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

The post Stroke Me Day 1095: Three Years In appeared first on I Will Dare.

Hi Darling Ones,

Last night I had a dream about watching a pornographic version of Bell Biv DeVoe’s “Poison” video with my mom, sisters, niblings, and Hanif Abdurraqib. What makes this odd is I do not remember what the “Poison” video looks like. I refuse to go look, on principle.

This dream is why I’ve been listing to New Edition today. Obviously.

I loved New Edition as a kid and that loyalty is why I never feel for New Kids on the Block. I liked the other kids, so much so that the first concert I ever paid my own money to see was Bell Biv DeVoe with Keith Sweat and Johnny Gill as openers.

As I was listening to “Cool it Now,” a video I do remember, and was in awe of brains. Mine specifically.

The stroke may have stolen my balance, the calmness inside my head, and my ability to walk, but I still know the “Cool it Now” raps by heart. Yes, both of them.

Then, as one does with songs they loved when they were 12, I tried to figure out what the song is about. Bobby falling in love with a girl. Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike telling him to cool it, take it at her pace or risk losing the girl who is right on time. The Bobby’s all, “If I love the girl, who cares who you like?”

Why must he cool it? Because they don’t like her or is he moving too fast for her?

OR is this song the first in that weird little spate of pro-abstinence AIDS-awareness adjacent pop tunes like Jermaine Stewart’s “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off” and Janet Jackson’s “Let’s Wait Awhile”? Mid-80s was early AIDS awareness time, right? I figure it must have been if I was working at an AIDS project in Eau Claire, WI by 1994.

That’s how my mind is wandering today.

#TeamNewEdition for life,
Jodi

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