Hey Darling Ones,

Yesterday I had to go back to physical therapy because my left ankle is being a little bitch. I went to a podiatrist a few months ago and she thinks it’s my lymphadema causing the woe.

I’ll skip telling you how I was, and kinda till am, a salty, petulant brat about the whole thing. Instead, I’m gonna tell you abut the weird thing that happened.

Because the American healthcare system is so awesome and efficient, I had wait six weeks for this appointment and go to a clinic in Savage (about 20 minutes from Supergenius HQ) instead of the Shakopee clinic which I can practically see from here.

Whenever I go to the Savage clinic (my primary care doc is there) my fam uses the clinic’s Staxi to haul me in. My fam loves the Staxi. I’m ambivalent. I prefer my wheelchairs, Ruby Vroom or Jonas, because I can propel myself.

The Staxi is like an adult stroller and I need to be pushed, for the most part. Because I have go-go-gadget arms and long legs, I have been known to twist myself in such a way that I can hold down the lever that releases the brakes and use one foot to scoot around. I’m sure it doesn’t look weird at all.

Using the Staxi is easier for my family because there’s no need to wrestle a chair into & out of the back of my mom’s RAV4.

So, I’m in the Staxi when my mom wheeled me into the Savage PT clinic’s teeny tiny waiting room. Aside from us, there was one older gentleman (OG) waiting.

We arrived early to fill out a bunch of paperwork. And, since the adult stroller isn’t infantilizing enough my mom also had to do the paperwork because the Floppy Scoop’s tremor makes my handwriting illegible.

As I was spelling L-Y-M-P-H-E-D-E-M-A for my mom, the OG hands me a dollar and says, “If you never spend this you’ll never be broke.”

“Thanks?” I said, because what are you supposed to do when strangers hand you money for reasons.

“I worked at the same place for forty-seven years,” he said, and then a petite older woman came out from the back and walked towards him. “And I’ve been married for sixty-three years!” He took his wife’s arm and they walked two steps to the door.

“Congratulations!” I said, as they walked out.

Once the door closed I turned to my mom. “Why did he give me a dollar?”

“I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head.

We’ll never know what prompted him. However, I suspect it was because I was in the Staxi. I’ve seen wheelchair users on social media talk about how strangers try to give them money all the time. I thought, maybe, it was not really a thing and maybe something they were just saying for the views.

But, I think it just happened to me. Based on the social media people’s reactions and tones when telling these stories I’m supposed to be super offended by this.

I am not. A little weirded out, yes. Offended? Not even close. I mean, free money. I’m on a fixed income ($1700 a month does not go far) and I’ll take any handout that comes my way.

Not broke yet,
Jodi

P.S. My new PT is 6’1″ and I love her and, like me, she doesn’t think the janky ankle is due to lymphedema,

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Hi Darling Ones,

I hope wherever you are Autumn is in full effect. When the sun shines, the light in Minnesota is exquisite – golden and buttery. In the afternoon the sun hits my tree and when the wind is blowing I watch the shadows of the dancing leaves around my living room sighing in contentment.

Fall really is the best. Though I miss the pool, I’m glad soup season is here. I’m making stock for chicken noodle soup as I type.

So, I wanted to tell you about my cousin Lindsay’s wedding last week. This was my first big family event and social outing since my stroke (March 2023). The whole experience was beautiful and emotional and overwhelming.

I can never tell if it’s my ignorant inner-ableism or my eldest-daughter perfectionism, but every time I learn something new about navigating life in a wheelchair I’m astounded. Like, for instance, when one uses wheels to get around one should not where a long, flowy skirt that is destined to get tangled up in the aforementioned wheels. This probably should have been obvious, but it was brand new information to me.

The skirt situation left me stranded at my table most of the night, which was 50% bummer and 50% a-ok due to the overwhelm. Even if I had been more appropriately dressed I would have struggled around all the chairs. Big event spaces seem accessible until there are people and chairs in them. Going to the bathroom was a literal obstacle course and I had to have someone clear the way for me. It was humbling.

Because this was the first time I’d seen so many of these people since my stroke there was no small amount of awkwardness. One of my cousins had no idea what to say, so he just kinda looked at me and my wheelchair and shrugged. A few other cousins kept tell me how good I looked. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was dressed up or because they expected me to be a shriveled prune. I never found out.

What I did learn is that where strangers used to constantly remark on my extraordinary height, now they compliment my glasses. Perhaps I have an appearance that just begs to be remarked upon.

Various wedding guests told me how cool my glasses were. It happened at least five times. Which is. . . weird? I love my glasses but they aren’t particularly noteworthy. My guess is that because my height is unnoticeable and the wheelchair is quite noticeable people went with the next most obvious thing. I bet if I weren’t wearing glasses my hair would have been a hot topic.

As I like to say whenever I come home from a successful outing, nobody died. Though a few very well-meaning men nearly died when they tried to help me over a small lip that separated the room from the deck. At one point I had to say, “I just need you to all back off!” I easily got over the bump when they gave me enough room to turn my chair around and handle it backwards. Chivalry, while not dead, can be a pain in the ass.

Looking so good,
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,

Using a wheelchair “out in the community” is a trip.

My unjanky wheelchair arrived Thursday, delivered by a man with tiny American flag jewelry on his shoelaces. I’m not entirely sure what to call it. It was like this little flag pins politicians wear on their lapels, but on the laces of his brown leather shoes.

Because nothing scares me more than being alone in my house with a white guy my age, I learned so much about him. He has two daughters, one’s 26, he’s 48 and 5’10”, and has worked in medical mobility/medical equipment for 20+ years. His wife is much shorter than he is but her legs are the same length as his. He tried community college in Ely, but it wasn’t for him. Sometimes his older female clients flirt with him (to which I replied, “that’s creepy”). He likes taking things apart and putting them back together again. He has to do that frequently with motorized scooters. He agreed with me that most medical equipment is not built for people 6’5″.

Anxiety is fun!

Now that Ruby Vroom (dubbed so because she’s red like my truck and vroom because it’s funny and also “Ruby Vroom” is the name of Soul Coughing’s first album) is in my possession, Sister #4 is taking me on small outings so I can build up arm strength.

I need to get my stamina up for the John Cougar Mellencamp concert in July and the State Fair in August. That’s right, ya girl is FINALLY gonna see Johnny Cougar in concert. He’s playing in Shakopee at the, as yet unfinished, Mystic Lake Amphitheater. It’s practically my backyard and it’ll be a gentle first concert in Ruby Vroom. Sister #4 got me tickets for my birthday. I told her I’d get the chili dogs.

For Rube’s inaugural outing I got my hair cut and then went to Trader Joe’s.

And, as I said, it was a trip.

Aside from a short trip to Michael’s last summer, I haven’t been inside a store since the before before times. We’re talking before COVID and before my stroke.

I don’t know if it was the wheelchair that made me invisible or if people have grown alarmingly inconsiderate and unaware since the plague. People acted as though I wasn’t even there. There eyes glided right over or through me. They didn’t move or make even the slightest accommodation for me and Ruby.

Normal-sized Sister #4 said this was how people always acted. I was floored. Rarely, in my life, did I go so unnoticed. I was used to being stared at wherever I went. People moved out go my way either consciously or unconsciously because of, I suspect, my size. Maybe people can tell when someone is looming above them.

Is this how y’all live on the regular?

There was one woman who did see me, thankfully. I got stuck in the flower section, Sister #4 away in the bread aisle, and could not get out of a tight corner. There were jackasses behind me so I couldn’t reverse and a bucket of purple flowers in my way so I couldn’t make the turn. A kind woman saw my distress and moved the buckets for me.

Aside from nearly taking out an entire display of tulips due to bad steering there were no major calamities. Sister #4 did almost dump me outta the chair trying to power me over a curb cut, but we recovered, barely.

She was pushing me so hard my ass came off the chair and I was nearly horizontal. “Oof,” I said as I eyed the nearing pavement before falling back into the chair. A young woman watched the whole thing with a bewildered look on her face as Sister #4 and I burst out laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe and I was crying.

“Oof,” I said repeatedly on the way home laughing and crying the whole way.

Getting there,
Jodi

P.S. I’m too frugal for Trader Joe’s goodies. Thanks to my apathy for tulips I only spent $28 on carrots, potatoes, beans, coffee, and a small bag of dark chocolate peanut butter cups. If they had dahlias or zinnias I’d be bankrupt right now. The flowers sure did smell good though and that was enough.

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Hello Darling Ones,

Today was the big meeting with my Social Security Disability lawyer. It was an appointment I’ve anticipated for ages. I’ve spent a lot time imagining how it would go and making a case for why I should qualify for disability.

Seriously, I wasted hours upon hours searching for the best way to describe the feeling inside my head, the distorted vision, and the right-side fuckery.

Good thing too, because the call lasted exactly six minutes and I probably said 100 words other than yes (seeing neurologist & retina specialist since June 2025) and no (to medication side effects).

He asked me why I was unable to work and I explained how the macular edema distorts my vision so that I lose letters and punctuation when reading.

“That’s important in your work,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
“Well, we have what we need,” he said. “I’ll call and get you ready a few days before you hearing in April.”

That was it.

Six minutes.

I was prepared to talk about the distortion in great detail. I was going to explain how I used my giant TV as a computer monitor for a few weeks but the letters were just BIG & distorted and no easier to read. There was an entire soliloquy about sans-serif vs serif fonts and the difficulties each presented, an ode to the importance of quotation marks in HTML.

So now I’m even more curious what he’ll say in the hearing and how it will differ from the case I laid out in my disability application. Twice. It ought to be super compelling. Otherwise why would the government require most disability cases get to the hearing stage where you need representation? It wouldn’t possibly be so people lose hope and give up, right?

I love government bureaucracy.

Hoop jumpingly yours,
Jodi

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