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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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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Hi Darling Ones,

One of the best things about being 6’5″ is the ability to reach almost all of the things.

I’ve been more than six-feet tall for 41 years, and I have go-go-gadget rams. My wingspan is impressive and so I’ve reached all the high shelves for most of of my life.

Every Thanksgiving I would spend many minutes at the grocery store getting stuffing stuff down for old ladies and short women. This happened for years.

Occasionally, at Target, a shorter-than-me man would ask me to get him something from a tall shelf.

In fact, the only thing I couldn’t reach was the tops of my kitchen walls. My kitchen has been semi-painted since 2007. I’ve never been a fan of standing on things and using my hands to do stuff — painting, turning on the smoke eater machine at the bowling alley, changing lightbulbs. Since I’m so tall this was rarely a problem. Standing on stuff to reach things were for shrimpy people.

Being so tall meant I had a lot practical storage. I was a big fan of using the highest shelves of the cabinets and even the top of the cabinets themselves.

Then the stupid stroke robbed me of my balance. Now that I conduct most of my life seated, the tippy top shelf in the cabinets has become my nemesis.

My inability to easily reach things infuriates me, even more than the hard-to-open & close cheese packaging.

I’ve had more one meltdown over opening cheese. I’ve raged at my mom and my sisters for putting something on top of the metal rack in my kitchen.

God, fucking damnit, I’d think to myself.Don’t they know how hard it is to reach that now?

Of course they don’t. Because for most of their lives too I’ve reached all things.

Even seated I’m taller than a lot of people. When I got my mammogram a few weeks ago (cancer free, fyi) I was taller sitting in the wheelchair than the technician.

This inability to reach things is infuriating because, technically, I can still reach the high shelves. However, doing so is terrifying. Getting a pasta bowl down shouldn’t feel like an adrenaline-fueled, death-defying act, but it does.

Getting the bowl down now requires a short pep-talk, a reminder that I’m probably not going to plummet to my death no matter what my body feels.

The dissonance between what my brain knows (not plummeting) and the signals my body sends (I’m falling) is the most frustrating stroke effect. It’s the part that’s the hardest to explain, and the part I’m convinced if I explain correctly the doctors will be able to fix. So far I have not found the words.

Anyway, I made spaghetti last night. I got the pasta bowl down and I did not die. I didn’t even stumble, but my body still panicked. I tried the protein+ Barilla pasta and it wasn’t too shabby at all. But the real winner of the evening was the three-day rise focaccia I made. It was divine.

How are you, Darling Ones?

Love,
Jodi

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Hola Darling Ones,

Have you tried the Selena Gomez Oreos? They are the best thing to happen to me so far this summer. Even better than the duck that stopped by to visit while I was at the Blue Ox Oasis (Sister #4’s backyard pool).

They are cinnamony and Oreo-y and totally delicious. I’m generally a poo-pooer when it comes to all the stupid flavors of all the things. Remember when Oreos were just Oreo-flavored? We had two choices – regular-stuffed and double-stuffed — and we were happy with that.

Cranky old goat? Maybe. Anti-capitalist who can see through a marketing ploy? Definitely.

But, these little bastards are good and I blame Sister #2 for bringing them into my life. Now that I love them they are sure to disappear from shelves in a minute. See: Diet Coke with Lime, Peanut Butter Cheerios, and a bunch of other things I can’t remember.

The worst thing to happen so far this summer is breaking my wheelchair.

After using the stupid thing about three times, Sister #2 decided we were gonna take a curb and the wheelchair had other ideas. A few of the plastic spokes cracked and a big chunk of one flew off. So, we learned the chair was not built for off-roading.

She tried to fix it by putting on a new wheel, but it’s too big and so my chair leans to the left. It still does the job, I guess. I kind of hate it.

While it does make getting places a little easier, I can tell it was built for a regular person and not a giant. The seat feels too short for my thighs and so I always feel I’m sliding right out of it. I’m gonna be the Goldilocks for wheelchairs.

Just rightly yours,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

Wanna know why I cried at my sleep study Tuesday? Here goes.

“How tall are you?” Zack the sleep study tech asked as he reached up the leg of my pajama pants to grab the wires I had shoved down the top of my pants.

“Six five,” I said.
“That’s tall,” he said.

I nodded. Why could I say? I’ve had this conversation roughly 398,195 times in my life with everyone from strangers at the grocery store to professors to bosses to creepy men stalking me through Target. Yes, 6’5″ is tall for any human, especially a woman. As one doctor told me as a teen, I’m a statistical anomaly.

Zack continued wiring me up. Taping wires to my rib cage and my legs. As I sat in a chair in front of him, he rubbed a gritty cleaning paste on my scalp and attached wires to my head with a sticky goo.

“I’m sorry,” he said at one point, eyeing the bed I was to spend the night in. “The medical world is not built for you.”

What? I could hardly believe my ears. A healthcare working blaming the world and not my unruly body? What? Usually, it’s my fault I don’t fit. My fault my legs and arms are too long. My fault my hips too wide.

Never in my fifty-two years has any medical person at all told me that the medical world was at fault for my not fitting.

I quickly blinked back tars, thankful he couldn’t see me. Then I made a joke about a ding dong woman filming someone at the DNC with her license in full view from her iPhone case on CNN. Because of course I did.

A little later in the evening he announced, “The whole world isn’t built for you, is it? I bet shower heads are kind go a pain.”

Then I told him about my teeny shower that’s so narrow that if I drop something I have to get out of the shower to get it. The top of my head to my waist is longer than the shower is wide.

Because Zack was so rad, knowing he was going to watch me sleep wasn’t as creepy as it originally seemed. And he really did watch me! At one point in the night I rolled over and before I even settled back on the pillow he was in the room giving me a CPAP mask before I fell back to sleep.

I didn’t think I’d sleep that well, but had to be woken up at 9:40 because my ride was supposed to be there at 10. A+ in sleeping?

Darling Ones, I’m doing my damndest to stay alive and right now that involves wearing an itchy heart monitor for the next two weeks. Putting this thing on involved shaving part of my chest and then abrading my skin with medical-grade sandpaper. I’d rather do eight more sleep studies then have to abrade my skin again and then promptly clean it with alcohol wipes. Youch.

Between the heart monitor and the continuous glucose monitor I’m like 23% of the way to being a robot.

Eep-Opp-Ork-Ahh-Ahh,
Jodi

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