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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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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Oh Darling Ones,

As I type I’m snotting my way through the Junior Prom episode of “Dawson’s Creek” and sending warm vibes up to my friend Christa in Duluth. She is also a member of Team Pacey whose heart is heavy with the news of James Van Der Beek’s death. He was only 48. Van Der Beek was the star of “Dawson’s Creek.”

Long time readers might remember my love for The Creek. I discovered the show round the same time I launched this website and so there are many, many, many entries about and references to “Dawson’s Creek.” I was gonna count, but got bored after hitting page 9 of the search results. Some highlights? 10 Best Episodes of Dawson’s Creek, Top 10 reasons Pacey is better than Dawson, and the one where coped with my dad’s death just like Dawson did.

This show is part of me. I’m basically Replacements’Lyrics, episodes of Dawson’s Creek, and Bob’s Burgers references in a trench coat. I remember Dawson’s Creek better than I remember my own high school years.

I’m not sure what drew me to the show. I didn’t start watching until season three. It was probably just a case of right place, right time. I was lonely in my first solo-apartment with little to no furniture and a tv that only got the WB. I didn’t get to watch the first three seasons until the DVDs came in the red Netflix envelopes.

Darling Ones, I’m lost in nostalgia and not sure I have the emotional strength to resist 2001-2003. But I couldn’t let this passing go unmentioned because James Van Der Beek’s work was important to me.

If I had it in me I’d dig a little deeper, but I need to reserve my emotional strength for tomorrow, which is wheelchair delivery day. Uffda.

Team Pacey forever,
Jodi

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Well, Darling Ones,

Today is a nightmare combination of anxiety and complicated grief offset with a slate-grey sky out my window to just really, *chef’s kiss* this day.

My brain weasels couldn’t decide what should be the priority, my winter-driving anxiety in the face of 3-4 inches of slushy snow falling at the moment, the impending diagnosis of macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor, or the fact that today is my dad’s birthday.

If you’re new here or have forgotten, I drive a 1999 Chevrolet S10 I bought twenty-one years ago. Her name is Ruby and I love her, but she’s a puny 2-wheel drive truck that cannot handle any kind of snow. Not the smartest vehicle for a Minnesotan.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that when I lived in a crummy apartment in Prior Lake I used to have to get pushed out of my snowy parking spot on the reg. Lucky for me, one of my Friday night bowlers lived in the same building and he was always willing to give me a shove. I paid him pack in Bud Lights.

Rubes is so shitty in the snow that we had a scary accident back in aught-six. That accident and the 1991 death of Sister #2’s BFF due to back ice, is why I refuse to drive when it snows.

So I had to choose one more day of anxiety about my possible macular degeneration/retinopathy/tumor or the anxiety of driving to the eye doctor in 3-4 inches of slushy snow with the added worry about whether or not I’d be able to get out of my driveway.

I chose one more day of degeneration anxiety, which has effectively cut my anxiety in half, so now my brain has time to focus on what today is really about.

My dad’s birthday.

It’s the first one since he died and I’m not sure how to feel about it.

For most of his life we were not allowed to acknowledge his birthday. There was a temporary lifting of the embargo once the niblings came along, but not for long.

He hated his birthday for reasons he never told us. Whenever we’d ask he’d say, “I just do.” Maybe because he shared a birthday with his own abusive father? Was it from decades upon decades of untreated depression? Who knows?

Even writing about his birthday here feels disloyal. I’m not sure I believe in an afterlife or anything, but I don’t want him to haunt me for writing about his birthday.

Bleh. Life is rough, man.

I’m gonna go shove eleventy-billion episodes of “Bob’s Burgers” into my brain until I feel better.

Jodi

P.S. While I was getting this post ready I was listening to some live versions of Jason Isbell’s “Anxiety” on YouTube, and then they popped up Frightened Rabbit’s cover of “Whole of the Moon” and that was a delightful gift from the universe (or algorithm if you want to be no fun).

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*Adventure might be a bit of hyperbole. Maybe. When you never leave your house and a majority of your conversations happen with people in your head and/or cat the bar for adventure is super duper low.

I’m pretty good at Thanksgiving. It’s probably one of my favorite real holidays. There’s no present pressure or hosting pressure. In fact, it’s just put on some comfy pants and eat mashed potatoes until you pop. What’s not to love?

I don’t even eat roast turkey (for reasons that involve every year during college spending the Friday after Thanksgiving puking my guts out), and I still love this holiday. A lot of my Thanksgiving affection was built on our Chromey vs. Chromey bowling tradition. Whereby we’d spend the Saturday after Thanksgiving at my parents’ bowling alley with my cousins from Blaine and have a giant potluck drinkathon that involved lots of trash talk and specially made t-shirts created, usually, on Thanksgiving.

Over the years were the Chromey Party Monkeys, The Chromey Penguins (I think), and the very last time we were The Mighty Chromey Parking Lots (which is hilarious because they tore down the bowling alley to put up a parking lot).

Sorry I got a little sidetracked on Memory Lane there. My point is I love Thanksgiving and I’m good at it. I bring expensive, delicious cheesecake and booze, which in this non-turkey eaters estimation makes me the Queen of Thanksgiving.

Last night at Family Dinner, Sister #2 reminded me from Portland that I best get those GD Cranbrritas before they sell out or there would be hell to pay. She was probably way nicer about it, this part of that aforementioned hyperbole. I can count on one hand all the things me and all three of my sisters like — the movie Heathers, the Gear Daddies, and BudLight Cranbrritas. There might be more, but clearly those aren’t significant.

So I ventured forth into the world on this blustery, flurry-filled day to get some Cranbrritas. I had a game plan and everything. I figure anything requires me to strap on a bra and real pants requires a game plan. Plus, last year when I ventured forth to get more Cranbbritas there were none to be found. In fact there was a three-state brrita hunt hoping to garner more for Christmas and we were denied on all fronts.

As luck would have it, I scored two cases of the cranberry-flavored malt beverage at the very first liquor store I went to. Sweet. It’s not my usual liquor store, but I thought I would start with the one closest to home and then spiral out from there.

To celebrate my easy victory I swung through the Caribou drive-thru before rushing back home to unbra and depants.
“Not many people wait with their windows down,” the adorable, looked-like-he-was-in-middle-school barista said as snow flew around our hands as he passed me my Turtle Mocha.
“Yeah,” I said, tucking it into the cup holder without looking. “I don’t have automatic windows, and it’s not worth rolling the window up just to have to roll it back down forty-five seconds later.”
He stretched his head out of the drive-thru window and looked down into Ruby. “Cool,” he said. “I’ve never been in a car with old-fashioned windows.”

He had never been in a car with old-fashioned windows. Old-fashioned windows. Old-fashioned.

That is all.

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