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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Hola Darling Ones,

Hope you made it out of August of unscathed. I did, barely.

As per usu August was a jerk to me right until the very end. I racked up a of failures in August. I lost battles with my Homeowner’s ASSociation, myself, and my self-confidence. It was a rough month, but I made it through.

To make up for August being a little the bitch, the universe out two good things in my lap. Back to back even.

Yesterday I got to spend the day catching up with my friend Ray, who I’ve known since the 90s. Ray lives in Madison, so i only get to see him very few years. Yesterday he stopped over before the Sugar show at First Ave. We spent six house sitting in my living room talking about absolutely everything — politics, music, aging parents, sleep apnea, marriage, generational differences, medical concerns, and how all cops are, indeed, bastards. It went by way too quickly.

The older I get the more I appreciate my long-term friends who have known so many iterations of me and loved all of them.

Hanging with Ray was great and all, but the best thing happened today.

Sister #4 took me to get my hair cut this afternoon. We have a formal wedding to go next weekend and so it was family day at Great Clips today.

As I was wheeling out of the place, a kind young black woman held the door for me. The Great Clips doesn’t have a handicap door button.

While I made my way through the door I thanked her profusely.

“Your hair is snatched,” she said as I got outside.

My face burst into glitter and rainbows and I thanked with even more gusto.

I’m going to be riding that compliment for the rest of the month. Me, snatched!

In other news, I’m going to spend the rest of the day making my own vanilla extract.

Snatchedly yours,
Jodi

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Hello Darling Ones,

For the past month I’ve been locked in battle with my Home Owner’s ASSociation (HOA) over a hornet’s nest attached to my neighbor’s garage. While it is attached to her garage, it’s in a spot she would never see unless she was standing on my patio.

In the past, when I had a much cheaper and better HOA they’ve taken care of these kinds of problems. The current $400/month HOA claims pest control is an owner’s problem. I claim maintaining the siding of my neighbor’s garage is the ASSociation’s problem. And thus we have been deadlocked.

Well, we were deadlocked until I caved. I’ve already lost a pot of zinnias because I can’t get to the patio and water them. If I also lose my Salsa Verde garden I will be very sad and/or angry.

So, I was looking for a pest control company to take care of this problem and I turned to the internet to find this information.

Have you all been on the internet lately? It’s a goddamn nightmare.

I typed “Shakopee Pest Control” into the search box and the horrors were unleashed. AI Slop. Sponsored Search Results. Yelp reviews. Maps to 883 pest control companies “in my area.” SEO garbage results with 1-800 numbers for companies located in Texas.

Whenever I have the opportunity, I like to spend my money as close to home as possible and give it to an actual human. All I wanted was like Pete’s Pest Control located over on 4th Ave here in Shakopee, or something like that. I did not want the Orkin Army, thanksverymuchgoogle.

Last night I was talking to my friend Em and I uttered words I never thought I’d say.

“I wish we still had the Yellow Pages.”

Yes, the internet has made finding relevant information such a clusterfuck that I’m longing for the olden days. The days when we had paper books inside of our houses filled with business information of places nearby. It was glorious!

There was a time, when the internet was new and helpful, when I loathed the continued deliver of telephone books. I hated having to deal with all that useless paper trash they just dumped on my front step.

I didn’t want Ma Bell’s garbage. I had the internet.

Well, look at me now.

Tech Bros have monetized the usefulness right out of using the internet for finding useful local information. Thanks, Pa Bezosburg. You ruined everything.

After much scrolling and clicking I found a company in Jordan (a small town next to Shakopee) who are going to come and take care of my problem. So that’s nice, but I’m still bitter.

Love,
Jodi, your bittersweetheart

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Hola Darling Ones,

When I turned 26 during my AOL days (geminmat@aol.com, y’all) in June of 1998 a guy I was IMing with on the reg wrote me a song. The only thing I remember is it ended with “you’re twenty-six years old.”

It was a sweet gesture and I treated it like the cherished artifact it was. I downloaded that WAV file (did we have MP3s in 98?) and saved it to a 3.5″ floppy disk, which I probably still have.

Today is iwilldare.com’s 26th Anniversary and I’ve been singing that “you’re twenty-six years old” line in my head over and over all damn day.

I’ve been a poor excuse of a writer this year, and I only feel a little bad about that. Why?

1. Nobody even notices.
2. Nobody cares (non-derogatory).
3. I’ve been busy.

And I have been legit busy. Swimming. All month I’ve spent a days a week at the Blue Ox Oasis, usually for four or five hours at a time. The pool is my happy place at the moment. I can walk! And I can dance! And for the most part forget the constant spinning in my head and the pain in my arthritic joints (get to go see an ankle specialist in a few weeks).

More time in the sunshine means less time for the writing, and all my other hobbies. Basically I just swim and recover from swimming and then swim again. Occasionally, I pet my cats and listen to audiobooks.

Being a piss poor excuse of writer doesn’t mean I’m not one, right? TWENTY-SIX YEARS, bitches. Can you believe that?

I’m so glad I started this blog, even when I’m too busy playing Ariel to update it. This is the best thing I’ve ever done and I’m glad you’re along for the ride.

Devotin’ full time to floatin’,
Jodi

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