Tag: Make me laugh

Over the weekend, I experienced an agonizing, two nights in a row nightmare of an insomnia attack. It was horrid. I used to be like this as a kid, but thankfully, as I grew up, I grew out of it; until recently that is. I know the recent family stress that I’ve been going through is the likely culprit, but after I found a solution to my family drama just last week, I thought I’d be on the road to blissful peace within my soul (are you liking the melodrama?).

So last Sunday I woke up with this nasty Unisom hangover, sleep-deprived condition that probably made me the bitchiest person in Minneapolis that day. And that was the day I was scheduled to see the “Pompeii” exhibit at the Minnesota Science Museum with my friend Nicholas, and a group of people from his Unitarian church (they were really cool by the way…thinking about going). I was determined to not let Mr. Sandman’s hiatus from my life ruin my weekend plans (and I’ve been itching to see the “Pompeii” exhibit for weeks), so I went and picked-up Nicholas, so we could head on over to St. Paul to the museum (after downing a coffee and Red Bull, of course).

We saw the exhibit. It was pretty cool, but I could feel my caffeine-high wearing off. “Needs more coffee!” my zombie brain screamed at my consciousness. So off I went to the coffee shop down in the lobby. As I waited for the elevator to get down there, the worst thing that could’ve happened to me at that moment, did: I was getting crabbier by the second, my whole body (even my cheek muscles!) ached like crazy, and I was annoyed by every person walking by me….so of course, in comes an old lady – right-up in my face – saying the most condescending thing to me ever, in the most condescending tone EVER: “How are YOU today?” she asks me at 10 decibels louder than needed, as if I were deaf or something. I was set-off. I looked at her like I were Lucifer himself and asked her as rudely as possible, “Why are you talking to me like that??” I demanded of her.

*silence* 

She then mumbled something incoherently and the elevator door opened just then. Save me Jebus! I quickly got inside and went down to the coffee shop, ordering a latte with an extra shot of espresso for good measure.

Lesson learned? Don’t leave the house when sleep deprived. 

So be careful, all of you city-dwelling, wheelchair-usin’, subway-riders out there….or else this awful thing could happen to YOU!

Fresh from the New York Post: Subway Clips Wheelchair-User in NYC

She’s alive (she’s some 50-something lady, disability not yet released), but has serious head injuries.

And as we all know head injuries = MAJOR owies. Usually, unhealable owies too.

Poor thing. What a way to go.

– Tiff

It’s not uncommon for me to be subjected to a variety of openly rude and sometimes idiotic questions, thanks to my more than visible disability. I live in the downtown area of a major metropolitan city and there is a wide array of “crazies” that litter my ‘hood. Some are your common drunkards, some are your “ghetto fabulous” wanna-be gang bangers who have a thing for blondes (wheelchair or no), some are your recent immigrants from Somalia, India, or Mexico and have never in their lives seen an attractive and seemingly “healthy” (then “why does she need a wheelchair?” they confusingly think to themselves) woman needing to use a wheelchair. All of these people, and even your mildly-educated suburbanite will accost me with inquiring questions, blatantly, as I meander my way down the street.

And I gotta admit something: I’m damn sick and tired of it. I believe there comes a time in every disabled person’s life when they reach a limit, a peak if you will, to how much they can handle when it comes to rude questions regarding their disability. And when they’ve reached their arbitrary “limit,” things start to get a bit crazy. You just don’t know what they’re gonna do or say the next time some idiot comes up to them with a rude question that they’ve probably already heard 678 times in their life.

I’m pretty sure I reached my limit a few years ago. It first noticed I finally had had enough, and couldn’t just answer politely anymore like I had been, when I was at my neighborhood gas station grabbing a few things during a midday junk-food binge. An overweight white dude wearing a too-small dirty white tee shirt (with his gut half-way hanging out), came up to me and asked me, point blank, “So what’s wrong with YOU?” I had had enough right there. I don’t know if I finally by the grace of God had accrued some kind of Hulk-like self-confidence, but I had the balls to reply to him – without hitting a miss – “Absolutely nothing. I’m just lazy and don’t like walking. What the F*** is wrong with you?!” I answered back; looking back at him dead in the eyes. It was so awesome. I felt like some super hero and something, and was ready to knock down the nearby stacked pile of Coke cases, just to show him he had messed with the wrong gimp.

Now to be fair, I want to say I fully realize that a lot of able-bodied people don’t MEAN to be rude, impolite, etc. “They just can’t help being inquisitive,” my family (and friends) remind me. But why is it that able-bodied folks feel it’s totally ok to ignore the usual social graces of politeness? I mean, I can’t go up to a lady that’s clearly 200lbs overweight and ask her what happened to her emotionally that she let herself get to that point? Or, I most definitely can’t go up to a guy who’s wearing a totally outdated suit and ask him why his fashion-sense is severely lacking? No. It’s considered totally rude and no one ever does it. But with the disabled, it’s a no-license-required, free for all shootout barrage of questions.

I’ve been asked and told everything from, “What’s wrong with you?” to “You’re too pretty to be in a wheelchair,” to “Do you need help?” (when I’m just sitting by a bench using my cell; apparently I look helpless 24/7), to “Slow down there, young lady. You might get a speeding ticket!” (which they laugh at for a minute or so, because they seriously think they’re the first person to think of that joke), to the classic, “Oh you poor thing.”

I’m extremely pleased with myself that I’ve gotten to the point in my “disability experience” that I can now combat openly rude questions in a fast and witty manner, usually knocking the unsuspecting idiot from their train of thought, giving me just enough time to zip away from them before they have time to assimilate any follow-up questions.

And yes, we SCI’ers and other people with mild to severe disabilities are totally cleared to use it!

Definition: “Gallows humor is a type of humor that arises from stressful, traumatic or life-threatening situations such as accidents, wartime events, natural disasters; often in circumstances where death is perceived as impending and unavoidable. It is similar to black comedy but differs in that it is made by the person affected.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gallows_humor

 Go ahead, make fun of yourself! It’ll make you feel better I swear!

– Tiff

I recently fell across this crazy (yet brilliant and hysterical) article written by Yasha Levine on “The Exile,” a Russia-based informations site, called “Hell On Wheels: 24 Hours Without Wheels in Moscow.” I’m not quite sure if his article was supposed to be satirical or purely informational, or shocking, or all three of these attributes, but I do know one thing – it was a HUGE wake-up call to Miss Tiffiny Carlson, in regards to how lucky I am to live in a city (Minneapolis), that is over 90% accessible (in regards to public facilities).

What Mr. Levine did was rent out a wheelchair for 250 rubles/week called “Nadezdha,” from an area medical rental place, which basically means (translated from Russian into English, of course), “Hope.” So, with the shoddy “Hope” wheelchair in his possession, which wasn’t easy to find by the way, Mr. Levine went out across the vastness that is the city of Moscow – post-Communism over 10+ years no less – to peruse the town PUBLICALLY, which in itself happens to be a big deal over there because essentially no one with a disability ever goes out in public out of both physical (lack of accessibility) and psychological (shame, embarrassment) reasons. Thanks to the extreme division of the able-bodied and the disabled in Communist-era Russia, everyone with a disability was pretty much institutionalized and never integrated into the public environment. The Russian public, still, TO THIS DAY, doesn’t know how to properly and politely handle people with disabilities (other than throw spare rubles at them or tell them they’re not wanted).

What Levine did in his 24 hours “without legs” was traverse the Muscovite subway system (via wheelies on escalators), dine on sub-par sushi at a huge (relatively new and thankfully accessibly) mall that lies on the outskirts of Moscow (fitting in a dinner date with his girlfriend, no less), and than (his biggest challenge), attempting to integrate himself into the elite Moscow clubbing scene (which was by far his biggest challenge). “We do not allow invalids into our club,” said one bouncer in the most simplistic terms possible, as he attempted to enter a certain snotty club. Undeterred, he used his friends (who were able-bodied and hip, as “clout”) he finally did get himself into another nearby high-brow club, and even got himself a few sexy (clothes-on) lap-dances from some hot Muscovite-women too. Oh the surprise that was!

To read this truly informative and mind-expanding article, and to learn to fully appreciate the accessibility of your current residence by the highest means possible, do read Yasha Levine’s article on his one-day escapade (thank ye gods) in the city of Moscow.

If you happen to be the lucky owner of a feline companion and also find yourself a wheelchair-user, you might have discovered the same bizarre occurence that I have during my many chair-using years: Cats want your wheelchair.I think it’s because that cats are, without a doubt (next to the sloth of course. No animal can beat the sloth), the laziest animal on the planet. And if you don’t believe me, go down to your friendly neighborhood cat shelter and pick one up. Not only will you be doing a service to society (score!), you’ll also be endlessly amused at how a cats seem to hone in on your chair; the most expensive seat in the house.

Take my one year old cat “Pixie Stick” for example. Every night after transferring into bed, she takes the first second it’s without “The Tiff,” and jumps right onto it; hanging on it in all wacky poses and perches, much like a monkey in a tree. Or trying to show-off like Nadia Comaneci. She thinks it’s hers, or at the very least, she thinks she’ll be able to steal it from me while I sleep. Lucky for me, the chair by itself weighs exactly 307 lbs (thanks to the two incredibly heavy car batteries that power the thing). I don’t care what kind of cat food I feed her, there’s no way on God’s green earth she’ll be able to even budge the thing. Ha. Dumb cat.

In all seriousness though, I love having her in my life. She is by far the most hyper cat I’ve had, allowing her to easily win Gold in the category, “Hardest Cat to Control.” I mean, she isn’t named after a pure-sugar candy for nothing. Just look at her in the picture above. She looks like she just got the best high ever on some high-grade opium, after settling her bony butt on my backrest.

But she’s only allowed to sit up there for so long. All the seating I have is custom and cost thousands of dollars to make, so having long grey and white cat fur all over it evey morning isn’t something I appreciate.

I do however have a huge supply of lint rollers on hand to erase any trace of her lounging. I swear, I have at least six rollers right now in my bedroom dresser, waiting to be used. And oh yes, they WILL be used. 

Ok, I’ll say it once again: “I’m Really Not a Wheelchair-Type of Person.”

You see, I’ve found this totally ludicrous statement to work like a charm nearly everytime I spew it from my mouth. When I meet amiable, yet (unfortunately) ignorant, able-bodied folks, it’s the only way I can get it through their thick “sterotypical layered skulls” that I’m just as “normal” as they are. And of course, after I say this statement, I go into my injury story: “Yadda, yadda, I dove into shallow water, broke my neck, yadda, yadda, drowned, yadda.”
And then, after this bizarre conversation (if you can even call it that. It feels more like being grilled by the Spanish Inquizition), they begin (at least from what I can observe) to treat me un-alien like; a complete 360 degree turnaround from what they were doing just a few minutes ago.
It makes my soul cry everytime I feel the need to say this statement; especially when I see that it works. I have to be honest here; it simply lowers my faith in humanity. Just when you think society as a whole is beginning to see the “person” and not the disability, your hopes get shot down like a fake rabbit in a carnival shooting range.
But desperate times call for desperate measures; and I’ve found that this desperation, the feeling of wanting to prove I’m just like everyone else, really hits me hardcore when I meet my boyfriend’s family or friends. If I truly care about someone, i.e., my boyfriend, I really want the other people who are important in his life to see me as a positive addition, not some “cripple” who’s dragging him down. This is without a doubt my worst fear, my worst my anxiety.
I’ll go out dancing and clubbing (with my versatile elevator-seat – great for bars – power chair), I’ll throw out the f-bomb just for shock value, I’ll subtely mention I can still drive, still have sex, still have babies, etc, all to cue them into the fact they, “Hey! I’m really not a wheelchair-type of person!”
Now, between you and me, we both know that no one is really a “wheelchair-type” of person. We’re all humans; plain and simple. There are just a lot of idiots out there who need the dumbest statement thrown down at them, so maybe, just maybe, they’ll finally get it.

(Please! No pictures!)

A fellow female quad (and hysterical I might add) friend of mine, from an unnamed locale in sunny (and oh-so-coveted on my end) Florida, has seriously invented one of the best lines ever in regards to life with a sudden disability: “When you get a SCI, you’re an instant celebrity.” And she’s right! Well to a degree at least… You definitely do receive some of the bennies of being a celeb, like getting scurried to the front of lines at clubs, to the front rows at small concert venues, and even scurried to the front of the heinously long lines at most of the rides in Disney Land (or World; whatever your “happy place” poison might be). But the reasons, oh the reasons, you get this “celeb-like” treatment my friends, are for MUCH different reasons; and pretty sad (and annoying!), if I may be so blunt. It’s most likely that these complete strangers, the concierge at hotels/casinos, bouncers, waiters and waitresses, whatever, are kissing your warm, flat tuchis either out of a) fear of legal repercussions (no, thank YOU Justin Dart; my personal hero, b) pity, or c) religious duty. Whatever their reasoning, don’t be fooled. They’re not, “oohing and aahing,” over you like they would if they had ran into say, Adrien Brody or Keira Knightly.

Heck, if you’re visiting a small town and get stares, it’s probably likely you’re getting the once-over because they’ve never seen a person out in public in a wheelchair before (apparently these rumors are true, although being from a big city like Minneapolis, I have yet to encounter such shock first-hand; Thank God).So, the next time you head to your local Starbuck’s and get the usual stares (or for the intellectual city-dwellers: Those “secret” glances hidden by quickly diverted eyes. Yes, I’m talking about you. I see you), and then even get asked on multiple occasions, “Are you sure you don’t need anything else?‘ or maybe you just get a free coffee out of the deal, do not under any circumstance think you’re getting treated like a celeb ’cause you are one in a weird, novelty-esque, convuluted, sort-of-way.

You may be interesting and new, and a fascinating customer who breaks up the monotony of their day, but remember, you are disabled. You may feel like a “celebrity” at times, and you might even (God forbid), get your photo secretly taken by some messed-up devotee hiding in a nearby bush, but the life of being disabled is unfortunately, nothing like celeb-dom (I would assume at least. I do not know this first hand. ha).

But hey, that might be a good thing.