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My Profile
Fairytales for a Practical Princess - 2008-11-30
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7:02 p.m. - 2004-05-29
Flight of the Stumble Bee. Yes, I’m flaring. Have been since the crazed gardening thing. Depressed as hell about it too. I have to do waaaaay too much time for relatively minor crimes. Yeah, I overdid it, but jeeze. The tall ones were working local this week so they came and swooped me off to lunch on Thursday. After we ate and it was time to go I stood up and promptly went staggering. Mike caught me under the arms and steadied me. The woman at the next table turned to her companion and said, “God! Drunk at lunchtime! That poor man.” It’s a good thing I didn’t have my stick with me, I would have opened her head with it. I know, I know. The stupid assumptions made by mean spirited strangers should just roll off me. It’s not like that was the first time I’ve overheard ignorant remarks about my ‘drunkenness’. It’s just that it’s difficult enough to go spazzing around in public. To lurch along as I do now takes some chops. For Pete’s sake, I used to do runway! And to have some rude-ass twit sneer at me for being ‘inebriated’ makes me see red. Where do they get off? It’s not like I was caroling It’s A Long Long Way To Tipperary at the top of my voice and had a fifth of Jim Beam clutched in each hand. Oftentimes when I do venture out during a bad flare I use Mike as my crutch. He holds my arm much the same way blind people do when someone is leading them. It’s a nice firm way to hang on. Very steady. And it’s simply amazing how many people will just barge straight at us expecting us to pull apart to let them through. We’ve learned to stop immediately when we see one of those jerks headed toward us. Going stock still is usually enough to get the charging asshole to veer around us. Not always though. Can’t tell you have many times I’ve been knocked right off my feet by some dope who peeled off too late. The three worst offenders are middle-aged guys with big beer bellies, teenage boys, and twats pushing jogging strollers. Especially the last. I don’t know what it is with the jogging strollers. But the moms who use them seem to think that big wheel in the front is for ramming people. “Outta my way! Can’t you see what a hurry I’m in? I’ve got a jogging stroller!” Call me old fashioned, but a 6 year old has no business being in a stroller. I see this all the time now and it bugs the crap out of me. You get these boobs with the $4,000 double stroller with the cup holders and they’ve got a pre-schooler in one seat and an even older kid in the other. I’ve tried to dope out the reasons for parking a perfectly healthy kid in a stroller and none of them are appetizing. It’s easier? Don’t have to pay much attention to a kid who’s strapped in. It’s safer? Yeah, there’s a good idea. Let’s not teach our kids how to stay close-by or what to do if they get lost, lets just wheel them around instead. That way they can grow up to be totally helpless idiots. The poor darlings get tired? So, go home! Duh. And frankly I don’t know any kids who can’t run rings around their parents long after Mom and Dad fell over exhausted. If your kid is pooping out in a single lap around the mall then that kid needs MORE exercise, not less! Duh, again. And people wonder why American kids are fat and whiny. Sheesh. Anyhow, back to my mobility problems and being a crip in public. I just don’t like most walking aids. They are fugly and touching brushed aluminum gives me the willies. Ick. Oh, there’s colored vinyl-clad walkers and such now, but walkers are clumsy beasts no matter how well they’re spiffed up. Besides, old people use walkers. Sorry, I’m just not ready to go there yet. Not while I have a choice. For right now I’ll continue to get by with my Interesting Sticks and my husband to stay steady on my pins. Again, I know, I know. Shouldn’t matter how my equipment looks, the important thing is that it helps me. TFB. I’m picky and vain. Sue me. Wobbling, ~LA ‘I speak softly and carry a big stick.’- Bugs Bunny ‘Well I speak LOUDLY and carry an even BIGGER stick!’- Yosemite Sam You tell ‘em, Sam.
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