So I’m an Activist Now

I have always said I will never be an activist. I just wanted to be one of the quiet ones…happy in my little corner of the world, pretending problems don’t exist. That is my jam.

If only the a-holes of the world would learn how to park.

Our local police department made a Facebook post the other day showing a photo of a motorcycle parked in some hash marks next to a parking space. This is when I realized that 1) Everyone around me is an idiot. And 2) I may not want to be an activist, but I am one now.

Most of the people making comments on the post we’re actually defending the biker. I know. Crazy, right? They say that many people don’t like when motorcycles are in regular parking spaces because it’s taking up a whole space when they only need a tiny bit of room. So, I guess the only obvious solution to them is to use spaces that are meant for individuals in wheelchairs so they can do every day activities just like everyone else. Do I want to go to the grocery store? No. Do I enjoy going to Walmart and rubbing elbows with women in flesh colored leggings and wondering “Is that pants or is she naked?” Definitely no. But I must. I’m a wife and mother. Sometimes we need stuff.

Back to my story. I went on a commenting rampage telling everyone who defended this man how utterly stupid they were. I also said he was lucky he hadn’t parked next to me because I would’ve absolutely hit his bike with my door. Gator don’t play that shit. (Will Ferrell reference. You’re welcome.) Now, I get it. The general public is unaware of the struggles of being disabled. Some aren’t familiar with the laws. Also, many of them are idiots. But the police department’s response was what really made my head spin and puke come out of every hole in my face.


 Did I just have to school a police department on the law? Am I Elle Woods? It’s a good thing I commemorated the occasion with a screen shot, because they deleted their comment shortly after. We are officially living in a world where even law enforcement doesn’t see the rights of people with disabilities as a matter of importance. At least we have each other, right?


 Two days later, I took a solo trip to Target to buy things I didn’t need while forgetting everything on my shopping list. I parked like a normal human being and went in to shop. As soon as I hit the doorway on the way out, I saw it. I knew before I even got near my car that someone had parked too close. I thought to myself, “Another able-bodied moron parked in a spot he doesn’t need.” Nope. The vehicle had a handicapped tag and a veteran license plate. They should’ve known better.

img_2872img_2874I had no idea if my door would hit their car and I absolutely did not care. I pressed the button and let ‘er rip. They must’ve been touched by an angel because I could have barely fit my pinky between my door and their mirror. Then, I squeezed myself onto the platform, not caring if my chair scraped on the way. I was able to get in…and I was pissed. Pissed enough to decide that I can’t be quiet anymore. These things are preventable and easy to avoid unless you’re a selfish asshat. Then, you need a ticket…or at the very least, a giant door ding.


I know I can’t rely on law enforcement to take this issue seriously, so I had to come up with an alternative way of informing people that they park like idiots. Using only my printer, a few boxes of Dollar Store crayons, and my world famous sarcasm, I came up with a wonderful activity for all future offenders.

Activism. My new jam.



I’m a Black Belt (in Problem Solving)

If finding alternative ways of doing every day stuff was a martial art, I would be one of those people who roundhouse kick stacks of bricks and turns them into dust. Seriously. I don’t know how I do it. I can’t figure out my 3rd grade son’s math homework, but I can engineer adaptive devices (please…I use that term very loosely.) to make my every day activities possible. I generally need the help of an adult to make these things work…yes, I know I’m an adult. But I need, like, an adultier adult. This generally begins with my unwilling, but guilt tripped accomplice hearing my idea, telling me there’s no way it’ll work, then looking like a chump while I’m serving up all sorts of smug looks when we finish and they realize that I was right.

I present to you, The Door Loop™. OK…so the name isn’t original. I’m a genius scientist engineer and I don’t have time to come up with creative names for my life-changing products. Anyway. About a week ago, my wonderful uncle installed some ramps for me because I was getting stuck on the lip of my back door and literally had to call for help. I’m not kidding. “Help” was in the form of my poor neighbor in his pajamas running through the yard to come get me unstuck when he should’ve been sleeping. Meanwhile, my dogs looked on offering no help at all. The new ramps are amazing. I have never been able to get inside my house without wondering if I would be ok by myself. I always needed a Plan B. But, no longer. I was free. I was able. The world was my oyster.

Until it came time to close the door.

Before the ramp, in order to close the door, I would get as close as I could, push the door in, bouncing it off the wall behind it until it came close enough to grab the knob and pull it shut. Sometimes I’d need to pull on the window frame on the door to get it within my reach. But the new ramp prevented me from getting close enough after the door was bounced to get my hand on the doorknob. F…M…L…

Then, I got an idea. If I could put something on the left side, opposite of the knob to pull the door shut, I could totally reach it. Sounds genius, right? No? OK…fine. My husband and mom said the same thing. *insert mocking Spongebob meme here* “OnCe YoU dRiLl a HoLe In YoUr DoOr, YoU cAn’T gO bAcK.”


 Soooo…I went to Home Depot and picked up everything I needed to make this genius idea come to life. My husband grabbed his drill and reluctantly put a big fat hole right through our metal door. That was the moment I thought, for a fleeting moment, “Oh shit. We just put a hole in our door.” Once he finished installing my…concoction, I went outside and prepared to be vindicated. I looked at him, effortlessly grabbed The Door Loop™, and just like Clint Eastwood would do, said the coolest last words I could come up with before pulling that sucker and shutting myself outside into the great, big world.

“Bye, bitches.”

My idea (as usual) worked, despite the words of my naysayers. I haven’t technically gotten any apologies, but the satisfaction of knowing they were wrong every time I pull that loop is enough…for now.

That was cooler than any brick-breaking roundhouse kick I’ve ever seen.


Not THAT Kind of Christian

I decided to start blogging again. I used to do it almost every day, but life got busy and…whatever. Podcasting is great. But sometimes I’m too socially awkward to form intelligent sentences out of the thoughts I come up with and people are usually left not knowing what the hell I just said. Sooooo, blogging.

Anyway, I felt like if there’s any subject that can really get me stuttering and excessively using the phrase, “Wait, no. Hold on. What I meant to say was…” its religion. I’ve always been a Christian. Like, since birth. My parents and grandparents raised me in the Wesleyan church and I’m thankful for the early exposure I had to God. I even went to a Christian preschool. Thoooooooose were the dayssssss. You get there, sing some songs, sit in a circle while the teacher reads you a story about a dude getting swallowed by a whale, (poorly) color a picture of said whale, animal crackers and grape juice, go outside, then mom picks you up. All we needed to do was “Love one another.” God said so. Simple as that. We were living our best lives back then, folks. Being a Christian was soooooo easy.

When I was in my car accident at 17, my faith never wavered. Oddly enough, I never asked God “why me?”. I questioned what the purpose was for Him keeping me here, but I was fairly content with waiting for an answer for the most part.  I knew my life would matter, though. I really have no idea why I didn’t get mad at God back then. If He is who I think He is, I feel like He would’ve been alright with me getting a little pissed every once in awhile. But…I was just…happy I was alive.

A year after I got married, we found out we would likely be unable to conceive on our own. Now that put the big guy on my shit list…but only for a minute. I knew I needed Him to get through the struggle of infertility and IVF, and He was there. Through the shots and the mood swings and the blood draws and the blood draws and the blood draws. We were so blessed to conceive our son on our first round of IVF. Then, because God enjoys a good practical joke every now and then, we were surprised with our daughter out of the blue just under 2 years later. Still…living my best life.

But then…adulthood happened.

Humanity happened.

Within the past five years or so, I’ve asked myself on numerous occasions what kind of Christian I am. I definitely don’t fit in with the devout folks like my wonderful late grandfather who would leave pamphlets and tracks everywhere he went…but I definitely love God. I believe that Jesus died for my sins. But I reeeeeaallllllyyyyy don’t care if you do. Yup…I said it. I don’t give a flying rats booty if you don’t believe in the same things I do. I read a book once about living a purposeful life as a Christian and the author kept saying how if he could just save one person, he did his job. But I’m more of a “Hey y’all…I’m going to heaven. If you’re coming, get your shoes and let’s go.” kinda girl. I struggled with this for a long time. I felt like if I wasn’t running around yelling Bible verses into every empty sliver of air I could find, I wasn’t doing it right. I felt like I was being a bad Christian. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’m just not that kind of Christian.

Before you get all offended, I don’t mean that in a bad way. The world needs both kinds. There are many people who have been saved by a good old fashioned unwarranted prayer sesh. As a matter of fact, a man once came up to me and my children while loading our car in the Walmart parking lot and asked if he could pray over me. I took my finger off the trigger of my pepper spray, and we all bowed our heads and let him pray that I would be healed. It opened up a great conversation between my kids and I about praying for others and I was thankful. But thats not how I roll. I’ll pray till my lips fall off in the privacy of my own home for every rando I see that looks like they may be struggling. That’s my style. My modus operandi, if you speak Latin…or French. To be honest, I don’t even know what that means.

Another reason I’ve questioned what kind of Christian I am is because I live less like the church wants me to and more like I think God wants me to. I am soooooo not conservative. I’m all about “Love is love” and “Do you, boo boo.” Love who you want, dress how you want, be who you feel you are inside…just. be. happy. I really can’t bring myself to tell another human being what to do with their heart or their body. That is exactly 0% my business. I will never judge a human being on things like their sexual orientation or who they voted for…or anything else. Why? Because I once paid my 5 year old $5 of his own tooth fairy money that I had in my wallet to mop up dog puke because I was gagging so hard I thought I was going to die. I’m a human and I have no room to cast judgement on another person for doing what they feel is right in their own life. The only way I will judge you is if you look me straight in the eye and tell me the Backstreet Boys made better music than *NSYNC. But seriously, God wants us to love one another. We literally learned that in preschool. So, no matter who you are, I’m about that life and I’ll love, support, and annoy you until the day you die…or block me on social media.

I feel like a lot of the time, we are told to spread the message that being gay or trans or having kids when you’re not married or anything else that isn’t straight white dude-ish are all sins and very very wrong. This is 2018. There is hate pouring out of every part of our world. People are dying every day because someone decided they didn’t agree with a life a complete stranger was living. Teenagers are killing themselves because they’re being told they’re going to hell for being exactly who they are. Its real and no matter how easy your comfortable life makes it to turn away and pretend it isn’t happening, it is. And I won’t be part of it. I will do my very best to live as much like Jesus as I can. By loving.

I’m that kind of Christian.