My Romantic Life

So Tammy was cute and fairly quiet.  She sat in the back row of church.  One Sunday, I struck up a conversation with her, and though she didn’t say much to make me think she might like to be around me, I asked her out to a picnic to see the Forth of July fireworks show on Mt. Rubidoux. 

Half the city goes to the base of Mt. Rubidoux and watches the fireworks from the Redwood Cemetery.  It’s a tradition. 

I went and picked up Tammy, drove to the cemetery and pulled down onto a little access road.  I got out of my van the raised the wheelchair lift into the up position.  Then I threw a tablecloth over the lift, set it like a table with the picnic basket and got a folding chair out of the back for her to use.  It was almost a bit romantic—if you can forget this is in the middle of a graveyard. 

After we ate, the sun was going down, and we watched the fireworks show.  People noticed the picnic, and gave us strange looks, but they were there—in the same cemetery—to see the show, so who were they to call anyone strange?

That pretty much covers our first date, and though Tammy was wearing feathers in her hair, I thought she was maybe endearingly quirky.  It was worth a second date to find out more, so I asked her to dinner and a movie.

When I went to pick her up, I don’t remember exactly what she wore, but there were, in fact, other feathers.  I wonder now if this should have been a warning sign, but subtlety often escapes me.

We headed toward the part of town where the theatre was, and I asked if she had any preferences for where to eat.  Emphatically, she told me that she wasn’t hungry and couldn’t eat a bite.  This caught me off guard because I had asked her to dinner and a movie.  I drove to the center where the theatre was and figured we’d waist the time I had planned for eating at a local coffee house.

When we got to the front of the line at the coffee house, I made my order and asked Tammy what she would like to drink. 

At this coffee house, their menu had every type of coffee and tea drink imaginable.  There were even several items not containing the title fare, but Tammy asked for Juice.  Of all the items that were on that menu, juice was not one of them.  I’m now becoming a little weirded out.

I reasoned with her a bit, but Tammy held true to her convictions and insisted on juice.  We left the coffee house without buying anything.  We then went to the fast food restaurant two doors down, and I bought her a peel-top cup of orange juice that they had on their breakfast menu.  We sat outside in silence while she drank it. 

When we finally went into the theatre lobby, the smell of freshly made popcorn wrapped around us like a blanket, and Tammy said, “Oooh, can we get some popcorn?”

I was thinking, Aren’t you the girl who couldn’t eat a bite?, but I said, “If you want some.”

First, we went into the theatre, where I got her situated in a seat somewhat close to the front (at her request), then I went to get her some popcorn.  I doubt that it comes as much of a surprise, that when I went back into the theatre, Tammy was in the back row.  I didn’t ask.

I did tell her that I had the popcorn, and she informed me that she hated even the smell of popcorn and would need to sit a seat farther away if I would be eating popcorn.  At this point, I’m starting to wonder if I’m possibly being punked or something.  Deciding that I’ve just won the What’s-going-on-here Lotto, I ate the popcorn as the movie began.

Fifteen minutes into the movie, Tammy leans over to me and whispers, “Is it okay if I go sit in the car?”

I wasn’t ready for that one and queried, “You want to leave?” Incredulously.  Tammy brightened and said, “If you do.”

On the ride back to drop her off at her apartment, there was silence.  This silence was finally broken by Tammy looking over at me and asking, “Can I touch you?”

This night of adventure in Oz no longer had the potential to shock me, and I responded with as much nonchalance as I could muster, “Sure. Live it up.”

Tammy reached over timidly and gently squeezed my right elbow twice, then folded her hand back in her lap.  The rest of the trip to her apartment was uneventful and so was my dropping her off.  No conversation, no goodnight kiss, no more that a thankful “Goodnight.”

I’ve since learned that Tammy actually suffers from a mild form of schizophrenia, and what I saw as quirky was the La La Land she lives in. My mistake.

That date has taken its place in my memory as a high water mark of strangeness in my romantic life.  It’s not a wonder I’ve never married.

I've been teaching high school English forever.
The Students were given the assignment to write an essay about childhood obesity.  They needed to decide if it was the fault of the parents, the food companies or the children themselves and defend their position.
This is probably my favorite paper that I've ever collected.
Go ahead and try to read.  It took me a long time to figure it out.

Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One

Last summer, my family sent me to Hawaii. I worried that their expectation was for me to swim back to California, but it turned out to be a round-trip flight.  I was going to see some old friends and a few of the sights.  Not only that, but the mild climate and stress-free lifestyle of the Islands would be good for my MS.

When I left, I gate-checked my wheelchair and was assured that it would meet me at the end of the flight (You see this coming, don’t you?).  Arriving in Honolulu, the isle chair took me to an airport wheelchair waiting for me in the loading area. 

I tried to stay somewhat evolved, but insisted that they find my chair.  They did finally bring me another passenger’s wheelchair (who was looking for it in Baggage Claim), but my chair was nowhere to be found. To make a long story short, my chair was on the tarmac in Los Angeles. 

One of the comments that was tossed at me was, “Well, sometimes baggage does get lost.”  Think about that.

I’m not militant, and I don’t like to make a bad name for my misabled brothers and sisters, but suddenly I had become unclaimed baggage.  I was traveling alone and had suddenly had my “legs” removed.  My mouth was still intact, and several people heard it.  The biggest problem was that no matter how much or to whom I complained, I was still sitting in an airport and not enjoying Hawaii.

The best that they could do was to bring my chair to the hotel when it arrived in eight hours and let me use one of the airport chairs in the interim.  I chose the lesser of evils (the chair that was the closest to fitting a human body), loaded into my friend’s car and went forth.

By that evening, my chair had arrived, and normal order in my abnormal world was restored, but I write this to say something else.  Though the world doesn’t always accommodate me, I have learned to live in it regardless.

I don’t blame anyone for my difficulties, and I’m not mad at anyone (except the jerk who forgot to load my chair).  If I am to thrive in my world and my situation, I have to make a conscious decision to do so and to enjoy the journey.  I have more being-thrown-out-of-my-chair stories than I can count, and I often encounter the insensitive and the stupid, but I usually find humor in trips down Memory Lane to revisit them.

This is my mission in life:  I will see the incongruities and absurdities around (and sometimes in) me in a way that makes me a better person with a better (and more humorous) story to tell.     

What Else Is in a Name?

The only thing that bothers me about what I’m called is the total lack of anything remotely accurate in the terminology.  I’m not an activist, and I don’t go in for militant activities, but I want to saay that some thought needs to be put into the words that describe the misabled.

            Look, I get the annoyance with the term handicapped, but some carry it too far.  I’m told it derives from times-gone-by in Great Britain.  The person with physical limitations would sit in a public place, with his cap in his hand, asking financial assistance of passers-by.  I’m told we don’t like that now because it fosters a certain level of pity.  This is not my problem with the term. 

            The problem I see is the natural protraction of the word handicapped into handicapped parking, handicapped rest rooms, and various other terms.  Though easily understood, something in my literal mind pictures a handicapped parking space as maybe having only one line or dangerous ground cover that potentially damages tires, thus rendering it handicapped.  The same goes for a handicapped rest room with even more embarrassment potential.

            Once again, I’m told (who starts these things that people get “told”?) that invalid is from the French and simply means that which is implied by the term: A lack of validity.  I may have my moments that have caused the rest of the human race to not want me used as an example, but occasionally I consider myself quite valid.  There’s this little trick I do with an earlobe and a few foot-massaging techniques that have elicited very valid responses. 

            Some have sought to soften the affect of unsavory terms by abstraction.  We’ve seen this done by quasi-socialist liberals teaching undergraduate level classes with titles like Her-story.  These same would-be wordsmiths invented handi-capable.  This might defer unnecessary guilt, but it’s downright silly.  Handi-capable sounds like something spouted by rosy-cheeked cherubs on the Good Ship Lollipop.

            The term that puts an edge on my teeth to rival an overdose of citric acid is physically challenged.  This is perfect when associated with athletes who have physical disabilities because their handicap imposes an extra challenge.  To the average person, physical challenge describes a track meet. To the misabled person, pushing a wheelchair or communicating in sign language is bridging a gap, and the gap itself is simply a pain in the arse.

            I don’t need to say much about the word disabled because my problem with it should be clear.  Don’t try to clean it up by saying differently-abled; you already know my position on handi-capable.  My ability has not been necessarily canceled.  Where my limitations say no, I must discover a way to say yes.  It’s all a matter of rerouting focus.

            There are problems with any of the nom de jour used to describe the misabled.  I’m obviously not in camp with any of them.  Those who consider themselves my friends most often call me Cripple, but that leaves a bad taste in the mouth of the uninitiated ear (How was that for strangely overlapping metaphors?).  For some time we shortened it to the familiar Crip, but one of my inner-city students told me that could get me killed in some places.

            I guess, when all is said and done, I’m left with my name.

           

           

Are You Annoying?

    This is a common question that many may ask about
themselves.  If you are not among the many who ask this vital
question, you are sorely in danger of the answer being, "Yes."
    Oftimes, it is easy to assess one’s own level of
annoyance, by answering simple questions such as, "Do I make
noises or splash while eating?" "Do I dance in public places not
intended for dancing?" and "Is my nick-name ‘Pest’?"
    For others, these kinds of simple questions are not
enough.  If you are a friend indeed, take the following short quiz
to assess your personal A.Q. (Annoyance Quotient).

        Quiz

1.  When confronted with a major decision, I usually . . .
    a.  make a logical choice.
    b.  cry.
    c.  quote Nietzsche.
    d.  sing show tunes.

2.  For breakfast, I like to eat . . .
    a.  eggs and toast.
    b.  cereal.
    c.  out.
    d.  whatever’s on the next guy’s plate.

3.  When a party gets dull, I . . .
    a.  go home.
    b.  go to another party.
    c.  spill the bean dip.
    d.  sing show tunes.

4.  My friends are always happy, if they hear that I will
drop . . .
    a.  in.
    b.  out.
    c.  a foal.
    d.  dead.

5.  My hobby is . . .
    a. collecting stamps.
    b.  collecting pancakes.
    c.  collecting enemies.
    d.  singing show tunes.

6.  I once got a girl . . .
    a.  flowers and a box of chocolates.
    b.  home late.
    c.  pregnant.
    d.  pissed-off.

7.  In a crises, what is the best way to alert the police?
    a.  Call 9-1-1.
    b.  Yell for help.
    c.  Send smoke signals.
    d.  Sing show tunes.

8.  I always have trouble remembering . . .
    a.  phone numbers.
    b.  people’s names.
    c.  to say, "Thank you."
    d.  which hand to extend for a handshake.

9.  When I started to attend public school, my parents hoped I
would not learn . . .
    a.  bad words.
    b.  bad habits.
    c.  the way home.
    d.  to sing show tunes.

10.  I moved to another town and changed my name . . .
    a.  for professional reasons.
    b.  as par of a witness protection program.
    c.  again.
    d.  because my family forced me.

    If you answered three or more of these questions with the
answer labeled c. or d., you may consider yourself certifiably
annoying.  If your answer to any of the odd-numbered questions
involved the singing of show tunes, either change your ways or
drop out of polite society and live as an outcast.
    Hopefully, this little self-improvement aid has been of
some assistance.  Good luck, and have pleasant friendships.

Strategy

This is a patterned writing I did a while back.  Tell me if you catch the pattern.

Another rejection and Bob turned around and hopped down off of the bar stool. Bob could see Carl sitting across the room, alone at a booth and waiting to hear Bob’s story. Calmly, Bob sat across the table and picked up the beer that Carl had ordered for him.

“Don’t even say it,” he said to Carl, before Carl could comment on another one who got away.

Every weekend that two of them had come to the same restaurant, sat at the same bar, used the same pick-up lines and got the same rejections. For two years, they had waited for Miss Right to see them for the great guys they were, but apparently no women in their world could appreciate them for who they really were.

“Go figure,” said Carl. “How do we break through to some of these mannequins?”

“I'm a great catch, Carl. Just the fact that I have a job, a car and a house should say something about my character,” answered Bob.

Kings have queens, but Bob and Carl had none, and not because they hadn’t been

trying. Love and romance just didn’t seem to be in their stars.

“Maybe we should change our approaches,” Bob thought out loud.

“Never!” answered Carl with conviction. “One man, one plan,” he said like he’d probably said a million times before. Persistence was definitely Carl’s long suit.

Quietly, Bob thought about what all of his rejections had in common, and there was only one thing he could think of: Lies.

“Reality check,” one girl had said to Bob as she stood up and left the bar, following Bob’s story about how he had killed a shark that was trying to snack on him at the beach. She was right because the whole story was straight out of Bob’s imagination.

“The truth is the answer,” Bob said to Carl. “Unless there's no choice, I plan to be honest, and the women will have to respect me for the strait-forward kind of man I am deep inside.”

“Very believable,” Carl chimed in.

“Well, it better be,” Bob continued, “because I’m not just some shallow red-neck with a loaded gun rack in my pick-up and no brain of my own.”

“Xerox that speech for me,” said Carl. “You know, it might come in handy as a pick-up line someday.”

“Zip the lip, Carl,” Bob said with a deflated look on his face, slumped back in his seat and ordered another beer.

How Tired I Art

(sung to the tune of "How Great Thou Art")

Oh, when I teach a class of English Grammar,

I wonder how more stupid kids can get.
They look at me as though I speak Swahili,
Or else they think I’m nuts, more than a bit.

(chorus)
It’s then I know I want to go to bed.
How tired I art.
How tired I art.
It’s then I feel much like the living dead.
How tired I art.
How tired I art.

When the alarm rings, in the morning early,
I wonder why I stayed up quite so late.
And then I go and teach those kids so squirrly.
I pray, a life of this won’t be my fate.

(chorus)

[dramatic key change]

One day, I know I’ll lose my mind completely.
Someday, I’m sure, my sanity will snap.
And then I’ll die, but please don’t feel too badly.
To me it’s just like an extended nap.

(chorus 2x)

Tyler Manners