Friday, June 29, 2007

A face eating alien metaphor joins my bikini wax and wheelchair slut thong 'lifestyle'

My life and the film Aliens have a lot of similarities right now. Essentially I have one of those alien babies in my stomach which is this mystery illness I call the Sudden Unnamed Conditions ala Kubler-Ross Syndrome (Or SUCKS for short, like “This sucks!”). Only, unlike in Alien or Aliens, I have a symbiotic relationship with my acid blood alien parasite. So, I am chatting amiably when SUCKS appears, ripping out of my belly and melting off a few peoples faces before disappearing again. And for some reason, after they have seen what is inside, no matter how witty I might be in person after that, people are just nervous around me and often can’t wait to get away. Like when I went for my leg and bikini wax.

Now, if you are inclined to shave your legs, and don’t have a lot of energy anymore, leg waxing makes sense, no? Plus they had a special! Linda and I went and I got to go first. Since I am 60% leg, leg waxing is a bargain for me, all you need to do is deal with the pain. I am talking to our waxer about the worst kind of bleeders she has seen (sometimes people with deep bikini hair roots have copious blood post rip). Yes I am under a warm lamp and lying next to two heating pots of leg/bikini wax (and one of Brazilian wax) but because I can’t feel my own temperature, I am unaware that I am progressing through heat stoke. Ignoring the nausea and laughing through the pain of this 20 something year old woman doing a repeated strip and rip on my right bikini line, I am listening to her story of how she gave her mother her first bikini wax. This leads to an image of me giving MY mother a bikini wax, an image which is so traumatic that I am thrown back to the memory of “that” talk, which for mutual discomfort was only surpassed when in my freshly "out" lesbo wisdom I attempted a conversation with my father to check out his oral sex techniques. I quickly ran out of both metaphors and was hit with the shock that a) I was having this conversation and b) that I had INITIATED it. I fled and we avoided eye contact for an protracted period.

Back at the waxing, while we are moving on to the topic of Brazilians and the many reasons one might have for getting one which doesn’t involve putting sex pictures on the internet, my body is going into shock (medically). I begin to start panting because my heart is all erratic and isn’t passing enough oxygen on. Linda puts on the oxygen mask because my arms are spasming. But it is too late and I pass out. The woman doing the waxing reacts by.....running out of the room (yeah that's helpful!). After a period I simply stop breathing. Linda tells me later that she often WAITS for me to pass out because she knows that once I am unconscious my breathing will tend to regulate. But this non-breathing thing is sort of newish. Though in the last week Linda has had to put me in the JC position (Lifting me up by under my shoulders because I don’t have the strength to breath by expanding my rib cage by myself – kinda the way crucified people used to suffocate to death). As a first aider, Linda looks down at me on the waxing table and notes that my heart's beating and remembers “if the heart is still beating, the body is getting oxygen.” Though after a time Linda decides breathing is important too and starts CPR on me. Coming back is the part I remember. I have to say that CPR is a lot more....um....moist, than it appears on TV shows and romance books (and though you think you are about to get tongue...you never do!).

With me unable to speak or move, Linda communicates with me by asking me questions and I try to squeeze my index finger as affirmative. If that doesn’t work, we try it with blinking. If that doesn’t work, with a breath huff. Waxing woman has returned and is suggesting that I STOP the waxing. I suppose to someone who doesn’t have this happen every other day, that would seem logical. From my point of view, the front of my left leg and my right thigh have been waxed and she wants me to go home with my lower right leg and back of the legs unwaxed? Hello? In my family we finish the chores we start. As a child if I left my assigned morning section unweeded I got no breakfast. I missed school buses because I had to do the dishes first. So, all that good training says; hoe to the end of the row (Linda has noted that EVERY sports instructor I’ve had has repeatedly tried to tell to “chill out” and that there are things called “human limitations”). Coaxed back to work on my legs by Linda translating my blinks and grunts waxing woman has stopped talking to me and is waxing my legs with the kind of fear around the eyes one gets at the chow line in prison. Personally, if you are going to have a full leg and bikini wax then doing it in a post comatose condition is WAY easier. I never twitched once. In fact I barely felt it. This might also have to do with the fact that much of the blood in my legs had been leeched by my heart when I wasn’t breathing. Waxing woman is telling Linda that because my legs are now stone cold, the wax won’t come off; it is bonding with the leg. She has to get out a solvent to separate leg and wax (so, it turns out corpses are NOT good waxing candidates). She finishes me and again…runs out of the room.

Linda transfers me to the wheelchair, sets up my oxygen and eventually the waxing woman comes back and waxes Linda. However, now she will no longer engage with my banter, conversation or indeed even respond or look at me. I guess this is where I can’t put SUCKS back in the box (hey, my alien won't suck off your face with acid, honest!). Personally, I am pretty happy. Linda got to do CPR again and this time it wasn’t on someone who was already dead. Plus, post waxing I am now physically prepared for wearing my skull thongs and bikinis. The thongs are presenting a problem since essentially the only reason to wear a thong is to say, “wow, do I have a great ass/body or what?” You are either wearing something so tight you don’t want panty lines or you are just advertising your sex appeal. Getting the same effect wearing a thong in a wheelchair is harder, but not impossible. I like the “Excuse me, excuse me, I have an announcement” line in a crowd, then as all turn toward you, you say, “Oh is that a quarter” and bend your body all the way over as you brush your fingers on the floor, giving everyone a view of your low cut jeans as the bikini thong strings disappearing into them. So far, fear and a need to get away seems to be the common reaction for that gambit.

There is also the “wear a mini skirt and let your wheelchair go high speeds downhill” option. The skirt flips back from wind resistance and your skull print thong bikini is there for viewing. However, since the major hill near me has a lot of old folks homes and elderly out with assisted walking devices, I am not sure how it is going. There do seem to be a lot more old guys out with walkers on my last trips. That’s pretty much it for modest ideas for wearing a thong. I mean if you want to just wear a thong and NO skirt or jeans there is the wheelchair slut option: Skull bikini thong and corset (which works too). Just don’t stop at Starbucks for a coffee, not if you still have nerve endings in the lower 50 (wheelchairs don’t have cup holders!).

Now, waxing done, I would say we made a foolish decision which was the old; “Well since we are out here, we should drop in at xxxxx shop.” I mean, I understand that what goes on medically shouldn’t determine my life but hey, on oxygen, getting CPR, maybe you want to, I dunno, REST a little. See, the more I can actually move and get out, the more chances I will have for showing off my thongs. Like when I am asked, “Do you want fries with that?” I say, “Excuse me, I didn’t hear what you said; I was adjusting my Victoria Secret Thong on my freshly waxed body.” It’s subtle the way work it into conversation Bette Davis style with a tinge of desperation (“That's me: an old kazoo with some sparklers”).

Anyway, if nothing else, the thongs are good for wearing to medicals simply to freak out the docs. And if there is one thing I want to do right now, it is get some freak back on the doctors. And to entertain myself. And maybe those within viewing distance. So please, look beyond the evil jack in the box of medical issues inside and see the skull thong of friendship instead.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

delayed death bikini thong skull messages and some pretty pics

There are simply times when writing a nice light piece about thongs and waxing isn’t as easy as originally anticipated, particularly after CPR is performed on you after a “fade” during waxing (see, beauty CAN be dangerous). Linda and I have new phrases, we don’t say “pass out” or “go into convulsions gasping for air” we say; “Oh, Beth ‘faded’ a bit”. Like now I don’t fall down or fall over or become immobile, I merely, “sink” a little. Rest assured, I will blog all about how while I THOUGHT I was getting string bikini’s, Linda ordered me string bikini THONGS; thongs with skulls on them (no, not the ones you were on your feet). Seems a bit a mixed message to be doing the “look at the pretty pretty white rounded butt” with the back of one’s underwear while advertising, “Abandon all hope ye who enter here” at the vagina. This would at first appear to be something you might end up gifting an ex.

On that note, here is a very catching tune by Cab for Cutie called Someday you will be Loved (male jerks who want to practice the love and leave ‘em technique should memorize the rather disturbing lyrics which is pretty much: hey, yeah I screwed you and broke your heart, but.....someday you will be loved). It is set to the anime Elfen Lied AMV, showing Lucy who after years of being tortured by a bunch of guys for military and medical experiments was a little “disturbed.” Disturbed.....with the ability of rip people in half with her mind. I was like; “Go with it” but apparently her “innocent side” created a split personality, so this a good song for her. Hey Lucy, once people understand you PROBABLY won’t rip them in half, they’ll get to see the good side of you. I guess Lucy might wear skull thong bikini underwear.


I now have very, very red hair (a lot like Lucy actually) with a giant purple streak in it. I would show you a picture, but why I can't is another story about how I seem to be paying of several lifetimes of Karma THIS WEEK. But you know, I am determined not to do another “boo hoo my life sucks” blog for a while (even when my life does suck). It is irritating because there are lots of exciting things happening in my life, they just aren’t, you know, positive things. So I am off in search of a sense of humor that parts of humanity can relate to as opposed to backing away from. Like today when I wheeled down some rocks toward a cliff edge with a mesh fence atop it. Linda asked, “Can you make it safely?”

Me: “We’ll find out once I hit the fence....if it holds.” (people near the fence move away).

I roll down and hit the fence, it holds, there is a very long drop with outcroppings. “Wow, that would have been plenty o bounce on the way down” I say. (people near fence move further away).

So here is a song that I used to chase Linda around the house with, or was it Linda chasing me. No I am pretty sure once I got naked it was me chasing Linda. It is a little lesbian anime video to the rock hit, Little Red Riding Hood. “What big eyes you have!” Just watch the pretty pictures.

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Stay tuned to this channel for breaking thong related news

Sorry, I am in the medical whirlwind - all last night I was lit up like a slot machine for a oxigenation test (or something that sounds similar) which left odd bruises on me. Away again in five minutes but have been working on a piece relating to the uses of wearing thongs in general and specifically with wheelchairs - and for a special bonus, there is likely some bikini line waxing action later this week (appointment Friday). Nothing like alternating your medical pain for chosen and paid for pain! Coming attractions!

Monday, June 18, 2007

“Those damn wheelchairs (and people in them); they are simply a nuisance.”

A particularly poor night left me weak and on oxygen this morning as we went to see the internal specialist (which we had waited some months to see, done 16 tests and were now discussing). My B12 was significantly low but neither the specialist nor I thought it was a primary cause of any current problems except perhaps energy. Something is causing it as a secondary effect but he did not know what. And indeed, his inch of medicine was exhausted, as he didn’t know what was causing my symptoms and didn’t want to see me again, referring me to an endocrinologist and neurologist. At one point he said that there was no way to find out what was wrong with me (Did he mean that HE couldn’t or no one could?). I reviewed what I saw the rate of progressive weakness. Did he agree. Yes, but could offer no diagnosis. Could he give me some idea of how much time I had to get a diagnosis? (I told him I looked ahead 4-6 months and wanted to know if I would be too weak to be anywhere but at home cared for in a hospital bed) Basically, how long do I have; months or years if they don’t find a diagnosis? He shrugged and said, “No way I could say without a diagnosis.” And that was that.

So, once I return to my GP and get the second referral, I will be on new waiting lists (likely many more months). The Monty Python aspects were starting to get to me. Would Linda finally get a call sometime 2008; “Elizabeth has her specialist appointment next month, first Tuesday at 8:05 am” only for her to reply; “Fine, I’ll need to get a shovel to dig her up.” But for now it is just a personal reflection on another few months and few days wasted, another dead end. The specialist’s parting comments allows me to make a generous offer; Come up with a spiffy name for what I have and if I die BEFORE they diagnosis, maybe they will put it on the death certificate and you can have named a brand new disease. Send your entries with a $5 processing fee to: Beth’s Medicinal Marijuana Fund. Victoria, BC.

Going home on the bus, I needed to transfer. I was too weak to push myself up a hill I usually do and would have to pay $2.25 in bus fare to be carried four blocks to the top. But what else was there to do. The bus stopped for me and another wheelchair was already onboard. A woman sitting in the flip up seats where wheelchairs are secured was asked to move back one row. This displeased her greatly, her being forced to move for what she said to my face was “just another of those damn wheelchairs; they are simply a nuisance.” This was stated about 1 foot or less from my face, but I didn’t take it personally, since it was spoken in the same way one would talk about those damn Negros or those damn Jews. I took it very personally. As I was incapable of locking myself in, the driver did it for me, allowing her to continue her rant to the back of my head how, “those damn wheelchairs only go a few blocks anyway.....” She continued but I was distracted by having someone peg me so accurately; that my weakness to be unable to wheel up a single hill was such an inconvenience to her (and it seemed by implication, everyone). I was a THING, something to shouted at, something whose $2.25 was not worth the effort. Certainly not a person.

I left the bus blowing the woman a kiss, which is preferable to letting her see me cry, something I did in the privacy of my apartment where I wished upon her the worst thing I could think of; this illness, my illness, which eats away choice, dignity, hope, life and body. Bon appetite!

Friday, June 15, 2007

I try to get intellectual; let's talk about sexual fantasy

The fears of expressing your sexual fantasies, that’s my deep topic for today. I’ve been going around to people sites and they all seem to have really intelligent thoughtful blogs, some have even won awards for them, like Arthritic Young Thing on Growing a Thick Skin or Diary of a Goldfish on Bad Language: words that are bad and why they are bad and are they really bad.

So I feel the social pressure; “Beth, be smart, or at least try to look smart.” Except I have been reading manga and watching Deadwood Season three all week while recovering. And all Deadwood taught me was how to speak in reverse clauses, use the word “hooplehead” and see the varied career choices for women: prostitute, drug addicted prostitute, ex-prostitute, madam over prostitutes, ex madam and (if lucky) woman in faux/loveless marriage. So, it’s up to the manga!

Luckily, the manga Genshiken DID produce an interesting conversation about the fears we all have about sharing our sexual desires and turn-ons and how sometimes when you are with someone you have to accept it, even if you don’t “get it”. Genshinken is a Japanese high school club to basically read porn manga’s and play porn computer and console games (Japan is one of the few countries that the US says (apparently without irony), “That country is sex crazy”). Into this group first comes female Ohno who like Yaoi (boy love manga) and cosplay (dressing up sexy in costumes from anime). She is a total Otaku (someone obsessed with manga/anime). Then Saki joins, only because her boyfriend is an Otaku. Suddenly the guys are having to deal with having REAL human female friends and what they might think about their passions. And Saki is having nightmares where her boyfriend decides that as long as he has porn games to play, he doesn’t need her. Plus female member, Ogiue joins but with some real insecurity issues about what people will think about her (As she joins she glares at Ohno and says, “I hate Queers!” Ohno jumps up and shouts back, “No girl hates queers!”) Of course Ogiue is a secret Yaoi manga artist and wants to create a manga to sell at a convention but has issues because basically it puts all her (as she puts it “sick, twisted fantasies on display”).

So this lead to a conversation between Linda and I about what is a turn on for you and why? What gets you aroused, what do you masturbate to? While some guys will tell you WAY more than you want to know, for a lot of females, it is something that isn’t really talked about. For example (this isn’t me), some women like rape or domination fantasies but HATE such things in real life. But, for example, how do you explain to your partner who has been through your ups and downs of sexual abuse counseling that you still get aroused by rape fantasies. Sharing fantasies or arousal can be very vulnerable because so much is politicized about what being aroused by different things means. For example, a female who like Yaoi (male/male romances) is called, in Japan, “fujoshi” which literally means “Rotten Woman.”
Yet western fantasy fiction writer Mercedes Lackey made a big career out of writing Yaoi with a magic twist (the part that put me off was the added bestiality, portraying gay sex as cute as two teddy bears is one thing, but adding in telepathic communication to your horse DURING sex was a big turnoff for me). Yet isn't being with someone, having a partner, mean that there is someone you can trust enough to talk to? Hopefully so.

Nancy Friday was the woman who first really publicized the fantasies of women with Women on Top, a book still confiscated by Canadian Customs. The problem with what excites you is that (once you get over the “how horrible you must be to feel this way” issue), it is hard to believe many/all don’t feel (deep down) the same way you do. “I mean, my God, how sexy is that!”(only to many it isn’t) For example when I picked up A Girl’s Guide to Vampires I thought it was a “how to” book, not a romance from bestseller Katie MacAlister. So when I read the hetero love scenes when the heroine is talking about the massive size of his penis, how when he stands up she is held upright by it along with her body being wracked by his forceful ejaculation; I was literally falling over on the couch laughing. Only later did I realize, “Oh, this isn’t a parody of a romance novel” That yes, big is beautiful and sexy and makes some people horny. Here is a list of the top ten sexual secret fantasies of women

This is pretty much where I am supposed to bring it all together in one intellectual jump. A recent book, The Smart Girl’s Guide to Porn tried, but according to the reviewer, didn’t really succeed. If you have read my blog, you can probably guess some of my ‘ahem’ “interest” like lesbians with guns (fantasy guns, like on anime or the film Aliens – real guns particularly in the hands of real people scare me), or the whole sexual tension in gender bending (The 80’s film Just One of the Guys remains a favorite, particular when clueless Sandra, forcing herself on the male disguised heroine Terry as girlfriend tries to give “him” a blowjob, with the struggle over the zipper. “Don’t be shy,” Sandra insists, “I don’t care how small it is.” referring to the mythical penis. “You’d be surprised” Terry quips). And that’s as far as I’m going to go (remember, I get enough weird emails as it is). I do know that if we could talk about it a bit more and get our collective mental mothers out of our heads, that would probably be a good thing. I’m trying to understand more, and actively tried to get some gay friends to explain anonymous sex and leather bars to me (trying to explain it seemed to freak them out more than me). Sex isn’t a crime. Wanting to be sexy (however that is viewed for you) isn’t a crime. And if I want people to respect the relationship Linda and I have, both as life AND sexual partners, then I want to cast out my own inner demons of judgment about sex and sexual behavior. Because I know from experience that to some women (and I guess really prudish men) “lesbian” is a dirty word. So in turn, I need to neutralize some consensual sex fantasies others may have like infantilism, water sports, BDSM (I almost understand this one), or even public sex.

So, that’s heavy intellegent thinking for me: sexual fantasies. Hey, I tried.

Wednesday, June 13, 2007

Wheelchair boxing: think it's a 'freak show?' Mind stepping a little closer...

I hope I’m not the first female wheelchair boxer; otherwise who will I have to box? Just getting in the class was a fight. For the last several weeks, I have been reading the rec centre pages trying to find an activity I could do. The non-contact boxing training seemed like a real possibility. The problem: it was at the YMCA/YWCA who won’t let me take any class without a doctor’s note. Getting a doctor’s note for Boxing while having multiple heart conditions, including some still undiagnosed is hard. Trust me, it took more than one doctor and a lot of waiting room time to get that note. Then it turns out I still can’t take the class until a) The director of the Y agrees, b) The athletic director agrees and c) The instructor agrees.

While waiting I went to a gym where they had a heavy bag, asked a female boxer to show me some moves and practiced. Last Friday I got the call. “Elizabeth, we have all talked and decided...you can take the class. Are you going to want to start this Monday?”

“Yes!” I shouted down the phone followed by pretending to be cool, “I mean, uh...let me think about it.”

My instructor Ian Johnson has taught two people in wheelchairs before. His class is structured around boxing rounds: three minutes of activity and one minute of cool down. We do warms up for two rounds, then sit ups and push ups (I have two mats and roll from face up to face down to do the push ups and vice versa). I was feeling pretty good keeping up with everyone doing the first 10 push-ups until I realized we were doing ever increasingly difficult sets. Oops, or rather...Ow! But that’s why I took the class, right? Then it is on to heavy bag, speed bag, shadow and partner boxing. Ian Johnson has been fighting a few decades and during exercises will tell fight stories.

I have been trying to find a history of wheelchair boxing but there doesn’t seem to be one. Knockout Events, who featured amateur college fight nights in 2004 was “denounced for hosting wheelchair boxing events; a criticism Shaw said is unwarranted. "These guys are athletes just like you are, just like I am, and they just want to box," he said. "They called us." Knockout Events’ webpage has died and they seem out of business.

In Ontario, Jason Battiste the Canadian Super Middle Weight Champion just this year has started a wheelchair boxing program which includes a form of wheelchair footwork (cool as I can’t figure out how to do any – I just lock my brakes and slug away). A few weeks ago on May 8th, 2007 his boxers staged an exhibition amateur fight night. That’s all I could find...that was positive.

In a previous blog about “appropriate activities” for women in athletics in the Olympics, boxing was the one sport that officials have always pushed back and still has no set date as even as exhibition sport. For the boxing world, promoter Bob Arum sums up views: "Men see it as a sideshow and women hate it.” As for wheelchair boxing, it is a best a joke, as seen by this “limited edition” t-shirt with wheelchair boxing images which advertises:
“Folks will drop their jaws when they see this on the back of your shirt! They'll tap you on the shoulder and ask "Do they actually have wheelchair BOXING???"
Then there is the mention in the online book “Stupid Wheelchair Games”, Wheelchair Boxing is number eight: “You Attempt To Fight Back Confined To A WheelChair As Some Fat Ass Beats You To A Bloody Pulp.” Or wheelchair boxing is a non-existent politically correct annoyance to harm boxing in general, as alluded in the 2006 interview with Bob Shannon and his boxing gym in Manchester, UK. “Recent legislation has stipulated that all public buildings of this type must be made accessible for wheelchair users and this includes the gym. Cost wise this legislation is a nightmare as it means making the basement gym wheelchair friendly; depending on your perspective it is either PC BS gone insane or the local council are prophetically anticipating the rapid rise of wheelchair boxing.” The paper laments the (able bodied) youths who will run riot in youth clubs while being unable to access the discipline of boxing during this politically correct gym overhaul. I lament that neither the gym manager nor the reporter considers the training of less than able bodied boxers as anything but a sad joke.

Linda said the instructor kept yelling at me “Less power!” which I certainly don’t remember. I look forward to become more accurate, faster, and having a few combinations. The roundhouse hook which requires the power to come as you step into in it just looks like I am flailing my arm (no stepping in) but Ian Johnson said he will teach me the shovel hook next week to make up for it. This week I cheated a little by ending the combination by using my elbow against the bag to simulate wacking someone on the side of the head (like in the video below) until Ian Johnson told me that was STILL very illegal. Darn!


The last couple days, when I tell guys I’m doing wheelchair boxing they go, “That’s nice.” Or “That’s great” in a “ah, look at the plucky crippled girl” voice. Then I show them the pictures.

“Geez, you're hitting the shit out of that bag!” They say in a completely different “oh, don’t get her pissed within arm range” voice. Today at the video store I said once I get some more training down I’m going to be looking for someone to fight. One guy immediately said, “I’d pay a dollar to see that.” Another guy piped up, “Me too!”

I know this isn’t a long term career unless the doctors find some way to stabilize my condition, but if you thought Elizabeth Revenge McClung was going to go from fencing Epee to collecting stamps just because I'm in a wheelchair with heart and neurological degeneration, you were thinking optimistically (even with my arm/hand tremors, the heavy bag is pretty big, I can usually find it). My first choice was kickboxing, but I just couldn’t figure out how to make it work. Boxing seems to do just fine. (Fight! Fight!)

As Linda said, “Of everyone in the class, you certainly had the most.....enthusiam.”

Sunday, June 10, 2007

Reading Tennyson and why I am coming for Revenge

I’ve been reading Tennyson’s The Revenge, the story of the fight of little ship of war against the Spanish Armada:

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between.
I’m coming for you. Just warning you. I AM a one woman terrorist organization; a disabled terrorist organization. I’m actually planning on starting a terrorist organization to attack places that discriminate against those with disabilities, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the knife fight going on between me, my body and the rest of ambulatory humans, all six billion of them (I’ve always been ambitious).

I’m sitting at my desk; my body weakened by several hours of erratic and painful heart attacks and I have decided that I am NOT going to be plucky. I am going to be threatening, and skary, and not at all to type. Because it turns out there isn’t a type. I went looking for “females in wheelchairs” and found a section at the national disability webpage in pink about make-up and nylons. Not much about women with neurological degeneration trying to figure out how to do kickboxing. I’ve got the biggest arm and shoulder muscles I’ve ever had in my life. To be honest, they are bigger than some/many guys. A few weeks ago that used to bother my inner voice of what a female should be. But then I decided to be contrary. My Physical Therapist told me three months ago that women in wheelchairs don’t wear skirts. Last week I got some tights and wore a mini skirt to my physical therapists office. She said, “I guess it depends on how you want people to look at you.” (She has described my clothing style to others as “porn star”).

“The thing is,” I said right back, “they LOOK at me.” And now, with my corsets and shoulder muscles, I guess they will look more. Actually that day a woman jumped out of a car to drag her friend to “look at her top, that’s so fab.” (my black velvet corset). As for the shoulder muscles; I’m trying to make them bigger. I went to the gym to work them out. There is no female wheelchair action figure. Particularly not a non-spinal cord injury one who has an endurance of about three minutes. But when I am finished, I hope to be able to throw myself out of the chair and use the entire wheelchair as a weapon. Wheelchair Fu! Be afraid.

I’ve had to drop so many self images, self expectations these last few months: nothing like caring about how you look and then drooling, spasming, twitching, turning green or lying face down in public to make you leave those behind. What does Cosmo say about slurring and twitching as forms of allure? People would say adjusting is about survival.

I’m not big on survival. I do like Revenge a lot, it's a good name for a ship; a better name for a body. That's me: Elizabeth Revenge McClung. Survival can be proactive and doing what you can to make things turn out best (which may or may not work). Revenge is Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes refusing to take their hands off each other's necks to save themselves. Revenge is obsessive, determined, driven and quite willing to take whatever personal injury is needed to achieve its gain. That is where I want to be. I need a big motivation to keep going these days so I’ve chosen a big target: Humans.

I am not going to go around hitting people’s shins. That’s not how I operate. How I operate is a sort of insane determination against all reason. Maybe I’ll interrupt your dinner as I vomit up blood on the floor of a restaurant. Haha! Got you! Bet you’re having nightmares tonight! Or I’ll invent some new sport. Or I take up throwing javelin. I don’t know how yet, but I’m coming for you.

For he said “Fight on! fight on!”
Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be dressed he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said “Fight on! fight on!”

Thursday, June 07, 2007

A male MD instructs me on the "correct" form of female masturbation

It seems I am not masturbating correctly. This, according to my male late 50’s/early 60’s new GP (the one who keeps telling me I am going to die). The conversation came about because the pain I am having at night, which sometimes (once a week or so) is high enough that I cannot sleep. When I have less than 8 hours sleep (like say 5 hours because I have to be at a medical appointment in the morning), my heart is erratic, I am in constant pain and nausea, I have to be on oxygen and have uncontrollable tremors and sometimes fatigue paralysis. So, I wanted a pill to put me to sleep on these nights. Doctor says no.

So what do I do? Doctor says, I dunno, I never need to sleep eight hours. He thinks. Sometimes I lie in the bath. Then he asks what I do. I tell him that after my research on the female orgasm helping insomnia, if I feel I won’t sleep in the afternoon, I will masturbate first. He approves. So I say back to him (with the hope he will see the absurdity and actually give me oh...a sleeping pill), “So if I can’t sleep because of the pain and it is 3 or 4 am you want me to get up and masturbate and then lie in the bath?”

No, no, no. This, it turns out, is all wrong. He then proceeds to tell me the appropriate manner for female masturbation. For instance, the bath comes first, with candles and a pleasing aroma (I thought he was going to talk about rose petals on the water too but he stopped there). THEN, once the “setting and mood are correct” I am allowed to masturbate. Finding his ideas of female sexuality to be somewhat from the 1980’s, I told him that I find that an active imagination tends to the trick, plus I have some devices for physical assistance (is the rabbit even waterproof?). He seemed a bit miffed that I countered him and started saying something about how a lack of imagination in sexuality (I thought, “if he finishes that sentence, I am going to learn a LOT about his sex life”) was advanta.......and he trailed off. So, no sleeping pills nor pain pills but masturbation in the appropriate method is allowed.

Of course, with a visit that odd, I HAD to call up Linda. She immediately pointed out that in my weakened state at night a hot bath would put my heart over 200 beats in no time. She also found his idea of female masturbation to be...antiquated (like Edwardian ideas of what Harems were like antiquated). Actually, all we needed to finish his vision was some oriental music and a few hazy veils. Linda and I agreed that a good book, a good imagination, a good vibrator or any combination thereof was far more effective than candles and baths (not that those aren't nice and romantic.....but looking at a hot bath doesn’t exactly make me horny). As Linda said, “he doesn’t seem to have read How to have an Orgasm...as often as you want.” Anyway, it is rather mute because crawling out of bed and trying to come up with energy to masturbate at 4 a.m. doesn’t seem likely, much less digging out some candles and an aromatherapy kit. Finding a locum who will give a sedative painkiller seems a FAR simpler solution.

But, for all those females out there who, after years of successful self orgasm masturbation, are asking “What if I am not doing this the “correct” way?” Have no fear, because I have found an older man who is ready to instruct on the correct techniques and "setting." Or you could have my internal response; a puzzled brow and the thought, “What a prick!”

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

People act as if I will explode and shower goo on them. Why?

I am spending most of my time currently either in medical places or bed, or on oxygen or on the phone trying to set up activities. It may seem ironic to some that I am propped up on oxygen calling around to see who is willing to teach me a martial art, but not to me. As it happened, I was too weak, sick and had continuous arm tremors to do indoor rock climbing yesterday (suck!). When I called to cancel and promised to pay anyway the gym was like “well, don’t let it happen again!” Don’t let it happen again? It’s not like I can sacrifice a chicken and “presto” a good afternoon. Though it turns out that the company that sells me oxygen also sells Entonox which is a mix of oxygen and nitrous oxide (laughing gas) so I get pain killer AND oxygen. If I can get a prescription for this, I might be able to sleep better and almost make any bad afternoon a good one. Also I bet I could find a lot more friends and get invited to a lot more parties when word gets out I have the “happy gas” machine.

I am having a Catch 22 where no one will let me do anything (including I was told today, the Disabled Sailing program) unless I have a note from my doctor saying everything will be okay. This is because I have a HEART CONDITION. And apparently people with heart conditions are a bit like people with the black death, no one wants to get too close. The problem is that without a specific diagnosis (which looks to be coming sometime between 2008-2011), no doctor is going to say, “Elizabeth will have no problems doing xxxxx.” Because no one knows. But as I pointed out to the sailing program, right now, there is no treatment, either I take the oxygen and recover or I die, in which case I will sign a waver and they can simply tip the body overboard. No, no, that’s not good enough. I don’t quite understand since I am the one that is going to die; it is not as if when I have a heart problem, my body will explode injuring those around me. Why can’t I sign a waver saying, “I accept all responsibility?” On Monday I tried to sign up for non-contact boxing. I needed a note. I went to the doctor and waited an hour. He wouldn’t give me a note saying it was okay to do boxing (“I just don’t know if it is okay or not”). I go back to the Y and they say that they have talked to the instructor and he has taught two people in wheelchairs before........but he don’t feel comfortable teaching me because....I have a heart problem. AHHHHHHHHH! Many are saying, “Why boxing? Can’t you start off with something less active?” Well first off, there isn’t Pilates class for arms, and second, after dealing with this for a while, the idea of hitting something sounds REALLY good.

So tomorrow I am going to see if I can get a note for sailing and wheelchair cycling. Oh yes, my brand new wheelchair has arrived. However, it has “slick” rims which means it can’t be steered or stopped on a downhill. I consider these important aspects in a wheelchair (the whole “running into a tree to stop” thing is getting a bit old). So, another two weeks or more for that to resolve. But I’m not bitter…honest!

Anyway, here is a cool music amv video for the anime series Burst Angel (Bakuretsu Tenshi). It shows the lesbian couple Meg (the femme with a gun who spends her time getting held hostage by bad guys) and Joe (the butch with LOTS of guns who rescues Meg). I finally remembered what this series reminds me of; the old melodrama’s, where the villain captures the girl, ties her to the railroad track and then the hero rescues her – only this is a lesbian version (literally, in the series Joe tells Meg, “Don’t come, I don’t want to have to rescue you for once”). A great AMV not only has a good song but tells a visual story. This AMV is so compelling telling the relationship and story between Meg and Joe that I ended up watching the series to find out more. If you like girls, guns, girls who like girls, girls who wear bikinis AND shoot guns – then you will like this – and maybe like me, end up watching the series just to see how many times Meg ends up needing to be rescued.


Hang in there – I will if you will (and really, send more pixie sticks!).

Sunday, June 03, 2007

Making/snorting pixie sticks and other fun stuff (like stalkers!)

Life is serving me crap this week so I guess I should buck up, see the bright side and turn that crap into....crapaide? I never really got that whole lemon and lemonade metaphor thing; since lemons don’t make lemonade, not without a wackload of sugar they don’t. And if I had a wackload of sugar, I would have made pixie sticks and be bouncing off the walls so I could care less if life is trying to deliver me lemons. Maybe it should be, “If life gives you lemons, eat/snort a bunch of pixie sticks and soon you won’t be able to concentrate on anything at all.”

Ever have the most horrific break-up/life disaster and then try to listen to people talk about how “Then, it turned out Jake bought me the WRONG diamond bracelet, my life SO sucks right now!”? And at best you are trying not show how much you don’t care and at worst the police are trying to pull your hand off her windpipe? That’s kinda how I feel about a few subjects right now (politics, religion, humanity, celebs, the news, etc). And since this is my blog and my space to get all broody, then if I want to play “Paint if Black” 100 times at 2:00 am, that’s what I’ll do! (among other things I spent 6 hours a day on the phone for two days to find out that my wheelchair dealer Motion Specialties has lied to my face for six straight weeks including telling me on four to five different days that my chair would “definitely” arrive – though on two of those days, the wheelchair hadn’t even been built yet; then they called the wheelchair manufacturer to block me; “We have been informed not to give you any information”; and at the end of it, due to the change in the US and Canadian Dollar in the last two months, Motion Specialties are going to double their profits and they have an exclusive contract with Tilite. I can’t cancel the order...and I still don’t have the chair). Plus I’m having a major case of the “why me?”

But that’s boring! No more talking about that, let’s talk about high school girls, bands, stalkers....you know, fun stuff! First there is the Japanese Film Warau Michael (or Arch Angel or St. Michael’s Academy) which manages to stuff every obsessive Japanese thing into a single film: Private school girls, cute eyeglass wearing girls, Lolita girls, nuns punishing cute schoolgirls, etc. Basic story is common girl gets accepted into elite academy; she is found out eating Raman by two other girl who are secret commoners as well. They bond, they find secret powers and fight evil. The lead song is done by a Japanese band called Metalchicks (if I need to explain the composition band, just go bang your head on a wall a few more times....until it makes sense). Their video for the movie is here; and though they are cute, the movie and the song is boring. This is bad, as there is a giant hole in modern film; good films with Japanese girls bonding with in Lolita/goth/lesbian aspects. We already have Kamikaze Girl (which has been watched, and rewatched), we or specifically I need more!

Thankfully this month the Japanese girl band film Linda Linda Linda was released in North America by Viz. The title is the most famous song of the super hit band The Blue Hearts, an independent Japanese punk rock group from the 80’s which sold millions of records. The western equivalent would be putting out a movie called “Smells like Teen Spirit.” The lead singer of The Blue Hearts, if he was performing in the west, would have been pulled off stage by the police to be tested for what appears to be the massive amount of drugs in his system. However, he is just doing “ganbatte” the japanese word meaning “Do your best” which is something the girls in Linda Linda tell themselves; a Japanese concept of giving it your all. If you want to see the Original Blue Hearts performance, click below and notice the lead singer’s flicking tongue syndrome, not to mention his “erratic” movement and facial expressions (basic lyrics are "I'm not a rat, I am a thing of beauty, I will find the beauty in me").

Japanese films have a way of expressing emotions that are almost inexpressible (if you don’t believe me, watch Quill, the award winning film about a seeing eye dog from the point of view of the dog’s life, from pup to old age - I dare you to watch it without becoming emotionally involved!). Linda Linda Linda is about that last year in school and how everyone expects you do to things and you want to do things and are scared to do things and how the best experiences often are the unplanned ones. In the film there is a cultural festival and a female band has promised to play, but with only three days to go, the guitarist breaks her fingers and the other two best friends are having one of those “both strong willed” pointless fights. So the lead singer tells everyone she will learn to play the guitar (in three days) and they say they will ask the next girl that goes by if she will be lead singer. Soon, a Korean exchange student with poor Japanese walks by. When confused, she bows and says “yes!” Want to be in a band? Uh....Yes! Want to be the lead singer? Uh...Yes! Later they explain what she just agreed to. The film is about the three days the girls spend together, starting from a total disaster, practicing through the nights and finding this odd close friendship of just being together; that odd feeling from high school you almost never get again. There is, of course, the teacher trying to encourage them, who they totally ignore and emotionally trample in the way teens do. Teacher: “Uh.....in my day......the cultural festivals....you see.” Girl obviously bored, “Is that all? Can I go now?”

Performance day and there are a few disasters, including rain, proclaimations of love and a missed bus. However, the rain ends up packing the usually empty hall so now this never before played anywhere band has a full house, and Soon has stage fright. If you have ever: been in a band, performed something at high school, made sudden friends during an emotional event, are female, and/or are in or remember high school then this is likely a film you will enjoy (sorry, nary a goth girl in sight, however, wet school girls galore!). Take a chance, these four girls did.

As for me, Today I have been watching the New Zealand film Nemesis Game which uses UK and Canadian actor’s and is set in Canada. It won four awards, a big win for Jesse Warn who wrote and directed the film and has the basic theme of “bad things happen to very smart but slightly damaged girls.” It is about riddles, and ways of looking at things and the whole “Why me?” question. This is a film for those who like to be brain stroked as his film is patterned on the life of a Buddhist monk who split off to study enigmas and the belief that all random things can be understood if one faces enough riddles (sort of a western interpretation of Zen Buddhism’s use of the Koan). I think I may have missed the point when being “intellectually stalked” sounds pretty good to me right now (leads to insanity or death you say…so, not a long trip then?). How do I sign up?

P.S. - send more pixie sticks!


Jpeg2 - http://www.daymented.com/11-04.htm