Who is old enough to remember a great joke from the 90’s about Lawyers
Joke goes like this “What do you call 100 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?”
Answer: A bloody good start.
I offer you the modern version. “What do you call 100 real estate agents at the bottom of the ocean?”
Think you have this from here?
What kind of scumbag sells a forever home to someone who has disabilities advising them falsely on how easy they can access things like I don’t know, a car space, power to a mobility scooter and not tell them of impending costs and increase in fees?
Did I mention we are up for a new lift in 2026? Annoyingly, the lift has been a major annoyance this year, often being out of action for days, sometimes only hours. One particular Friday, I left to go shopping and my phone blew up as the building group chat had so many messages about the lift being out. I had to right leg it up the stairs upon returning from shopping with a carer on her first day with me.
A few strangers, neighbours in the building had come out to help carry my shopping upstairs and for that I was very grateful, but alas, being in a building with only one lift was something that was an afterthought, in the end once I found the right location, number of bedrooms and within a budget, I could cope with.
Thanks dad! Love you, Dad. Don’t hate me because my father loved me.
So, while dealing with this whole grief thing I’m reminded of times I’ve seen women in the supermarket, they stop and seem to pause for a moment and a hand goes up to their heart and for a brief moment it looks like they just received some devastating news. I have been moved to ask if they are alright? And they pause and then they seem OK again and they reply as much and the day goes on.
Last Saturday I was attempting to get a loaf of rye bread carefully transported via a friend across town, delivered on the Friday, into my fridge freezer. My carer had suggested she could do this. But my first world problem in recent years has been a problem getting things into my fridge freezer.
Full disclosure, I also have a bar fridge size freezer and that’s full too. My carer has recently suggested I could live out of my freezers for six weeks without going shopping, but I’d eat a lot of chilli con carne, ice cream and stews, what a way to go.
So, there I am, fridge-freezer door open. My carer waits behind the door in the kitchen as I shuffled, to get the portioned bread into every nook and cranny, I talked as I worked telling her amusing little tidbits from my day, life, anecdotes of my life with my dad. Don’t recall now, even what I was telling her about, but every few sentences I paused, couldn’t speak. Wanted to burst into tears, but needed more importantly to finish my witty stories. I kept it together. My carer had told me I didn’t need to keep telling her whatever it had been I was telling her, but I finished both my stories and the task of getting all the bread in the freezer for safe keeping. Before I successfully closed the freezer door, I announced to my carer a little sadly. “I’m not leaving the door open because I don’t want you to see me cry” as I closed the door.
I just want to point out this is a hard job being ONE-HANDED! Just try it sometime. I offered my carer to open the door again and bathe in the brilliance that I had managed to achieve and she stated if she opened it again everything would fall out. I told her it would then be her job to get it all back in before she left.
So, I opened the door to show off my brilliant Jenga technique, from behind me the woman FUCKING SNEEZED.
And twos things fell out and we laughed.
You still get to laugh sometimes…..it’s just sweeter.
So, let me tell the older generation what you’re doing wrong in life. No, hanging in there with how I spent four or five days with my father over Christmas at the end of 2020. (I’ll get to the younger generation soon enough, never fear!)
It was the abomination year that wasn’t! Damn you Covid!
I went to the supermarket with him and he, so help me God, told me every recipe for all the things he buys and makes. Which, Lord love him, every recipe was a variation of minestrone.
I made him my version of a minestrone which has added ingredients over the years including Lamb shanks because my last boyfriend needed more meat in his “soups” how dare he.
These days, I make my minestrone in my larger slow cooker on the bench so it doesn’t stick to the bottom, and the yield is usually 7-9 bottles.
In between lockdowns in 2021, I even managed to Mule more minestrone to my dad via a friend, because logistics and “Muleing” things have become my superpower.
Being one handed, the most important thing I can recommend in order to survive is, learn to adapt.
It’s the day’s I go to the city and I do some hunter/gathering, that I push myself a little more and while it exhausts me, I notice how my physical body adapts.
My standard trips to the city meant a lot more steps and carrying. If I can’t carry it, I can’t buy it. So, I’ve gotten creative.
Yesterday, I bought two novels and a box of envelopes. Not heavy, just cumbersome and sharp corners. These day’s I travel with one of those fold up grandma bags. (Not a slur) but you can carry it around until you need it. It weighs nothing, takes up no space, but once it’s got two novels and inside it, I usually ask someone to help me put the handles on my left arm above where my cuff and collar sits, just on my elbow. The bag swings along my side and doesn’t hit my left thigh.
My next stop I collected comics, they are flat and not very heavy, so they go in my bag that sits on my right glutinous maximus. Slap, slap, slap.
Then I stopped at a chemist and picked up a few things. Definitely the weightiest purchases of the day. I might even have behind packaging to save or bulk. At this point I’ve reached my maximum density.
I’m starting to feel weighed down and I’m walking a little sideways and bumping into people. Or it could just be people on their devices not paying the least bit of attention to where they are.
After a quick pee break where the bag on my left arm stays there to save needing to put it back on. I walk not far to the tram or Bourke Street Mall and I get on the tram.
Waddling like a pregnant lady now, I try to get two seats near a door facing forward. I might start with one seat and the bag sits on my lap, the straps digging into my shoulders. My right leg in the isle making people brush against me. The bag on my left arm is beside me digging into whoever didn’t think to offer me both seats.
• I’ll just point out here I’m not bigger than Texas. I’m just a wide load by this stage.
Thirty-Five minutes later, I’m at my tram stop (Maybe I was able to spread out for the last 15-20 minutes) I stand up on the tram, readjust my bags, the strap on my left shoulder. I carry my walking stick with the wrist strap between my teeth, so it doesn’t bang all over every piece of metal known to man.
Have I mentioned, I can’t do stalker or stealth? I manoeuvre my way to a door, favouring my right side as that’s my better peripheral vision. All the better not to step on or bump into people and while holding on to one handle or another I manage to get to the right-hand door handle. Walking stick still in mouth.
Tram stops, door opens and I swing my left leg out and bending my right knee, step down. I don’t let go until both feet are on the ground. Hoping just hoping people have followed the road rules and cars have actually stopped at the back of the tram. Yeah! That does not always happen.
I then use my walking stick to walk to the curb. Right foot up, lift and swing left leg attempting left toes to clear the curb.
Fast forward to me getting inside my apartment. There have been days I’ve taken off the bags and weighed them and I’m surprised I’ve carried the extra five kilos home from the city.
But the biggest surprise to me is after I’ve unpacked everything and take my extra layers off (jacket, scarf, etc) I’m moving around my home feeling like I’m on a permanent tilt.
So, by gradually adding weight, my body compensates to do what I insist on it and when all of that is gone, my body still acts like it’s needing to adapt to carry the extra weight and that is today’s lesson.
You don’t know what you can do until you try. Do a little more on top of that and a migraine.
I confess to say I’m not a fan on the animal print on people. I know, I know, it’s been around for eons.
Thank God, wearing fur is largely over and done with. But, every now and again some fashion victim tries to bring back Leopard print on pants or bags or fucking something.
I know I’m sounding rather grumpy about it but, every now and again I see an eighty-year-old Italian lady wearing them.
Now, I know an eighty-year-old wearing them. Wow, Wow, NO! Her children are doing her a disservice, take your mum shopping for age appropriate clothes. Her arse is no longer a peach. Might never have been.
I realise I sound very grumpy. Sorry Not Sorry. I’m just saying, let animals do animal print. They do it best. Leave it be.
I’ve had many carers that take me shopping over the years, on a Friday. That is my day for having a carer put me in their car and we go on an adventure. This is when I feel mostly like a normal person. Like I’m hanging out with a friend, laughing, joking, teasing, sharing stories. Having fun right.
At the moment, I’ve a young lady (Wow, that just happened, I just became an old lady) who is only 23 years old and we have the best time.
I make the habit of writing shopping list through out the week, so I can restock, but once out, I’m happy to keep an eye out for my favourite things when on special and anything new that might catch my eye.
My carer these days has a rule; I can only get one thing that is not on my list. “Yes Helen, but that’s your one thing”. So of course, the simple answer is you put EVERYTHING ON THE LIST. Correct.
Cherry Ripe
Snickers
Chips (you Americans call them Crisps) etc, etc, etc.
But I then of course make up the rules as we go. “I have to get Jaffa Cakes.” They’re on special. At times I will see something and just sneak it in the trolley, when I’m not looking, she will put it back.
Later, I will tell her the last bit of leftover Christmas pudding would have gone so much better with a little thick Bailey’s cream. As I dart my eyes towards her, she will go to take a defensive tone with me and I’ll tell her it doesn’t matter.
One week, we were in the lolly isle, I reached for a Cherry Ripe bar ($1) bonus reward points. C’mon, and a debate ensured.
“No! You already have your one thing?
“But these are on special”
“No!”
So, I just put them in the trolley. She stated that only if she could have one.
“Fine!” she thought that could stop me.
She probably needs a hit of sugar to complete her shift with me and then I told her I was allowed to get two Snickers bars. We had a quiet drive to our next destination as we both ate our Cherry Ripe and Snickers.
I still win.
Often by the time we work our way around, the regular familiar staff we encounter, wonder what we are giggling about, so we explain the “One thing that isn’t on the list” rule. They share their solutions for me to have a work around. But then this scenario is my young charges worst nightmare. We are standing in the queue for our checkout. On my left (my blind side) is this wall of TIM TAMS and she noticed it before I did or at least I didn’t connect. I suggested to move the trolley closer and I could just scoop them all in the trolley.
We agreed it was her biggest nightmare! No one is due a TIM TAM care package. Not eve to Texas (even she can’t be trusted – she has to wait) and I already have two unopened packets in the fridge.
I have carers, as you know who take me shopping and even my morning carer that helps me get ready after my shower, to face the day, they all become my friends. It’s inevitable, the ones I can’t crack are usually very reserved, on account of them not planning to put down roots and those don’t plan to stay in the job long term, choosing to move onto other things.
When out and about on my shopping adventures, it’s much more like I’m hanging out chatting with a girlfriend.
I might have mentioned, my carers are usually older, sometimes younger, rarely my actual age.
I’m now 46 years old and I get along with all my carers regardless of their age.
Off to the supermarket on Friday, I don’t remember what we were discussing when I said “Yeah, well, I finished High School in 1990.”
Have had a crazy week so far so really glad to have only lunch and my stabby appointments now on Wednesday.
Have no idea how I’ve made it home the last two days! No idea, have walked and walked and carried (learnt nothing from my Milk post obviously!) so much! Got home Tuesday and weighed my bag before unpacking it. 5 kilos’! Unpacked it and it was still 2!
Friday is looking to be a crazy day, with an extra appointment with my guy who made my AFO, my GP and the chiropractor and that’s on top of the normal grocery shopping and my only food prep appointment for the week.
I’m exhausted and it’s only Tuesday night when I do my prep-work on this post. Is this week over yet? I am always surprised that people have no idea how knackered I am once home. People must see me and assume I’m energetic all the time because that’s probably how they see me when I’m out. They have no idea I got home Monday on a whiff of determination that I had to get home.
I even went upstairs to unpack my bag from my adventures in the city, then went back down to go to the local supermarket just to get milk and kitchen-tidy bags as I wouldn’t make it to Friday. I avoided what I call “Danger Alley!” So, or to buy unnecessary items and you pick which supermarket I live way too close to? It’s the one with all the weird stuff you wouldn’t find in the one place in any other country other than Germany? (Hint! Hint!) still ended up getting about 5 things!
Oh, here’s a nice Lebanese pizza I had last week. Close to home. Can’t tell you how confused the girl was when I ordered Vegetarian but asked they put salami on it! What? (Handy Hint!)
And today’s offering? Because it looked too big to eat I ordered half a Mediterranean focaccia. So, yummy bitter green olives, eggplant, feta and zucchini. With my standard medicine.
Then because I decided I could eat more, this naughty little chocolate tart!
I stayed close to home before my stabby appointment as I didn’t have the luxury of seeing Young John. But will make up for it by walking home.
Also, a picture of Mika my new fur-baby. Just proof she has settled in even sleeping snuggled against my legs overnight telling me she trusts me. Yeah, that’s the sign. For those who don’t speak Cat!
Have you ever wondered about the cost of milk? Often there are lots of hidden issues with having a disability that the average person wouldn’t consider. Now, it’s going to annoy me to explain the intricacies on this very simple topic, but I’m by all means not crying over spilt milk.
I shop with a carer every Friday, they collect me from home and drive us to my local shopping complex. It’s not a huge Westfield, so thankfully has the basics of what I need. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Supermarket, you know.
Whatever, foodwise I’m going to need I must get or I run out, paying more for it at a smaller independent supermarket, carrying it around for a period of time or risking it spoiling because it’s out of a fridge for too long, like milk.
About once monthly I buy an extra litre of milk, so I don’t run the risk of having to resort to using sweetened Condensed milk in my coffee. Year, nice but that’s diabetics right there.
The following Friday arrives and I check the fridge for my supply of milk. Sometimes I’ve still got an unopened bottle. The Use by date is the following day, now being unopened, it’s possibly going to last beyond the Use by date, but can I be sure.
Lately, I’ve been joking if I eat something I’ve had in the fridge a little too long and I ask if the worst that happens is I spend the night on the toilet and loose five kilos, that’s a lazy diet right.
So, I throw out the milk, which is wasteful and go shopping and get more. Maybe the guilt plays on my mind so I under stock milk and the next week, I ration a bit.
By Wednesday during my busy punchy/stabby/foodie , mental health post day, I need to debate picking up milk in my travels. I am near two independent supermarkets, one of which I walk past later in the day.
If I get one at either of the independent supermarkets, they cost more than a coffee. Outrageous. Aside from the risk of how long the milk should be out of the fridge.
Fun Fact: – Did you know, every degree milk loses (after coming out of the fridge) it loses a day of its shelf life.
The other issue is of course, how I need to carry the milk. I wear a bag that has a strap, which sits on my left shoulder and the bags sits on my right glute. My Gluteus Maximus.
Despite disc bulge surgery, my lower back is always at risk when carrying anything home, no matter the length of time I carry it.
My lower back twinges and when I get pain down the back of my good leg, it’s a sure sign any heavy lifting or excess carrying of heavy things is temporarily banned.
So, while to the outside world I’m portrayed or seen as this confident, flexible and mobile semi-broken woman (my term), underneath the cost of a simple litre of milk is either my pocket or my back.
Both require medication and time out to not spend money. So, that was actually not as painful as I thought. Maybe I didn’t do it justice.
Went shopping today with one of my regular carers of the last four years and our adventures are always a highlight of my week. Despite when you read this, it’s mid-January now and Summer.
My carer and I walked out of the shopping complex and because it’s important I did an instant commentary of the weather. First an assessing frown and “OH?” It’s a little humid, but a cool breeze and a little light rain. To which ’T’ (let’s go with that) responded with something about her hot flushes and an advisement, that you should be able to flip a switch and opt out of Menopause.
And the banter had just begun.
“Well, I think your well past that option.”
T, still in fantasy land, so I tried again.
“OK, what if you sacrificed one of your children?”
She has three sons and one of course is the problem child. All adults now, but she loves them all the same.
She made a little sound like her decision would be easy and I told her she could not choose. I suggested, if she didn’t paint some of her husband’s blood above the front door, she would lose her first born. She did not like that suggestion and it wasn’t the part about blood-letting her husband.
She enquired where this has happened and when? Accompanied with the query “Does that really happen?”
“What?”
I looked at her and told her where I had taken some of my inspiration and imagination from and declared nine years of Catholic School, such influence. I emphasised the “nine years” and pointed my thumb to my chest and I thought Catholic School has been a waste of my time.
Hell onWheels/Life One Handed 