Local Lawyer Arrested For Failure to Pay Cab Fare: Details at 11

Last night, I needed to go to Target to buy handsoap, granola bars, mascara, face wash, and toilet paper. It was the last night of a glorious five-day hiatus from work, due to some strategic planning of time off around the Veteran's Day holiday. I had checked my bank account that morning, knowing that I had a little over $100 left to last me until payday on Thursday. "I'm a master at making money last," I thought. "I can eat soup, drink water, and use the money for transport only. I bet I'll have $50 left on Thursday when my next check deposits."

Sure of myself, I hopped into Yellow Cab number #182 and rode $5.85 down the road (half a mile) to the Fair Lakes Shopping Center. I handed the driver my debit card (I never carry cash when I'm out alone, because protected Bank of America plastic is safer when stolen.) He handed the card back to me and said gently, "It says it's been declined."

"Impossible!" I thought. "I just checked my balance today. I know the money's in there." I quickly rummaged through my purse to find my emergency credit card, which was meant exactly for a situation such as this-- an emergency.

A cold, clammy feeling came over me as my hand groped from top to bottom of the blue lining inside my bag. Where was my card holder? I hurriedly dumped the contents of my purse onto the seat next to me. Papers, checks, a Starbucks gift card, lip gloss, a hairbrush.... no wallet!

"I can't pay you," I said, barely audible. My wallet seems to have disappeared."

"Well, we're here, so just get out and get what you need," he replied, slightly irritated.

"Sir, I don't think I can," I said. I had pulled up my bank account on my phone within seconds, thanks to my Bank of America app. It appeared that muy student loan payment (which was set for automatic debit on the 14th) did not go through until yesterday. And what's worse... the payment had graduated this month, making it $200 more than it has been for the past year.

So there I was, sitting in a cab, penniless, plastic-less, and plan-less, with the words, "I'm going to jail for $6." flashing like a burning neon sign in my brain.

"Can you just take me home? I have a cup of change there, and I think I can pay you in quarters." I was totally serious about this. On the way home, I told him everything, with intermittent bouts of "I'm sorry you're wasting your time on me" thrown in.

When we arrived in the apartment complex parking lot, he opened the door for me and asked, "Can I give you $20?"

"No, it's okay. I owe you money. And I get paid on Thursday. I'll manage until then."

"You have no money," he said. "I have some."

He insisted, shoving the shriveled bill into my hand. I was so stunned and amazed that I wanted to hug him. "What's your number or how can I get ahold of you to pay this back?"

"Don't wory about it," he said. "Everyone has bad days."

I thanked him twice more and walked through the door, stunned silent. I couldn't believe that a complete and total stranger, nonetheless a cab driver--the type of person with whom I notoriously have bad luck-- had committed this random act of kindness for me.

After ransacking my house to no avail to find the missing wallet, I went to bed determined to do two things this morning: (1) find my wallet and (2) ask my boss for a raise.

Currently, I make less than any of the other similarly situated EEO Specialists in my office (except for one, who will not be eligible for a promotion until January). We all have the exact same position description. I earn a lower salary than any starting federal government attorney, and I have been working for this office for over three years. I do not receive student loan repayment funds, and all of my Bar and CLE expenses are paid for out-of-pocket. How I came to be in my exact predicament is a long, somewhat sordid story for another day.

However, I have been to both my first and second line supervisors multiple times to ask them for the promotion, explaining to them that not only do I qualify for a raise on my education and licensure alone, I do the same work as the Specialists who recieve more pay than me, with the same position description. The responses I've gotten at various points in time have been:

"Not for another few months."

(when asked a few months later) "Your position doesn't go that high."

"You don't need your promotion yet, because you've 'been bad.'" (Yet no perfomance appraisal at all exists as proof of my bad-ness and I only received objectives earlier this year.)

My personal favorite reponse, from the office director, "Have you considered Section 8 housing?" **Not saying I wouldn't but I don't qualify for it based on income, and she knows this. I took this question to be more offensive rhetoric than anything.

Today, I was met with the same sort of opposition. No reason was given as to why I don't qualify for a promotion-- because I do-- but I was handed an internet address for some apartments in DC, said to be cheaper than the one in which I currently live.

They were the same price, and they had no in-unit washer/dryer hook-ups, which is somewhat of a requirement for someone who has no car, no hands to carry laundry, and no extra money for a coin-laundry if I'm paying the same amount in rent.

Personally, I think that I'm just being blown off time and again. I know what my rights are... but I've been struggling with whether to excerise them for some while now.

I just hope something new comes through for me on the job front, so I can put an end to that struggle.

The Marriage Question

Recently, I celebrated a birthday-- the one that comes after 28 and before 30. It was harder for me than I expected it to be... Long story short, I feel old. As I approach the age that starts with a 3 and ends with "Oh, Crap, am I really that old?," I've started to think about how I might need to take a long hard look at reprioritizing what I want out of life.

I've always wanted a family, complete with husband, kids, and pet... and I realize that I'm young and I have a great many years to make this dream a reality, but the problem is finding someone with the qualities I want who also wants me.

I would like to find a man who is a Christian, who wants kids (or a kid) fairly soon, and who is willing to accept me for who I am... this last part is always the hardest bit. Not because I think I'm inadequate in some way, but because most guys without disabilities don't see me as serious dating/possible marriage material. I think sometimes people see the crutches (or the chair, depending on the situation) and are afraid to ask the things they really want to know.

Trust me, I'd rather someone (anyone from my potential husband to my potential hairdresser) ask what they wanted to ask, rather than foregoing the courage to approach me at all. It saves both of us a lot of worry about what the other is really thinking, and if we're that open and honest up front, we're going to have a great friendship at the very least.

Honestly, sometimes I feel as though if a man in the church was on a "wife hunt," so to speak, I would be the last place he'd look. Before anyone gets angry at me for saying this, I'm not trying to discredit myself or any of the wonderful Christian guys out there.... but... when we reach a certain age, people start to wonder when we're going to get married, so we look for someone with common goals who seems to fit nicely into our life.

While I am a self-sufficient, smart, career woman who can get myself to work daily and cook my own meals, I am definitely not the no-frills option when it comes to wife-dom. I require a little maintenance-- and not the self-imposed, materialistic kind. I don't drive. It takes me awhile to make a bed, and on the days when I wake up with arthritis pain, I have to add a few extra minutes to even some of the most mundane daily tasks. But really those things don't even compare to the amount of love and happiness that I could build in a home with someone, so it's unfair to consider only those things.

The church is often one of the first places I would think about looking for a mate. When I first moved to DC, I was struck by the number of people who were amazed that I could actually take care of myself, let alone the fact that I wanted to find a husband. The people who took the time to know me realized that I was no different than any other young woman my age. Our goals were the same; the execution of them just might turn out to be a little different.

Often though, I saw and heard about others in the church being set up on dates or introduced to people who others thought might be a good fit for them. I was never one of those people. What I could never figure out was whether I wasn't being approached in this manner because people were scared of approaching me or because I wasn't making myself approachable.

I'm a girl who's used to making the first move in some ways. Once I have an inkling that a guy might be interested in me, I try my best to open up the lines of communication wide enough so that he feels comfortable assuaging all of his curiosities where my disability is concerned. Sometimes this can be a tiring process, because we have to have so many conversations that start with "Can I ask you a personal question? Please don't be offended." In reality, there is very little that a well-meaning person could say to offend me...and after 29 years of being asked questions, I know the difference between a well-meant question and a question meant to offend.

Some people might say that the easiest way to avoid this problem is to look for someone with a disability... someone who really "gets" me from the get-go. I'd love to.... but so far, the men I've dated who have disabilities have tended to be more superficial than the ones who don't. I've just been dating the wrong ones, you might say, and you're probably right. I'm not looking for much: I just want to be pursued, appreciated, and loved for who I am-- just like everyone else.

But at what point do I just "let go and let God?" It either is going to happen or it isn't, and I know this. I have wanted a family more than anything else on this Earth for as long as I can remember. Just ask my mother. "Playing house" was my favorite activity from the time I was 3 until I was twelve. I think now, though, it is the time to start preparing myself for a life which may include just me and the dog, minus the husband and kids. Not to say that that is a horrible existence in any way at all, it's just not really what I want, if I'm honest with myself.

But if I continue to focus on what I want, I'm going to miss out on truly enjoying all of the wonderful things, people, and opportunities God has given and is going to give me. This Earth is only temporary anyway. It's not my home. I need to find a way where I (as my single self) can be content--content enough to make the best out of my life serving others. Even if it doesn't turn out to be the life that I planned, it's the life that God purposed for me, so I need to work hard to live it to its fullest potential.

"You're too pretty to be in that chair..." My spin on dating with a disability

Some of you know this story. Most of you don't. I had just moved to DC and was cruising around Crystal City (the neighborhood in Arlington where I work) in my black power chair. This particular morning, I was headed to Corner Bakery for coffee. I followed the same path from the Metro to work every day, and the Bakery was my usual coffee spot. Each morning I saw the same people, standing in line, salivating, as they waited for their morning caffiene fix.

I was a relatively new power chair user, because in years past, I had shrugged off using any mode of transportation other than the obvious (my four legs). During my teenage and college years, I thought that using a chair, for me, was going against nature in a sense. Since God had given me the ability to walk, no matter how painful or fatiguing it could be, I was going to use that ability until it failed me completely.

A new chair convert, I was slowly learning that life on wheels was not all bad. For instance, I was able to keep pace more easily when I was out with my friends. I could stroll alongside and be a part of every conversation rather than languish behind it.

Not only that, I was rarely as fatigued in my chair. I didn't sweat as much-- if at all-- because it takes much less effort for me to manipulate a joystick than to move my arms and legs back and forth and to and fro. As a result, my makeup looked cuter (because it stayed on longer) and I could wear less practical shoes (because I walked less than I ever had in my life).

My long blonde hair was cute and in place with a sparkly black headband, and I was wearing a black and white wrap dress with knee-high black boots. I carried my blue plastic Defense Equal Employment Opportunity Management Institute mug to the counter, and had it filled with my favorite European blend. The cashier, who knew me by name at this point, thanked me, and I headed for the door.

As I aimed for the exit, a man in line stopped me and said, "Excuse me, but... you are just too beautiful to be in that chair." This, I suppose, was his idea of a pick-up line. ... for me, it was anything but. Where else should I be? Barefoot and pregnant in his kitchen? And if I was too pretty for this chair, was he implying that all chair users were as a general rule un-pretty? I ignored his so-called "compliment" and strolled on to work. I had places to be.

But the more I thought about this encounter, the more it infuriated me. Generally, society and the mainstream media portray those who use wheelchairs as deficient in some way or as geriatric. Even someone who attemps to keep a positive attitude about her disability is hard-pressed not to be influenced by occasional negativity.

Young women in their teens, twenties, and oftentimes older, tend to have problems with body image... and I am no different than most. We tend to put a lot of stock in what others think of us when it comes to a lot of things, including their thoughts about our physical appearance.

So... everytime a boy or man has commented on my beauty, or lack thereof, I have taken it to heart.

Don't get me wrong, I want someone to love me for my brain and my heart, first and foremost... but it doesn't hurt to feel pretty-- sexy even-- somedays. I want to know that men, who primarily form first impressions with their eyes, are capable of seeing me as attractive.

Often, others see people with physical or other developmental disabilities as asexual beings, and any mention of us having sex or having children is taboo, even in our own families. I've never felt comfortable talking about such things with my mother. It's not something we do. I don't know if that will ever change, even after I am married (assuming, of course, some man is lucky enough to snag me.) The point is, her experiences with men and dating will always be different than mine. She's been with the same guy since she was 14, with only intermittent "break ups" here and there.

I am 28 and I'm still searching for something even remotely close to what she has.

When I look back at my past relationships, I know I've been loved and that I have loved. That's not to say there haven't been some real doozies.

Perhaps my most serious boyfriend was the worst. He was the first person I dated who also had a disability. The majority of strife in our relationship came from my insecurity about his feelings toward me. He would remind me that people "expected us to be together" because we both had CP and would sometimes tell me he was frustrated that he could not date someone normal.

With comments like that, I was sharing the same thoughts: What was his malfunction?

The real low point in our relationship came after he declared his intention to marry me. I was on Cloud 9 and thought I had finally found someone who loved me with the same fervent and unconditional love I showed him.

Until one moment snapped me back to reality.

He held my face, his hands gently cupped around my cheeks, looked me straight in the eye and said, "I think I'm finally ok with the fact that you have CP now."

"Excuse me?" I said, my voice cracking, unsure of what I'd heard.

He repeated himself again, louder, and as if he was proud of his ability to overlook my obvious flaw.

I grew silent. I couldn't understand how someone who expected others to see him for who he was looked at me through the same clouded lens that he asked others to avoid every day. I began to wonder what his thoughts of me had been before this sudden revelation or how he could be attracted to me, even in that moment, if it had taken him so long to come to grips with a characteristic we both shared.


What I realized then was that I was expecting more from him than I would from any other man-- a standard that was perhaps unfair. I had thought his having a disability would make him more understanding and compassionate toward me, and that he'd be able to look past my crazy spastic facial expressions and altered gait, just as I'd done for him. I was doing more than overlooking those characteristics though. I was loving him for them.

I found the post-tracheotomy gravel in his voice very sexy, and the shakiness of his his hands and sound of his hard gait familiarly comforting.

Unfortunately though, prejudice knows no bounds. And in asking him to overlook what he perceived as my flaws, I wasn't asking enough. I wanted him to do more. I wanted him to love them.

I'm waiting for the guy who thinks my crooked smile is adorable, that my toe walking is a familiar comfort to him, and that my curled toes are just something unique about me... even if they are a little weird. Point is, they're part of me, so they'll be something that he loves....

Anniversary....

Today is the anniversary of the day.

The day I sat in front of my laptop, weeping.

The day I felt you slip from my fingers.

The day I rubbed my eyes until they itched relentlessly, warm and raw.

The day I realized I'd never truly call you my "husband," no matter how much I believed my heart and soul to be yours.

The day you said to me, "I realize I haven't made you a priority these past few weeks, and I should have... but it's never going to be better than how it is now for you. There will always be someone else."

The day I realized everyone else had been right all these years.

The day I knew that my conscious decision to disbelieve their warnings had cost me my heart.


Today is the anniversary of the day.

The day I began to reclaim what it was like to be "Jess" sans anyone else's opionion, tagline, or possession.

The day I began to learn to smile again, to smile so hard that my dimples ached and my cheeks turned red.

The day I began to accept compliments from other men, and to realize I was worth their words and more.

The day I remembered what it was like to truly put my faith in God, that he would provide for me-- not you.

The day I got my groove back, my life back, and my heart back, though a little bruised and torn.

To you, I have only one thing to say in remembrance of this day:

Thank you.

And we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming...

...to bring you this update from the lowest, deepest depths of the rumor mill at my job.

Ok, ok, ok... so I know that I had promised a blog about disability pride as the next issue on my agenda, BUT I have a real treat for you today. One that you will not believe, because my own ears are still ringing in shock from the news.

PREFACE

I don't believe I've ever mentioned here that I work in an office where the staff is 90% female... and as stereotypical as I'm about to sound... just take my word for it when I say that the majority of females like to gossip. The ladies with whom I share my work are no exception to this general rule.

Knowing the affinity for gossip held by these ladies who lunch -- upon whom I bestow this title because the majority of their gossiping takes place between the hours of 12 pm and 2 pm at the long rectangular lunch table just outside my cubicle-- I have chosen to confide in only one person in the office. The person with whom I share my deepest thoughts and secrets, despite being female, does not lunch with the aforementioned ladies.

___________________________________________________________________

So imagine my surprise today when my good friend comes to me and tells me she has heard a rumor comprised of the following information:

1. I am pregnant.

2. Baby Daddy is a guy who I met online and have mentioned in my blog before (see first entry). I'd only ever mentioned this person one time at work (in passing) and I have in all actuality never been in the same phsyical location with him in order to say hello, let alone conceive a child.*+

3. My parents would be upset, because this child would be of a mixed heritage.**

Once my friend had approached me with this rumor-- which she prefaced with an "I'm sure this isn't true, but..."-- we had a good laugh at the expense of the ladies who lunch, and remarked on the crazy soap opera that my life had apparently become in their hands.

I wondered what could possibly have prompted this person to spread such a rumor (I wasn't told who she is, but I am fairly certain I know). It reminds me of high school in a way. Back then, I was much more generous with the information I'd divulge about myself, because I was still under the impression that most people were genuine and good at heart, and would never tell untruths about me for no reason whatsoever.

I'm not saying that I was a perfect little girl; I wasn't. I was a normal teenager, and while I was a truthful person, an exaggeration or embellishment of events here or there had been known to cross my lips. This was mostly because I was looking for the same thing every other teenager in Podunkville, KY--and in Every City, Everystate-- was looking for. Acceptance.

In a town where there was little to do and even fewer places to go, the topics of conversation were usually sex and livestock, though they were not often discussed simultaneously. People from my past will tell you that I graduated high school with a litany of half-truths surrounding my relationship with the person I'd classify as my high school sweetheart. Some of them I knew about; some of them I didn't. It wasn't until I graduated high school that I learned from my mother a series of bizarre (untrue) rumors surrounding certain activities in a janitor's closet had actually gotten back to her.

In my adult years, I have learned to be a bit more choosy about the people to whom I open myself and truly let inside. My lack of a poker face and the frequency of my Facebook updates may make it seem as though I'm an open book, but the majority of my emotion bubbles below the surface, and can only be tapped by a select few of my closest confidants. I can count these people on one hand.

With that said, I laugh heartily in the face of this most recent crazy story, told by a person who doesn't know me-- a tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.




_______________________________________________________________________

*And if I had been in the same physical location as this person and had the opportunity to conceive a child, it would not have happened, as I believe in (a) monogamy, (b) marriage before children, IF children are to be had, and (c) knowing the middle name of anyone who could potentially father my offspring.

** This would never be the case. The person who started this rumor does not know me and certainly does not know my parents. This, other than one rather crude comment made about me to my friend, which I am choosing not to include here, was the most disturbing part of the rumor to me.

+ To Baby Daddy--
A. If you're reading this, it seems you owe me some child support. Pay up.

B. Which of us is to be the first to contact CNN/FoxNews/MSNBC about the second immaculate conception? There is money to be made and perhaps a Lifetime Movie Network deal to be signed, possibly eliminating the need for the aforementioned child support payments.

C. What's your middle name?

D. Hope your girlfriend doesn't mind.

________________________________________________________________

"May I speak with Ms. Hunt, please?"

My office is not often a very Jessica-friendly place to work, and someday, I plan to blog about everything, if for no other reason than for posterity. Today is not that day though. Instead, I write to describe a small scene from yesterday, which played out in a somewhat funny, somewhat disturbing manner.

NB: My usual description filled full of frivolous detail will be spared for this entry as I don't want to provide any qualitative information that might identify any of the parties involved.

I was in charge of a mediation yesterday between two parties, one civilian, one military. I have been communicating with both of them by phone and e-mail for the past month and a half to coordinate and schedule the mediation. I have introduced myself as Jessica Hunt each time and signed my e-mails with the same name.

The parties enter our office yesterday; I introduce myself as Jessica and point them to the room where the mediator is already preparing for the day's festivities. I have a somewhat lengthy conversation with the military individual.

Fast forward to around 1 at the conclusion of the mediation: I have drafted settlement terms for the parties to look over and sign and a co-worker takes them back to the parties because I am called away to do something else.

The co-worker comes back and says, "(Insert name of military individual) would like to see you."

I walk back toward the parties; the individual in question sees me and asks, "If possible, could I speak with Ms. Hunt?"

"I am Ms. Hunt," I say, watching an awkward, confused, embarassed wrinkle creep its way onto his brow.

He says, "I didn't realize...."

After showing the parties out, I walk back to my desk, somewhat taken aback. I explain to my co-worker what had just happened.

He exclaims, "What?? That makes no sense." I gave him a quizzical look. He continued, "He asked me to see Ms. Hunt, and that's why I sent you back."

Then I begin to wonder. If this individual didn't think I was Ms. Hunt, the case manager for this mediation, despite being given every indication that I was, who did he think I was? And why didn't he think I was Ms. Hunt?

At first, I assumed that maybe it was because I look young for my age. I was dressed very professionally, wearing a nice shirt, slacks makeup and earrings. Maybe he thought I was an intern??

Then I thought that maybe the crutches were throwing him off. I don't usually like to have that sort of chip-on-my-shoulder, me-against-the-world internal dialogue. But after three years of being in this environment, the majority of people with disabilities in my building do not have jobs that would allow them to interact with the Army population on a day-to-day basis. Maybe he didn't expect to see me in that role?

This thought process brought me back to a conversation that I had while at a Youth Leadership Development Conference in Atlanta last week. The most difficult thing to change about the way society treats people with disabilities are the attitudes society has toward disability and the inability many people have to see the person first.

If you have a developmental disability (one acquired before you reach the age of majority) then it becomes difficult for you not to internalize what you hear other say about you or how you see them reacting toward you because you grow up hearing negative things from various people about your disability from a very young age(who those people are really depends on your individual life experiences) . Even if you were born with the thickest skin in the world (figuratively speaking) it would be very difficult for you to go through life without ever internalizing one negative thought or action executed by another person, because of or in regard to your disability.

That's why it's important to teach young people with disabilities a sense of pride (confidence) and a strong sense of self-- a self that includes and embraces their differences. Young people should learn to be proud of their disability, in that they can grow up to become people who see their disabilities for what they are and accept them, but who are also cognisant of all of the positive opportunities, characcter traits, and unique abilities their disabilities have allowed them to contribute to society.

Which is a great segue into next time's topic: "What's with me and all this disability pride stuff?"

Playlist for Running

Because I'm "running" 3 races so far this summer, this blog entry is fortunately (or unfortunately) dedicated to my running playlist (read: certainly more for my benefit than anyone else). I wanted to have a central place to refer to the playlist I have been steadily creating for race day use. If anyone has any additions or or thoughts on how to improve my selection, please let me know.

Kanye West,Stronger

Aerosmith, Love in an Elevator

Lil Wayne Got Money

Lady Gaga-- Paparazzi
Bad Romance

Rihanna-- Disturbia
Breaking Dishes

Pink-- Why Did I Ever Like You

Christina-- Get Mine, Get Yours
Aguilera Dirty

Outkast-- Hey Ya

Def Leopard- Pour Some Sugar on Me

Britney-- Piece of Me

Yeah Yeahs-- Heads Will Roll

We The-- Check Yes Juliet
Kings

Spill Canvas-- All Over You
Reckless Abandonment
Appreciation and the Bomb

Plain White-- Hate (I Really Don't Like You)
Ts Our Time Now

Kings of Leon-- Sex on Fire

Ting Tangs-- That's Not My Name

Sugarcult-- Stuck in America
I Wanna Be Sedated

Beyonce-- Single Ladies

Young-- Bedrock
Money


Evanescence-- Bring Me To Life
Going Under

Reliant K-- Who I Am Hates Who I've Been

Owl City-- Hot Air Balloon

VV Brown-- Shark in the Water

Lifehouse-- Halfway Gone

To Be Continued....

The Waiting Game

It seems I'm waiting for a lot of things in life these days. I'm waiting for the DC Bar to finish my character and fitness check, even though it's been over a year since I submitted the last "correction" to my application. I'm waiting for an acceptance/rejection letter from Georgetown. I'm waiting to find a better job opportunity than the one I have (I've been waiting on that one for quite a while.) This past week, I waited all week to hear back from someone who I thought would call me.... and he didn't.

I've discovered that all this waiting does nothing but allow me to focus on what I don't have... and that is not healthy. It is hard to legitimately tell myself that I will stop letting the "waiting game" play me as much as is has lately. I'm somewhat of a chronic worrier, and I think that telling myself I will worry less would be making a promise I couldn't keep. So instead, I'm more cognisant of when I let my waiting worries get me down in the dumps... and am repeating an old practice that I started back in high school.

Every time I start to worry, I repeat Matthew 6:33 over and over in my head. "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you." It would be unfortunate if I actually posted the number of times I've had to repeat this verse to myself in just one day... but participating in this exercise always drives home to me the truth. That I wait... and I worry too much about waiting.

Justin and I fought about this often, because when I would want to talk about my worries, he would always get frustrated and ask me what kind of Christian was I who couldn't just put my faith in God at all times that He would give me what I need. Even though at the time I saw it as him just attacking the imperfections in my Christian life, he had a point. I don't doubt God outright by thinking that He won't give me what I need, but I dislike feeling that I'm so "out of control" in some areas of my life. I should be more willing to just trust that He is in control and let be what must.

I can't control when I am sworn into the DC Bar.

I can't control whether I find a good job.

I can't control whether I get into one of the best schools in the country.

I can't control whether a man who I really like feels the same about me.

I'm always going to be worried about what I can't control in my life.... because I am human and that is one of my flaws. So, my new goal, other than endlessly repeating Matthew 6:33 under my breath, is to focus on what I can control.

I can control how I treat others.

I can control how Godly I act.

I can control what I can do to improve situations for myself and others.

And I can control what I do and say each day to improve my relationship with God.

After all, I know that I must seek Him first to achieve anything.

Shameless Plug: Race for the Cure

Global Race: June 5th 2010. National Mall.

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In my head...

I've had a lot to think about lately. Natural disasters. Earthquakes. Coal mines. Health care. Despite my crazy, erratic Facebook posts, which usually depend more on my mood than what's actually going on in my head at the moment, I do keep up with current events. In fact, yesterday was the first day I had been home late enough in the morning to watch part of a morning news program.

Usually, I leave home for work so early each day that the only things playing on the television are Nick at Nite, Dora the Explorer, and those really creepy "The-Shining"-like infomercials about teaching your 3-month-old to read. Yesterday, I learned about a father who rescued his drowning baby James-Bond-style after she fell from a sightseeing ship, a guy who shot a high schooler after the kid's ball accidentally grazed his car during a game of touch football, and a California seismologist who assures me that we have 13 more earthquakes to look forward to this year, as our yearly total is normally around 17. With the exception of the baby-saving story, it was all pretty depressing.

I wish there could be some sort of program that gave us all the depressing news and then told us what we as individual viewers could do to help rectify or address the situations. I know that prayer always works wonders and that if I'm ever unsure of what to do to help someone in need, I can pray. At the same time though, part of me wanted to send a card to the fallen high schooler's family; another part of me wanted to do more to make sure those I know are well-prepared in the event of a natural disaster (earthquake, tornado, whatever.)

I realize that sending a card wouldn't really do much to ease the pain for the kid's grief-stricken family and that there is really only so much preparing for a natural disaster one can do, but sometimes, I think doing a little bit of something is better than doing a whole lot of nothing.

Jess Does DC.... and Other Not-So-Sordid Tales

When my life changed last year and I lost one of the best friends I'd ever had (which is sad considering how he treated me sometimes) I had promised that I would re-devote my old blog at vivelajeunesse.vox.com to chronicling my own life instead of occasional broken-hearted rants.

Since then, everytime I've opened up that page, a wave of sadness has come over me. I have opened up the box to compose a new entry and have stopped short each time. I begin reading my old words, over and over, reliving the pain that I went through when my relationship with Justin ended. I'm "over" that phase of my life now (as much as anyone can be over a promise of forever long forgotten by the promissor). I decided that this rehashing of old feelings was unhealthy for me in a lot of ways and that my new life needed a new space.... so.... here we are. Lepantouflejaun (the yellow slipper) will be coming to you from various locations around the DC Metropolitan area, reporting on life as a single crippy chick in our nation's capital.

I'll admit to you now that I started this blog for the same reason I have started all of my other blogs. I love to write. I'm not the best writer, but "they" say everyone has a novel in her, and assuming that the ubiquitous "they" are right, you'll be privvy to my long-awaited novel, right here, right now, and in real time.

On January 1, 2010, I was in my apartment here in Fairfax, VA, watching Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve with my mom, my brother, my father and my aunt. We made the trip from Kentucky to DC on New Year's Eve Eve, an excursion that is becoming a family tradition since my parents want to help me carry my gifts back home instead of letting me lug them onto a plane and pay the $25 baggage fee.

I toasted the New Year with sparkling grape juice in one hand and a McDonald's vanilla milkshake in the other. I thanked God for allowing me to live another year in one piece and relatively unscathed. And it was between the second or third mid-milk brain freeze that I made a decision. 2010 was going to be all about me.

Now that may sound a little selfish, and it probably is, but I had spent from late 2007-2009 being completely consumed and concerned with someone else's problems without receiving reciprocal attention; I thought it was important for me to learn how to be comfortable being me again. I hadn't really struck out to start doing things in the city because I was literally on the phone with Justin almost every waking minute. When I wasn't on the phone with him, I was concerning myself with how to find a job for him, how to help him move out here, and how to help him pay his bills. This year, I get to be concerned about myself, to make friends and reconnect with old ones, to explore the city, volunteer more, go to the theater, walk the streets, to decide what I like to do for me.

So far, I've made some awesome friends, most of them other people with disabilities. This has been an amazing experience for me because my friends with disabilities tend to get me in a way that my able-bodied friends cannot (even though they are all still awesome). It's hard to think of a way to describe my feelings accurately. When I am out with my friends who have disabilities, I never feel inadequate. We all have our quirks about us, able-bodied or not, but when a group of people with disabilities pull together, we compliment each other so well. We are are never impatient with what others might consider shortcomings, because we realize that they are what they are-- a part of us. Being around my friends with disabilities helps me to see my own disability as a gift rather than a gripe. It has granted me the qualities of patience, adaptability, and forethought.

I have discovered too that I love to empower others around me who may not have as much pride in their disability. I tend to be the motivator in my small group. I didn't discover how much I truly loved being an advocate for others with disabilities until this year. It has inspired me to go back to school for my Masters in Disability Studies. Georgetown has a program and I've applied. I should hear back sometime within the week. I'm hoping and praying I get in because I think it is an opportunity that when coupled with my law degree will open up a lot more opportunities for me to help others with disabilities.

I also had one more goal for this year. I wanted to focus on finding someone who loves me-- really loves me. Despite my faults. For my faults. Because of my faults. I wasn't even sure if that was possible, but I was going to try. I am hard-wired to want a family. I want to find the person who thinks that taking care of others is as important as I do, who will take care of me and let me take care of him. I want to find someone who I can trust to keep me safe and protect me. I want to find someone who loves God and wants to be with me in heaven. I want to find someone who could be my entire family until I'm 83. I'm at a point in my life where I think I want kids and I think I'd be a good mother... but honestly, the most important thing to me is finding someone who wants to be my companion for the rest of our lives. Beyond that, we can figure the rest out later.

I registered for several dating sites-- even one for people with disabilities. Since then, I've gone out on a few first dates; it's been an interesting and odd experience for me going out with people I don't know from Adam... but good for my self-esteem. And fun. Meeting new people is always fun.

Strangely though, the person I really like has not yet met me in person... because he lives in another state. I won't divulge much at all, because these are the interwebs, but the basics are these. He's older than me by 11 almost 12 years, which may sound like a lot, but after my last few relationships, I knew that to find anything meaningful, I knew I wanted to date someone older. He has a disability too, CP, like me, which means we have the instant crippy connection. We can talk for hours and it feels like 20 minutes. He makes me laugh. He listens to me when I have bad days and calms me down without making me feel like a girly idiot. And even from so many miles away, he can make me feel pretty. He says nice things to me for no reason-- something I'm not used to. We have some of the same pastimes, both love food, CHEESE, and fun weekends. He challenges me in good ways. He loves God, but admits he's flawed... which is not an easy thing for most people to do. He's just awesome in my book. Talking to him most every day is a part of the day I really look forward to.

Granted, we've not met in person yet, so we haven't been on a date and things may change when he sees me outside a photograph... but we have chemistry that I can feel in our conversations. And the distance doesn't bother me... I'm used to it. We're not at a point where I need to worry about it at the moment, but I've told him before that if I meet the right person, I will do what I have to to be with that person. Turns out it's not where you are but who you're with that really matters. I'm thankful to him for showing me that there are guys who will treat me how I deserve to be treated. I think, regardless of whatever else happens, I have found a lifelong friend.

Well,I have lots more to say about recent goings on, but it has taken me the better part of three hours to type this entry because my phone keeps ringing. I need to head to bed now anyway, because I have to be at work at 5:45 tomorrow morning. Later, interwebs.