Thursday, September 8, 2011
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
How I learned to respect my elders. (not really)
Most people are reasonably nice about my service dog. Some touch without asking, but since they nearly always have the decency to be embarassed when I tell them to stop it's hard to hold a grudge. However, there was one woman, who I remembered this morning on my way to the mall for some new pants, who apparently decided that acting embarassed was a stupid course of action when the whole thing was really my fault anyway, which has now earned her a post on my blog. Because I'm still pissed about it.
I live somewhere very small. Just big enough for businesses to come in and try their luck, but small enough that they're sent packing months later, completely broke. In my seventeen years I've watched five pet shops, two toy stores, one Payless, one music store, and a lot of stores I'm probably forgetting meet their doom. I spend a lot of time hoping that the book store isn't going next, and it's just passed the four year mark so I'm cautiously optimistic that it's going to be ok.
Back in January I went to the mall with a friend. We wandered around for about twenty minutes before going into the novelty shop that had arrived five months ago. We looked at some figurines and some stress balls and some large light-up plant-type things, and we were holding up some stretchy shirts and laughing about them when the one adult manning the store came up behind me and began petting my dog. I turned around and told her to stop. My next sentence was going to be about how my dog is a service dog and they can't be petted, but I only got part of it out before being severely scolded for my rudeness. Shocked, I looked up from my dog and saw that her expression suggested she was sucking on a lemon seasoned with Dramamine that had said something nasty about her mother. Surely, I thought, she was angry because my friend and I had been being loud, not because I'd told her not to pet my dog.
Nope, actually. It was the dog.
My friend stepped up beside me and told her politely that not even she could pet my dog, that was just how service dogs work. She cut her off as well to further criticize my social skills and say that the way I'd spoken to her had been horribly rude and I obviously had no respect for my elders. Beginning to panic, I stammered something about how respect didn't play into it, she just couldn't pet my service dog, it said so on his jacket. Once again, she talked over me about my rudeness, this time adding that I should be ashamed of myself. And then she threw me out of the store.
For telling her not to pet my dog, she threw me out of the store.
I was pretty sure that was illegal in some way, and tried to say so. She repeated that I was rude and that I should learn to respect my elders. Then she pointed toward the door and pursed her lemon-sucking lips even tighter. I considered asking to speak to her supervisor. I considered pulling out my cell phone and threatening to call the police and ask if she was allowed to throw me out for this. I considered behaving like the teenager I was and leaving in a storm of profanity. Not being particularly brave, the method of exit I chose was to gape at her for a few seconds, then slink out the door with my cheeks burning and blood pounding in my ears.
My friend and I found a new store to be loud in, occasionally tossing her more offensive statements back and forth and listing all the reasons she was a bitch. And then we realized something sobering. I'd left my coat in the store.
We returned to find it lying on the counter and the woman determinedly ignoring us as she fiddled with the register. Having had time to think about what I should have done, I asked to speak to her supervisor. She told me she was in charge here. I told her I was sorry if I'd offended her but service dogs just can't be petted. She told me, again, that I was rude and needed to respect my elders and threw me (and my coat) out of the store. Again.
By this time I'd overcome my initial fight-or-flight response to having and authority figure so angry at me and decided that I was no longer scared and was instead pissed as hell. I saw no disrespect in telling her she couldn't pet my dog and was unimpressed by her continual use of the "I'm your elder" card, in my opinion only slightly less irritating than the "It's because I'm black" card. My friend and I went down the the mall office intending to file a complaint, but found a sign saying that it was only staffed on the dates listed on the door, the day we were there not being one of them, and that if we wanted to report something we would need to call the listed number. So we got out my cell phone and called the listed number, got an answering machine, and discovered from the message that we needed to be able to tell them the name of the store. So my friend ran off again to find out what it was while I sat on the floor outside the empty office in the ghost town of a mall that apparently ran itself. Once we had the name we called again and left the message.
Two weeks later the store went out of business. I'm not going to pretend I was sad.
I live somewhere very small. Just big enough for businesses to come in and try their luck, but small enough that they're sent packing months later, completely broke. In my seventeen years I've watched five pet shops, two toy stores, one Payless, one music store, and a lot of stores I'm probably forgetting meet their doom. I spend a lot of time hoping that the book store isn't going next, and it's just passed the four year mark so I'm cautiously optimistic that it's going to be ok.
Back in January I went to the mall with a friend. We wandered around for about twenty minutes before going into the novelty shop that had arrived five months ago. We looked at some figurines and some stress balls and some large light-up plant-type things, and we were holding up some stretchy shirts and laughing about them when the one adult manning the store came up behind me and began petting my dog. I turned around and told her to stop. My next sentence was going to be about how my dog is a service dog and they can't be petted, but I only got part of it out before being severely scolded for my rudeness. Shocked, I looked up from my dog and saw that her expression suggested she was sucking on a lemon seasoned with Dramamine that had said something nasty about her mother. Surely, I thought, she was angry because my friend and I had been being loud, not because I'd told her not to pet my dog.
Nope, actually. It was the dog.
My friend stepped up beside me and told her politely that not even she could pet my dog, that was just how service dogs work. She cut her off as well to further criticize my social skills and say that the way I'd spoken to her had been horribly rude and I obviously had no respect for my elders. Beginning to panic, I stammered something about how respect didn't play into it, she just couldn't pet my service dog, it said so on his jacket. Once again, she talked over me about my rudeness, this time adding that I should be ashamed of myself. And then she threw me out of the store.
For telling her not to pet my dog, she threw me out of the store.
I was pretty sure that was illegal in some way, and tried to say so. She repeated that I was rude and that I should learn to respect my elders. Then she pointed toward the door and pursed her lemon-sucking lips even tighter. I considered asking to speak to her supervisor. I considered pulling out my cell phone and threatening to call the police and ask if she was allowed to throw me out for this. I considered behaving like the teenager I was and leaving in a storm of profanity. Not being particularly brave, the method of exit I chose was to gape at her for a few seconds, then slink out the door with my cheeks burning and blood pounding in my ears.
My friend and I found a new store to be loud in, occasionally tossing her more offensive statements back and forth and listing all the reasons she was a bitch. And then we realized something sobering. I'd left my coat in the store.
We returned to find it lying on the counter and the woman determinedly ignoring us as she fiddled with the register. Having had time to think about what I should have done, I asked to speak to her supervisor. She told me she was in charge here. I told her I was sorry if I'd offended her but service dogs just can't be petted. She told me, again, that I was rude and needed to respect my elders and threw me (and my coat) out of the store. Again.
By this time I'd overcome my initial fight-or-flight response to having and authority figure so angry at me and decided that I was no longer scared and was instead pissed as hell. I saw no disrespect in telling her she couldn't pet my dog and was unimpressed by her continual use of the "I'm your elder" card, in my opinion only slightly less irritating than the "It's because I'm black" card. My friend and I went down the the mall office intending to file a complaint, but found a sign saying that it was only staffed on the dates listed on the door, the day we were there not being one of them, and that if we wanted to report something we would need to call the listed number. So we got out my cell phone and called the listed number, got an answering machine, and discovered from the message that we needed to be able to tell them the name of the store. So my friend ran off again to find out what it was while I sat on the floor outside the empty office in the ghost town of a mall that apparently ran itself. Once we had the name we called again and left the message.
Two weeks later the store went out of business. I'm not going to pretend I was sad.
Cracked.com agrees with me
Oh, I do love Cracked. I think I've just found my new educational aid.
http://www.cracked.com/funny-5922-allergies/
http://www.cracked.com/funny-5922-allergies/
Sunday, September 4, 2011
From behind enemy lines
I like to stay up-to-date on allergy news, so in addition to checking out the articles in the Health section every time I'm on CNN, I regularly Google for news about peanut allergies with all the search terms I can think of, and I always read the comments. Occasionally I'll also come across a mother's blog about her peanut-allergic children, one of the things that inspired me to start a blog of my own, and it's nice to know that there are others who have the same problems.
Given my obvious stand on the issue of food allergies, there are some things in my search history that would confuse the heck out of any secret agents hacking my computer. Not only do I search for articles that say peanut allergies are real, I also search for ones that say they're all faked. In addition to making my blood boil, they tell me the kind of misconceptions I need to be on the lookout for. Here are the things I've discovered:
Given my obvious stand on the issue of food allergies, there are some things in my search history that would confuse the heck out of any secret agents hacking my computer. Not only do I search for articles that say peanut allergies are real, I also search for ones that say they're all faked. In addition to making my blood boil, they tell me the kind of misconceptions I need to be on the lookout for. Here are the things I've discovered:
- "Food allergies are a figment of the imagination of hysterical parents." This one is annoyingly hard to disprove in any sort of logical argument. It's a stereotype, and even if it wasn't, a certain amount of hysteria is justified when you have a severely allergic child.
- "Most people who claim to have a food allergy really just don't like that food." I once saw a cartoon where a muppet-like creature claimed to be allergic to flour when it was raw, but not when it was baked into cookies, because he didn't want to have to help bake them but still wanted to eat them. It's a trick I'm sure lots of small children have pulled to attempt to get out of eating vegetables. This one's also annoying in that I'm sure the person at one point met or heard about a kid who did just that, but I would say to them that the difference between the two is that the faker will seem joyful about the whole thing, while the truthful child will honestly feel left out.
- "If the kid is that allergic then what the hell are they doing out in the world?" Also annoying, because, as much as I hate to admit it, they have a point. However, I have a counter-point: "Would you have me live my life by internet proxy from the 'safety' of my living room sofa because you can't wait five minutes to open a peanut butter cup? Would you also light up a smoke in front of an asthmatic because it's 'their problem'?"
- "My kid has a right to eat peanut butter!" This one doesn't annoy me so much as it makes me weep for the future of our nation. Your kid also has a right to keep and bear arms, but we have anti-gun policies around school zones because no one likes it when kids get hurt and/or killed.
- "Oh come on. It's not that bad." I must admit, I didn't get this one off the internet but instead heard it from various teachers, acquaintances, and family members. Very annoying, to say the least. Don't talk down to me until you've walked a mile in my shoes, or until you've spent an evening throwing up because those cookies, unbeknownst to you, were made in a facility that also processes peanuts. Oh, and then there's the migraine. You'll have one of those too. Not to mention a flu-like fatigue and most likely a rash.
As infuriating as it is for me to read about these things, the comment section usually makes me smile and nod in agreement. Even in the stronghold of the enemy there are plenty of people willing to tell their stories in an attempt to discredit everything they've just read.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Candy corn
Today I would like to talk about something that's been bugging me for years.
Candy corn.
Halloween has never been an easy time for me. Someone would always take me trick or treating, but it was never as fun as they made it look on tv. Not only does my family live in a cold place that makes it impossible to trick or treat without a coat, I had to stand on people's doorsteps and watch them drop things into my bag I knew I could never eat. At home my father would sort my candy and give me dimes for anything suspect, usually leaving me with nothing but tootsie rolls. I hated it.
But when I was seven, when my parents started giving me an allowance, I realized that I could tag along on grocery trips and buy myself an entire bag of Halloween candy that I knew was safe, and I could have it any time in October, no need to wait. I probably drove my parents up the wall with my constant sugar high, but that's not the point.
The point is, I nearly always picked candy corn. And even better than candy corn (if possible) were those little orange pumpkins that taste exactly the same but are bigger and feel nicer to bite into. I loved those. I brought them to school in my lunch box all October and for a long time after, until I'd eaten every last one that I'd bought with every last penny I'd found in the couch. Candy corn was a tradition with me, a comforting "at least" I could always go back to. "I couldn't eat half the things at the class party this year, but at least I've got half a bag of candy corn waiting for me at home!"
And what did they do? Oh, nothing much, only went and changed their manufacturing locations! So now, instead of ending with yellow dye number five, the list of ingredients ends with a warning about traces of peanuts!
HOW DARE THEY!!! Do they not realize they've driven a stake through the hearts of millions of allergic children? Can they not comprehend the sadness they are raining over the nation? "Contains peanuts" is bad enough, but "may contain peanuts" sounds like something a school yard bully would say. "Ooh, these may contain peanuts! You've loved them all your life, want to take a chance?"
But after I'd had my initial shocked temper tantrum in the candy aisle (I've gotta say, you get strange looks when you flip the bird to a bag of candy. In my defense, I was only fourteen.) I decided to relax, breathe deeply, and take to the internet. Surely there was someone, somewhere, who would sell me some peanut-free candy corn.
Actually, no. There wasn't.
It's September and they're starting to stock the Halloween candy again. Once again I'm going to see advertisements and holiday specials about all the things I can't do. But this year, once again, I'm going to have to do it without my comforting "at least." I can no longer have candy corn.
At least I have a blog to complain to.
Candy corn.
Halloween has never been an easy time for me. Someone would always take me trick or treating, but it was never as fun as they made it look on tv. Not only does my family live in a cold place that makes it impossible to trick or treat without a coat, I had to stand on people's doorsteps and watch them drop things into my bag I knew I could never eat. At home my father would sort my candy and give me dimes for anything suspect, usually leaving me with nothing but tootsie rolls. I hated it.
But when I was seven, when my parents started giving me an allowance, I realized that I could tag along on grocery trips and buy myself an entire bag of Halloween candy that I knew was safe, and I could have it any time in October, no need to wait. I probably drove my parents up the wall with my constant sugar high, but that's not the point.
The point is, I nearly always picked candy corn. And even better than candy corn (if possible) were those little orange pumpkins that taste exactly the same but are bigger and feel nicer to bite into. I loved those. I brought them to school in my lunch box all October and for a long time after, until I'd eaten every last one that I'd bought with every last penny I'd found in the couch. Candy corn was a tradition with me, a comforting "at least" I could always go back to. "I couldn't eat half the things at the class party this year, but at least I've got half a bag of candy corn waiting for me at home!"
And what did they do? Oh, nothing much, only went and changed their manufacturing locations! So now, instead of ending with yellow dye number five, the list of ingredients ends with a warning about traces of peanuts!
HOW DARE THEY!!! Do they not realize they've driven a stake through the hearts of millions of allergic children? Can they not comprehend the sadness they are raining over the nation? "Contains peanuts" is bad enough, but "may contain peanuts" sounds like something a school yard bully would say. "Ooh, these may contain peanuts! You've loved them all your life, want to take a chance?"
But after I'd had my initial shocked temper tantrum in the candy aisle (I've gotta say, you get strange looks when you flip the bird to a bag of candy. In my defense, I was only fourteen.) I decided to relax, breathe deeply, and take to the internet. Surely there was someone, somewhere, who would sell me some peanut-free candy corn.
Actually, no. There wasn't.
It's September and they're starting to stock the Halloween candy again. Once again I'm going to see advertisements and holiday specials about all the things I can't do. But this year, once again, I'm going to have to do it without my comforting "at least." I can no longer have candy corn.
At least I have a blog to complain to.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Things that make me smile
- SERVICE ANIMALS WELCOME signs. I see one of those and I know I'm going to be left alone.
- Mothers who say to their children as I pass, "Oh, see, that's a service dog. Now, the thing about service dogs is that they can't be petted, they're working. They help people with special needs...." I'm instantly proud of any mother I hear say that.
- People who approach me and say, "I have a sister who's considering getting a service dog. Can I ask you a few questions?"
- Employees who show me where to find the frozen peas without saying one word about my dog.
- People who tell off other people who attempt to pet my dog, sometimes before I've even noticed it's happening.
- Dog owners who immediately control their barking dogs so I don't have to worry about them running over and provoking Poodleface.
- Obvious dog lovers with enough self-control to admire my dog from afar.
And, finally, the thing that makes me smile the most,
- People I've known for a while who one day say to me, "Oh my gosh! For a moment there, I forgot you have a service dog"
Things that make me wince
- Loud, smiling women who rush over to me in public and begin with a joyful, "Oh, my sister had a chihuahua with fur just that shade!", and proceed to ignore my escape tactics and lack of eye contact and regale me with little Toby's life story. (While some people with service dogs are probably dog lovers, I, personally, just want to finish my shopping.)
- Unsupervised children running nearby. They tend to gravitate toward a dog, and more than once I've accidentally made one cry by telling them not to pet it. The situation only gets worse should the absent parents pick that moment to appear. (True story; a mother once screamed at me in the middle of the produce aisle because her toddler had flung himself on the floor and was crying. He was crying because I told him not to touch my dog, and then (gently) removed his hand when he touched my dog anyway.)
- Whistling and clicking noises or other dog-calling behavior. Seriously, that's not cool. It's humiliating and irritating and very, very dangerous if they decide to do it to a more critical kind of service dog. Also, there's no way to get in the person's face about it without looking like I'm over-reacting.
- Barking, from other dogs. My Poodleface is wonderfully behaved, but he's still a dog, and I'm uncomfortable in situations where his self-control is being tested.
- Barking, from other humans. Okay, that's just mean.
- NO DOGS ALLOWED signs. I see one of those and I know there's going to be a confrontation. I get to explain to some under-informed and probably under-paid employee how service dogs are exempt from that rule, and then I get to explain that yes, I'm allowed to have a service dog even though I'm not blind.
- People who I swear I've never seen before who say I had a long and informative discussion about service dogs with them two months ago. Apparently I'm the only girl in town who goes everywhere with a white poodle and therefore very easy to recognize.
- Mothers who have their babies say "doggie" as I pass.
What irritates me the most about this one is that I don't know how to get them to understand that I don't like it. I've tried just going over to them and saying "Excuse me, I find that offensive. Could you please stop?" But it doesn't work. They just look at me like I've requested something bizarre, or like I'VE said something offensive. Obvious eye rolling or annoyed body language doesn't work either, and neither does irritated sarcasm. It's a situation I don't know how to deal with, but that I'm apparently not supposed to feel I need to deal with. Am I really the only one it bugs?
And, finally, the thing that makes me wince the most,
- People who say, "But an allergy isn't a disability!
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