Just a little bit

This will begin like many other posts in the future with, "Before I knew I had Asperger's..." In many of my previous posts, someone familiar with the signs and symptoms of AS would see it. I was only familiar with myself, not any form of autism. I didn't see it until I "saw" it in my daughter. But, now, it all makes sense. That sense is a relief. Although, I do not in ANY way view myself as a freak (or any other person with Asperger's), I like to think of the wedding banquet scene from Browning's movie, "One of us! One of us! Gooble-gobble!" There are others like me. Well, kinda. Not JUST like me, similar. More importantly, there are other who understand. Whew.

Before I knew I had Asperger's, little things would bother me a lot. They still bother me a lot. Now, I know why. Today, I don't have to feel awkward, feel defensive, or worse, hide my agitations with shame. The little things are mostly sensory. Like the taste of a spice or herb or seed like caraway causing gag reflexes. The odor of some one's cheap perfume coating the inside of my nostrils and mouth like wax for hours. A school uniform turtleneck choking me and causing a panic like being buried alive. The sound of someone chewing across the table from me creating images of a food bolus being broken down with saliva between molars-- louder and louder and louder. Every night, my husband still wonders how I can read by such dim light. Because, I tell him, the light reflects off the pages and makes me snow blind. It hurts.

When I would tell someone it hurt or caused discomfort, often they would think I was being overly dramatic. Simply trying to cause diversion or to be disruptive. I couldn't understand why they didn't understand. I took it personally. It was depressing to think people didn't believe. It came across as a bizarre punishment when people would tell me to "just deal with it".

Today, many of those things still bother me. However, I can somewhat control my responses or at least control what I share with others about it. I learned how to avoid the "what's the big deal" shrug of the others' shoulders. I can still taste a teensy piece of celery as if eating a head of garlic. But, I don't wince and verbalize my displeasure. I push it to the rim of the dish. I learned where to place my shopping bags in my car so I don't need to listen to them rustle around in the wind coming through a rear window. A sound that amplifies in my head to the sound of water roaring over Niagara Falls. Even the word rustle bothers me because of this association. It makes me shudder if I let myself go with it. But, then I think of a word I like, snacks. That's a funny word. It makes me smile. But, my relationship with words is a another blog entirely.

I sat down with my husband and my psychologist to have a 3rd party person tell him I wasn't just trying to be a pain in the ass. Most of the time, he is understanding about it. But, when we are out to dinner and I order a nice filet only to realize it was grilled with a rub containing caraway seeds (or just one caraway seed or cooked near caraway seeds) making it inedible? Well, that's one time when I can read some one's expression pretty clearly. I am okay with it. I can sleep at night, knowing I married a man that can move past all the things I can't.

Conversely, little things make me love certain things more than others. And, by more-- I mean, A LOT more. There is something so subtle about a walnut lentil burger. I can taste the walnuts, the lentils, the cumin, the garlic, et al. This same sensitivity makes me a good cook. I love the flavor so much, I wish I could eat one (or three) every day. I'd eat them for every meal if I could. Yet, through over forty years of past experience, I learned it is neither practical nor fun to eat the same thing every day. Although, it is comforting. Eventually what happens is: I eat something so often, for so long that I get to a point where I can't even look at the food-- like with Pad Thai. Saying the name of the dish would bring the taste to my mouth. I try not to do that so much anymore. I rotate between certain dishes-- and sure, I'm nutritional more sound for it. Not to sound like an wild animal, I can taste the difference between a grass-fed steak and your run of the mill injected variety. They are two different planets on completely different arms of the Milky Way. With the grass-fed, the taste of the iron in the blood takes the lead in the list of flavors in the steak. Mmmm... irony.

I'll save the list of things I like to look at, listen to, and touch for a later day, too. However, seeing the little things has made me a better illustrator and designer. Listening (I "see" a lot of what I hear) to the little things has made me a better musician. And, the touch part usually comes to the rescue when I need to zone out or relax-- this usually doubles as what I've heard called stimming.

Since being diagnosed with Asperger's, I decided it is all differences of degree. Like changing the font on a document. The rest of the world reads a phrase in 12pt, but to me it appears as 48pt. These little actualizations help me become more comfortable with the big me (which I like to believe is as large as a Macy's day parade float crammed into a slightly above average height human shell).

The Brooks who are funnier than you

Last night, I dreamt I met Mel Brooks. It was in the late seventies. I was waiting tables at a crappy restaurant in NYC. Mel Brooks and Albert Brooks came in to eat at the lunch counter. I shook Mel Brooks' hand and talked to Albert about the latest movie they had in production together. They left without eating. However, a woman sitting beside them ate french fries covered in bacon and BBQ sauce. Then, a drunk Mac Davis showed up. He started singing and wouldn't stop.



Then, it was suddenly the late eighties. And, I moved to LA. I was looking for jobs, but got lost in some winding street bazaar. Stoners and queens selling old clothes, candles, and bongs. I stopped to try on a pair of pants. But, someone stole MY pants while they were off. A black cat kept following me everywhere. I stepped gum at one point. And, I spent a significant amount of time trying to wipe it off on things as I continued to walk. Eventually, I got to an open farmer's market full of yuppie eco-lovin' vegan types. They were all wearing the same green plastic shoes. It was subtly sci-fi. Then, I had lunch with Sean Carnage. He said he'd try help to get me a job. I was still telling everyone I saw how I met Mel Brooks.

In real time news, I swallowed a huge chip from one of my canine teeth last night while eating hard, sourdough pretzels. At first, I thought maybe a piece of pretzel was stuck to my tooth, feeling all jagged-like. But, then I realize it was my tooth. By this point, it was too late-- I had already swallowed my chip. Then I proceeded to throw a temper tantrum. "It's not fair! I brush my teeth AT LEAST three times a day AND floss!!! And, I don't smoke or drink soda!" I know why it happened. I have been grinding and clenching my teeth since I was a toddler. I have another crack in one of my back molars from the same thing. It torques open when I eat sometimes. And, it hurts enough to make me wanna drop whatever I am holding. Because I never had braces and have pretty fine looking teeth (which receive great care), I was always convinced I'd trip and fall during my drunken days, cracking off my front teeth. Now, I thought I was safe. Someone told me it was a sign that I am getting old. And, I guess I realize, despite my preemptive measures, it will just be me and Old Chopper one day. I am more concerned how these events are influencing my bite mark impressions.

The State of Affairs

I was told never to discuss politics, religion, or money with strangers. Well, let's get this out of the way now. I am a non-practicing Catholic, considering myself mostly agnostic. Now, on to money! My father once told me NEVER ask how much a man (or woman) earns for a living. Because, it will either make you feel bad or him feel bad. Of course, my father didn't tell me that part. He gives you the meat and you have to trim the fat yourself. So, that said, I make no more or less than any one I know. Because, I don't know how much other people make. I don't pay attention to other people's finances. I pay attention to the coming and going in this house. Sometimes, well mostly, it goes as fast as it comes. And, the failing market with its inevitable bail out? We had nothing to lose before it all went down, so we lost nothing. However, the prospect of paying for other's loss is infuriating. I understand the stock market exists to give deserving and needy business that extra boost it needs. But, I do not for one minute believe there is any investor (since Mr. Ross died) investing out of some sense of altruism or patriotic belief in the growth of capitalism. Those who invest have the extra money to invest. Meaning, they don't need to roll pennies to buy a loaf of bread. So, they have it to begin with... and they want more.

Or the retirement funds? I don't want to be a 70 year old either pitchin' plates like a crypt-keepin' Flo at Mel's Dinor [sic] or a stealin' cat food from the Dollar Store for dinner retiree. Either way... more is more! I wish upon entering the feeble years you could just pitch your accomplishments and contributions to an unbiased, unaffiliated council and go free range in some sort of Pleasant Ridge interment camp. I think my idea of retirement homes is a bit skewed, though. I have the nightmare of urine-stinking hallways filled with rambling wheelchair bound residents, pushing themselves back and forth by the heels like battery charged Matchbox cars on a circular track. That vision is nicely balanced out by all the Duplex Planets I have read.

Speaking of work, as you may have read in my last ventilation, I can not stand nor understand corporate retail. I have finally decided after all these year of thinking hard work, a level-head & logic, pride, and stamina were to be continually pursued-- I am completely out of step with the rest of the current US workforce. Example, a woman who shows up early for every shift, who works hard her entire shift, and who stays late if asked has been told she will be fired if she accepts one more out of date coupon. No, not me. However, the former burned out Meth head who doesn't show up and doesn't even bother to call, who has to sit on a stool her entire shift because she has a self-diagnosis blood clot in her leg, and who continues to whine about work although she is sitting on a stool her entire shift doesn't suffer any consequences of her behavior. NONE! Not a one! Whhhhhaaaaahhhh? I know this is a crazy mixed up world, but really? Really? Really. I can collect scrap metal. Or I can... anything is better than corporate retail.

Things at the restaurant are still going really well. I think my husband likes it when I come home smelling like braised lamb shank. I got my youngest sister a job with me. It's funny, although she is twenty now, I still feel like I need to watch over her. Like, if a someone addresses her, I'll walk over and say, "What's going on now?" It's gotta be a bit irritating to her. However, I am almost seventeen years older than her-- and, she will always be the baby out of us six kids. So, don't mess with her or we'll all clobber you!Okay, I mean, our brothers will clobber you. By the time sissy was walking on her own two feet, I was out of the house and out of town. So, I never really spent a whole lot of time with her as she grew up. I'm glad to have some time with her. Hopefully, I can show her what an ass I have made of myself during various phases of my life to keep her from doing the same. But, I guess we all have to be an ass when the time comes.

My sister and I also had a nice talk about parenting. I brought up the pendulum theory. She and I have different mothers. She wasn't allowed to leave the state unchaperoned by an adult until she graduated high school. I, on the other hand, was going to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in seedy Cleveland bars with a fake ID at the age of fourteen. Dead shows in Wisconsin at the age of sixteen. Etc, etc. So, now I know I will be a hammer when it comes to the girls. Their dad and I have been around the block a few times. We are very familiar with the gutter around the block as well. It is a frightening prospect because I also understand the more strict you are the more likely your children will rebel. But, you say, all those harsh times made you who you are today, a soft and cuddly kitten. Don't my girls deserve that opportunity to completely screw up the first thirty some years of their life, too? No. No, they don't. Also, I plan on having the girls learn a trade before going of the college.

The Cold War and the Peter Principle

I recently sent a compact disc to Russia. It was purchased/won in an Ebay auction I had posted. For some reason, I can't help but to speculate about the bidders in the auctions I post-- the basic demographic. Who has disposable income these days? What's their zip code? Does it look like they live in an apartment or are they possibly a home owner? No, I don't have too much time on my hands. My brain is just constantly folding over on itself like that.

Like when I see gum on the floor and I wonder, " What flavor is that? Did someone accidentally drop it? Or spit it out? What kind of person spits their gum out?" Or, "Hmmm, is that package is on the floor because the cardboard wasn't strong enough to support the product from the tiny hole used for hanging it on a peg? Or did someone try to aggressively put the package back? Carelessly?" And, "Why is this person walking so slowly in front of me? Are they lazy or do they have a physical handicap? Don't they hear me behind them? Can't they move over? Are they deaf?"

So, I am thinking about the amount of money this Russian guy paid for CD I almost gave away to the City Mission. And, wow, I think the Russian economy has been really out shining the US economy. And, what a bunch of crap we feed the rest of the world in our fight against communism or former embracers of communism, supporting the Grand Ol' Flag and Democracy... I mean capitalism. Since we watched the Wall fall, we get to watch our arch enemies do what we do better than we do. Or are they simply more corrupt and, therefore, more successful? Do they not care about the widening gaps between classes? No, because before the USSR only had two or three classes: government officials, individuals with ties to the government, and the rest of the stinking, starving masses. Only difference now is the stinking masses have heat for two more days a year and possibly a TV. And, you should realize I have no idea what the everyday citizen in Russia has or has not. I'm just creating wild generalizations like any good Liberty embracing American should do about something they are less than informed about. The point? The Russians with all their dollars wrapped up in their domestic investments, celebrating rising employment, and an overall surging economy must think it is absolutely hilarious what we've done to our own economy and are so glad they've maintained a healthy relationship with China (the lenders of the Great American Mortgage).

Sure, I took a month or so of Russian back in college. It is buried next to the German, Spanish, and French I do not use. And, yes, I was horrified when the manager at the bookstore where I used to work had no idea who Karl Marx was. And, yes, I am a big fan of the writer Nikolai Gogol. However, I do not consider myself a "commie" or a "red". I mean, hell! I am convinced I was a cowboy in one of my past lives since I love coffee and bacon for breakfast so much! But, I didn't mind seeing Putin with his shirt off. And, even though I'm no longer entertaining any idea of voting for the crazy heart attack on legs, McCain, I would love to have a wizened, savvy president with a menacing snarl like Putin.

Speaking of the economy, have you ever wondered where the chaos begins? Well, many of you living on the Great Lakes are very familiar with water spouts-- swirling with force, picking up water only to toss it about, and dancing across the surface with no real purpose except for trying to maintain its own existence. That, my fellow citizens, is management in corporate retail. I have had the pleasure of working for small business owners most of my life. That too has it's own fistfuls of razor wire. However, I recommend it over corporate retail. I think I might recommend panhandling over corporate retail at this point.

Corporate retail thrives on a few things like poor time management, wasted resources (staff), and high turn over. During a phone call with my Uncle David, my one-time atheist Godfather, I shared with him some of my recent revelations. One was this: if you stick it out long enough in corporate retail, you will move into a higher position by default whether or not you possess any skill sets appropriate for the job. He told me about the Peter Principle. Amazing. Just amazing. Conversely, I have also noticed you get "punished" with more responsibility than your pay reflects if you do these simple things: show up for work on time, do not call off or not show up without calling, and actually seek out the activity of working during your paid shift at work. I do these things. These are things I assumed were just what you do when you work. Not the case in corporate retail. The deltas don't think they are being compensated well enough, so the deltas do nothing. I always figured before you start your employ, you are told the responsibilities and the correlating wage. At that point, you make a decision. After that point, you perform the tasks outlined as your responsibilities and then get financially reimbursed for your time. If you choose (like myself) to do more because you can't sit around catching flies in your gaping maw, you do so under the advisement there may or may not be an further reward or recognition except your own pride and satisfaction. These views have repeatedly put me in the position of the hard-ass, exasperated freak in the workplace. But, I still can't convince myself I'm wrong.

I have very similar views to nepotism in the bureaucratic arena. But, I don't wanna dig into the secretaries' pool today. There are also those steaming hot piles of EOE controversy in the white collar world. So, I will save the story about the woman (I make no reference to race, religion, age, or physical ability) who was completely inept at her middle management job. She couldn't perform any of the analysis work necessary. And, if she tried to perform the analysis work necessary when not surfing the web her entire shift, she would screw it up so completely and nearly cost the company millions, yes, MILLIONS of dollars. Well, her boss couldn't fire her in fear of legal battles up the whazoo. So, you know what the company recommended? A promotion! They moved her out of the department to a higher salary! Long story short, she was as equally inept at that job, too. She ended up where she started. And, I'm sure she is just biding her time there 'til she can suck the sauce off the juicy rib I call her pension plan. How do I know this? She was a co-worker of mine. A co-work who loved leaving me lists of things that didn't get done on her time, but needed to be competed on my time. But, I've let that all go now. Well, until I think about it again.

Halloween costume? Misogynist!

This year for Halloween, I will be dressed as a cook. I will be going to a Halloween party in the kitchen of Pie in the Sky cafe. Meaning: I'll be working. For a moment I got all jazzed up with the idea of the girls trucking around the neighborhood in their little red wagon. But, then Matt and I discussed the idea of losing a third of my student loan payment versus the girls having no idea what the hell is going on and being too little to eat any candy. So, again, I'll be working. No, I won't be dressed up, seeing I do not wish to catch a wig on fire while grilling up a tuna steak.

Sure, I used to love Halloween. The challenge of the costume! As Bonnie Parker or as stereotypical trailer trash or as a dead Laura Palmer or as an IRA catholic school girl or as Pris from Blade Runner or, my favorite, as The West Nile Virus.

Now, I am not sure what holiday I love. Actually, I think holidays are simply the tools of the labor unions anymore. Well, seeing my kids get excited about a room full of wrapping paper, gift bags, and empty boxes is heart-warming. However, having people in my home, even people I love, makes me edgy.

Thinking about the Catholic school girl costume I wore for twelve years of my life reminds me of one thing. Somewhere along the line, I think it was the four years at an all girls' Catholic high school, I became a misogynist. During those years, I had ONE close friend in that House of Mary. Robbe. And, we would spend time pretending to walk in slow motion down the hallways or quoting slapstick Westerns, "Don't put beans on table." Other than that, I didn't eat in the cafeteria. Well, I guess I had to at least once since I was caught setting a fire atop one of the tables while tryng to illustrate a point. Anyway, the point? I hated it! It seriously made me suicidal! But, then I discovered drugs and being alienated was more of a choice than an affliction.

I've always had this image of myself like a B-movie sci-fi creature. A pulsating brain with googly eyes. Just strolling around, taking it all in. Oh, the ugliness that lies in the hearts of teenage women! Watching girls beat each other with their shoes because one girl's guy gave his phone number to the other girl. But, we learn and grow, right? Nah, the majority of women are fundamentally catty, clique-y, self-hating, self-important, and vapid. And, these qualities do not mature of age. They are honed and used like knives.

I will, however, admit I do have some spectacular female friends. Most of which are also misogynists and act like they have bigger cajones than a sex-starved bull.

I overheard this the other day, "Did you see Sex in the City movie yet? I cried at the end!" That person deserves to be treated as an object. Yes, I've seen five minutes of one episode. And, I instantly hated every character.

I am starting to think similar things about vegetarians. But, I will hold off on any snap judgements. Right! No really, I do have some vegetarian friends. And, it is a let's agree to disagree situation, because I refuse to have scripted arguments about food.

As, I plated up a beautiful mound of grilled pork chops with a mustard-apricot glaze, a waitress said to me, "Those look delicious. But, now I know what they do to get the meat from that pig, I can't eat it."

My reply, "Do you know why God put pigs on the planet? (pause... waiting for a response... but getting none). "For me to eat."

The Aesthetics of Art (Patronage)

I was working at a tattoo shop in town and also doing some volunteer work setting up exhibits at the local museum. An exhibit of circus banners was scheduled to have a gala opening, with little freaky things thrown in like croutons. Like me, giving fake tattoos to the philanthropist around town. I drew up a sheet of pseudo-flash and grabbed some Sharpies (my passive aggressive way of wishing days of flesh scrubbing).

Me: What do you want me to draw on you?
Face lift: Barbed wire like Pamela Anderson.
Me: Are you sure? I have all these other ones. Some are even kind of historical!
Face lift: NO, barbed wire.
Boob job: Oh, look at that! I want that, too.
Me: The same exact thing?
Boobs: Yeah.
Spray tan: Ooooooh, wow! Me, too!
Me: The barbed wire??? Really???
Spray: Yeah, do it.
Me to my friend Gary after their departure: What the HELL was that! We're done with this. I have a prior engagement I forgot about. Can you f*cking believe that?
Gary: Yeah.
Me: I just know they're hoping their lying, cheating husbands will think it's hot. I hate myself.
Gary: HA! You should. You enabled that whole thing. You're an jerk.

Those are the types of people who are making our shared spaces more beautiful... eh.

I studied painting and illustration for two years in college before slightly waking up and finishing with a Liberal Arts degree with a minor in psychology and a minor in creative writing. I am now a stay-at-home mom, a freelance writer/illustrator, a retail jockey, and a cook. My husband has two degrees-- one in metalworking and another in art history. He works at a shop, manufacturing hand wood carving tools. I am pretty sure we both hate 'art'.

There! I said it again.

Newsflash! Don't ask me about my tattoos. Especially, don't touch them. Yes, there is a certain degree of art involved. But, the flattery of strangers is not necessary, said the spider to the fly. Get this straight! I've never been to Ozzyfest or whatever it is called. I don't like Tommy Lee and I don't like this new old wave of Hot Topics-goth-alterna-crap. I like Glitter Rock. I like Pink Floyd with Syd Barret. I like the Jam. I like Hank Williams, Buck Owens, Red Sovine, and Lee Hazelwood. I like bluegrass and classical, too. I don't read Rolling Stone. I read British MOJO. I don't like the dude that wrote Fight Club. I like Harry Crews. I like Mencken and Faulkner. I'd rather have lunch with Studs Terkel and Groucho Marx than that Chuck Whiny-ass rock & pop culture critic and Dane Cook. I watch Lawrence Welk every week and get excited when Joe Finney comes on. I haven't watched MTV since pre-1990's. I am an old lady stuck in a body 40years too young. The zeitgeist of today is a flaming bag of dog poop sitting on my doorstep. I think my tattoos are a barely acceptable form of self-mutilation. And, piercing is DISGUSTING! People leave your tongues, nipples, and penises alone! And, if you can't, please don't tell me about it just because I have a bunch of steak tattooed on my arm. When will they realize I think they are bigger freaks than their grandparents do! So, if you're wondering... which you probably aren't, I consider my practices more closely related to a religious zealot whipping himself into a frenzy than some kid with bad posture at some straight edge or Emo or this is when we sing really soft and this is when we yell and then this is the rap part and now we are singing really soft again only to get mad and yell and rap at the same time show.

"Ah, little lad, you're staring at my fingers. Would you like me to tell you the little story of right-hand/left-hand? The story of good and evil? H-A-T-E! It was with this left hand that old brother Cain struck the blow that laid his brother low. L-O-V-E! You see these fingers, dear hearts? These fingers has veins that run straight to the soul of man. The right hand, friends, the hand of love. Now watch, and I'll show you the story of life. Those fingers, dear hearts, is always a-warring and a-tugging, one agin t'other. Now watch 'em! Old brother left hand, left hand he's a fighting, and it looks like love's a goner. But wait a minute! Hot dog, love's a winning! Yessirree! It's love that's won, and old left hand hate is down for the count!" --Rev. Harry Powell

On my way home from work tonight, I was waiting at a stoplight at the corner of 8th & Pittsburgh. It's a creeper light. It takes so long to turn. If no one is around, you creep. Well, I am singing at the top of my lungs. If my foot weren't on the break pedal, I'd be tapping it. What was I singing you ask? Bobby Vinton, of course. Then all of a sudden I hear some bass thumping next to me. My nails start to dig into the steering wheel. Then all of a sudden I realize I am seriously BLARING Bobby Vinton! Hah. Stick that in your blunt and smoke it, jerks!