Month: April 2012

Day 68: Karmic Crumbs

| Aspergers Girls


I am fortunate to have married one of the most patient men on earth. I honestly do not think anyone else, besides my children and dog, whom all rely on me for food, could stand to live with me. I have a plethora of unique quirks and habits.  Too many to list, and as many know, I’m a good lister. (Lister should be a word.)

Prepare for digression.

Today I almost wrote on death terror (always on my mind), then moved onto the funny things about aging, and then landed on exploring raw food diets. My heart palpitations started up with the thought of switching to a raw food diet. I’ve tried the diet before. Moving from vegetarian to vegan (no cheese, no eggs) lasted four days. Trying to go from vegetarian to raw-food-vegan lasted about the time I take to walk to the fridge, open the fridge, and devour a slice of veggie-combo pizza.

I sure would like to rid myself of aches and pains, have more energy, and look like I’m 50, when I’m 70, but I’m thinking the heart attack and situational depression from the removal of Italian food from my life and stomach, would certainly kill me. I’m all for people finding something that works for them, be it diet, exercise, love, or faith, as long as the solution doesn’t harm another. Me, going raw vegan, would harm all the people who loved me. The radical mood shifts alone would cause mass destruction.

Which leads me back to my marriage. I am a moody gal. And the fact that my husband sticks around is a miracle. I got over myself, and my ego, in relation to my place in our marriage, about ten years ago, when for the hundredth time, I heard, from yet another woman: “You are so lucky to have a man like Bob.”

Gag! No one ever once, not once, not anyone from school functions, the workplace, the family gatherings, friendly circles, not one person ever said: “Bob, you are so lucky to have a woman like Sam.” (Insert my real name there; for all you logical souls concluding: Well, of course not. Her name isn’t really Sam.)

Not a one! I’m not chopped liver. And my brain is keen. So it’s got to be that whole “high maintenance” attribute I’ve got going on.

Poor, poor Bob. If you believe in the Buddha’s way of a person coming back in a life position based on previous karmic dealings, then I certainly wonder about my husband. For him to end up being my breadwinner, dishwasher, back and neck massager, psychologist, best friend, and emotional punching bag, I figure he must have done me mighty wrong in a past life!

Which logically means I have an obligation to even out the karmic relationship, I suppose. Speaking of such, accordingly, I must have done a whole lot of people wrong in my previous incarnations. Although when I was much younger, I had that whole “pretty girl” thing going on. So I must have done something right eons ago.

I think the biggest karmic wrong doing I ever did in this life was the time I stole the yellow spelling book, with the illustrated cat on the cover, from a girl in pigtails named Alice. She was a straw-haired blonde girl in second grade that sat two seats up in front of me, and she always, I mean always, got the right answers. While I was in the back hooting and hollering to be called on, Alice glided up a smooth arm and remained calm. One day, I couldn’t stand Alice anymore, and I did a terrible, terrible thing. I took her spelling book when no one was about, and hid the book in the back of the room. When Alice’s turn came, she couldn’t answer, and I could. Only, the plan backfired, because we spent the next twenty-minutes calming Alice down and searching relentlessly for her book. Well, everyone but me. Worst part of the whole spelling book fiasco, is that I still feel guilty. I remember thinking right then and there, in the company of a bunch of eight year olds, that I’d never ever purposely do wrong by anyone ever again. And I’ve tried my best to uphold that rule. Though I still fear I’ll be coming back as Alice’s gerbil in another life.

I can go on and make excuses about my home life at that time, but I’m not going there. I’m sorry, Alice, wherever you are! Please keep my cage clean!

Karma is a funny thing. What goes around comes around, so they say. But it seems to me the clueless people always get a better life, at least this time around, and the smart folks end up with all the misery. Which makes me wonder if I want to have brains in my next life.

This post was supposed to be about the high-tolerance level and total awesomeness of my husband. But somehow ended up being about gerbils. This is what Bob has to live with. If you are religious, you may want to stop and say a silent prayer for Bob.

click to see where image was found

Just to make sure I don’t have to be anyone’s gerbil, here is a list of I’m sorry:

  1. I’m sorry to that lady on the phone, whom I said this to: “Well, as long as you are more accepting of children with special needs. The last music instructor had zero tolerance of my son and her classes were boring.” Turns out I accidentally dialed the instructor I was speaking about.
  2. I’m sorry to T for lecturing you on my thoughts on God after I’d had one to many caffeinated beverages.
  3. I’m sorry to Mom for having a blog where I discussed everything horrible I thought you ever did to me.
  4. I’m sorry to my mother-in-law. You were right, when you stood up at the rehearsal dinner and announced loudly: “Are you sure you want to marry her?” But I think karmic wise we are more than even.
  5. I’m sorry to the university professor that I wrote about more than once, and called a “dumbass” to the world. (I’m sorry for the ass part.)
  6. I’m sorry to that Swan chick because I posted a big sign on my blog that directed readers to your website, because you were stealing my stories.
  7. I’m sorry to all the people who signed up to follow my posts, because you honestly had no idea what you were getting yourself into.
  8. I’m sorry to all the perfect-looking, skinny women at the gym that I stick my tongue out at, and for the teasing about your flat chests.
  9. I’m sorry to the drivers I yell at when I say: “Come on! Can you go any slower?”
  10. I’m sorry to my husband Bob for making you fetch me cleaner drinking glasses, for kicking you when you snore, for singing Daddy can’t rhyme, for saying, “You smell,” for asking, “What’s on your face. Can you die from that?”, for telling you more than once: It looks like your gaining weight, for making you move seats five times in the movie theater, for freaking out over the smell of taco meat, for screaming frantically over your driving, for calling you ten times in a row over the possibility of my heart exploding, for making you edit my writing and then critiquing your editing skills, for calling you various names based on the time of the month and the planetary positions, and for all the annoying things I do and say.

Okay. That just about covers me karmic wise until tomorrow.

Side note:  More evidence that Bob is a saint. I couldn’t fall asleep last night, so I made up stupid jokes in my head. Then I got out of bed, went into the bathroom, where my husband was, and told Bob the jokes. He told me I really needed to get some sleep.

Jokes:

Why did the Blue Jay cross the road? Because he was a jay-walker.

What did Jesus say when he looked in the toilet? Holy crap.

What do you call a slutty alcoholic living on the streets? A wine-hoe

I apologize to any jay-walking, Jesus-loving, homeless people. No offense intended.


A nice example of a clean Gerbil Cage

Day 67: Butterfly Red

| Aspergers Girls

Butterfly Red

The accident had happened fast.  No one had expected it.  I hadn’t meant to let go.

I had fallen headfirst, a good four feet, onto the unforgiving concrete. Riding atop my babysitter’s shoulders, I hadn’t thought not to bend my head back and look down. I was only having fun. No one had ever told me not to bend over. And I’d only had the chance to view my backyard upside down for a minute or two, before I lost my balance and fell.

Smack!

After the fall, the sitter screamed and rushed me indoors to the dining area. Her teenage friend was there, too—her screams equally loud and bothersome. For some time everything echoed and twisted and turned in the chambers of my ears. Blood rushed out of my head in every direction, staining all the bathroom towels. I was on the dining room table, up high, as everyone scurried about in nervous circles. I glanced down and spotted my Labrador Sugar. Through my tears, I saw she was panting and pacing, and whining some. My small hand met the warm oozing blood at the back of my head. So much blood.

I awoke, wet and hot, to discover myself trapped beneath a heavy blanket in some unknown place. Nothing looked familiar. I turned quickly and tried to rise up, but some force pushed me down. I was inside a nightmare… (The rest of the story is in the book Everyday Aspergers)

~ By Samantha Craft 2012 Based on true events

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 66: Fasten8

| Aspergers Girls
Everyday Aspergers
View from our deck today
Thank you for brightening my world readers!

This morning, on the way to the gym with my boys, a state trooper pulled me over. He gave me the star treatment: flashing swirling lights and siren. I felt rather important. Especially when I pulled away because I thought the trooper was signaling me to park in a safer place. That’s when the sirens got super loud and made a noise I don’t think I’ve ever heard before.

I felt like a fugitive. It was rather exhilarating and not nearly as scary as I’d imagined. I’m thinking I’d make a good villain or superhero, or someone who dodges the justice system.

I take all the flashing lights as a sign from God that I shouldn’t exercise anymore. I don’t care if you don’t agree. I’m feeling very powerful after my run in with the law.

The second to the last time, I almost got a ticket, I’d done one of my famous incomplete stops at a stop sign, and was pulled over by a young officer. I batted my eyes and smiled. Then I shyly giggled (on purpose) and said, “Oh. My husband is going to be so upset with me!” Then I intentionally stared at the officer’s eyebrows and sighed.

He asked, as if I’d scripted his part myself, “Why?”

And I quickly said in a gag-worthy, sweet voice, “Because my husband is a volunteer firefighter and he’ll be so upset that I got a ticket.”

The officer’s body language eased then. He leaned in with a smile, and suddenly started talking to me like I was his good buddy. The next thing I knew, he’s waving me off with a cheer, and saying, “Don’t forget to tell Bob, I said hello.”

I was pondering on this situation this morning, and wondering if this scenario qualifies as manipulation.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I was only using my survival skills that I’d developed over the years in order to ease my way out of uncomfortable social situations. And since I’ve been easing my way out of uncomfortable situations with exact strategies my entire life—it was only natural to pull out the big actress guns and key words at an opportunistic moment.

This morning, after my three sons were mostly finished with their scoffing, finger-pointing, laughing, and commentary that sounded something like this: Ha, ha. You’re gonna get a ticket. You’re gonna get a ticket. He’s going to read you your rights. Mom’s in trouble, and after the trooper had waved me the go ahead, I said very calmly: “See, the officer saw that Mom had such a good driving record that he let me go.”

My oldest son quickly retorted: “How many times have they let you go?”

“Three, maybe four times,” I said with a wide happy grin.

There were some chuckles.

“Would you rather have a mom who drove super slow?” I asked.

“You’d still get pulled over,” my youngest answered.

“I think he let you off because he saw your handicapped sign and felt sorry for you,” my oldest offered.

I realized, looking myself over, that my son was probably right. A middle-aged, frumpily dressed, un-showered and disheveled-haired woman, with three boys in the van, just doesn’t have that I’m-so-sexy-don’t-give-me-a-ticket charm.

I spent the last five minutes of the ride lecturing my boys on never drinking and driving.

In the past three decades, I’ve been in three car accidents, none of them my fault. Twice, old ladies hit me. Seriously old, the last one was. I had to do a triple-take of her driver’s license, after she sideswiped my van running a red light. 1913! I kept thinking I was reading the birthdate wrong.

Only I would get hit by a ninety-eight year old woman! Statistically how many people in their late nineties are still driving? Or even alive? The other time an old lady spun out on the freeway and hit me head on in the fast lane. But I think she was in her forties, then. I’m in my forties now. Back then, when I was nineteen, she seemed super old.

The time after that, I was rear ended at high-speed on the highway by a man who not only had no driver’s license but who was in the country illegally. He was very apologetic.

I’m certain there are angels up somewhere, like in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, whom get a good kick out of watching my life play out.

Sometimes I think I am some pawn in the Matrix, or, at minimum, a major character in some crazy person’s dream.

Speaking of cars. I was a bit naïve a few years back, when I was still single.

I like words. I tend to obsess. And when I bought a red Mustang on a whim, only because I thought the Mustang was pretty, I obsessed about the license plate for three days straight. I wanted the plates to be personalized and charming, and creative. I came up with several ideas. I can still see the long list, and picture myself asking people’s advice. Oh, the old me was so embarrassingly innocent.

It came down to two choices: Red Apple (I was a teacher) or FASTEN8.

I chose FASTEN8 because I thought the word was so clever. To me, the fasten meant to fasten a seatbelt, and the 8 was one of my favorite numbers. And I thought my car was fascinating, and actually that my whole creation of FASTEN8 was fantastic!

My husband was the one who finally explained to me, some two years later, why men would slow down, nod their head and wink at me, when I was driving my Mustang. I thought the looks were because of the nifty spoiler I put on the end of my car or the new moonroof. Did I mention I was obsessed with my car?

My husband was kind when he explained: “When people read FASTEN8, Honey, they aren’t thinking about seatbelts and how clever you are.”

“They aren’t? What are they thinking of then?”

Insert what you think my husband said here: ___________________________

“Oh? Oh. OH!!!!”

I don’t personalize my license plates anymore.

Things LV wanted me to briefly mention about the trip to the gym today:

  1. Why aren’t spider veins in fashion? Almost all the naked ladies in the locker room have them on their legs.
  2. Why do all the naked people choose to not shut the shower curtain when they shower? It’s one quick pull of the curtain.
  3. Oh, this is what a steam room is like. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. Where is the door? I’m getting flashbacks of that bathroom scene in Charlie’s Angels where they tried to kill Jacqueline Smith with steam! At least I won’t see any naked people, if they come in here.
  4. Is this what swimmer’s ears feels like? Can I die of swimmer’s ear? Everything is echoing. “Helloooo.”
  5. As long as I keep my eyes closed, no naked people will come into the whirlpool.
  6. I’m sexy and I know it! I work out!

Sponge Bob I’m Sexy and I Know It!

31 Jokes for Nerds!


Double Rainbow!
Everyday Aspergers
Today's view from our window
Thank you readers for your kindness and support!

Day 65: Blue

| Aspergers Girls

three womenhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VILWkqlQLWk

Blue is the color for April’s Autism Awareness Month. Proud moms are coloring their hair blue. Kids’ pictures on Facebook are tinted blue. People are donning blue ribbons and displaying blue symbols. I thought this short story, entitled Blue, was fitting for the cause.

I wrote this piece several years ago, as part of a manuscript.  I have since broken the manuscript into several short stories. Some of which I share on this blog.

Learning to write took a lot of hard work and practice. In the beginning, I wrote every single day (but one day in April) for a year. I was still a terrible writer then, in my opinion, entirely obsessed with my works, and reading my prose to anyone who would listen.

After the first year of writing, I spent another year editing. Then another year rewriting. Then another rewriting, yet again. I calculate that I spent fifteen hours on each page of the two hundred fifty pages. My biggest hinderance to writing was  my dyslexia and difficulty seeing errors. Also, I had a tendency to mix up words and punctuation, and a habit of rambling. (Smiling.)

I hope you enjoy this story.

Blue 

Everything inside was blue—the seats, the ceiling, the floor, even the steering wheel.  I tugged on a string from the backseat cover, wrapping layer upon layer of blue taught around my finger.  This mid-afternoon it was my tiny index finger which turned a slight shade of indigo.

“Nothing to get hung about,” Mother sang out smiling happily, as if the coming rain had already washed away her worries.  She didn’t have a singing voice, never had, but the effort and soul were there, the wanting to sound good, and the need.  Inside the rearview mirror, her eyes the color of amaretto, glimmered, reflecting the narrowing sunlight. From the backseat I hummed along to Strawberry Fields Forever and jingled my clear-red plastic piggybank in the air, lifting him high and turning his gaze outside.

High atop the rolling grassy hills the enormous oaks stood like rows of fresh cut broccoli, rich and green—the bold color before the broccoli is boiled to a dull olive.  In the shadows of the day tall eucalyptus trees were sprinkled between the weathered fruit stands; their silvery leaves rustling, fluttering up and back, yielding to the autumn wind.  I winked one eye, then the next and then winked several times again to form patterns of gray, brown and green.  A gust of moist wind pushed in through the partially-opened side window, tossing Mother’s chestnut hair and bringing a sharp scent of diesel smoke and wet asphalt… (full story available in the book Everyday Aspergers)

 

© Everyday Aspergers, 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. https://aspergersgirls.wordpress.com

Day 64: All Things Feminine

| Aspergers Girls

I’ve named my new laptop Samantha Craft II. It’s not narcissistic, if that’s what you think, because Samantha Craft is my blogging name. Which only makes me pseudo-narcissistic.

I’m reporting to you from the comfort of my living room couch. I’ve removed myself from the dungeon of our study—a box-of-a-room with no windows, set in the center of our daylight basement. Daylight is not literal. I live in Washington State.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to have the office space, and a room that is entirely dedicated to computers, books, and piles of mundane paperwork. But with the surfacing of my vampire-like traits, (since moving here), my windowless office exaggerates my radically pale complexion and morbid (but intriguing) thoughts of luxury coffins.

I will be visiting my huge iMac computer (that I adore) soon. But for now, I write in blissful comfort. Truth be told, I do, in a slight way, feel like I’m cheating on my virtual iMac boyfriend. Though, I think I’d like to make my laptop a girl, only because we need more female energy in this house; and my laptop could feasibly be my new “Get up and go Gal,” since my best friend, who lived the next door over, moved to Connecticut!

I’m still suffering from abandonment issues. Sigh.

I am officially a lounge lizard. My tongue feels longer. I thought of posting a photo of my tongue, because it is substantially long and I can almost touch the tip of my nose. But who knows what type of weirdos are out there, what they might conclude. I don’t want anyone thinking I have a big, long nose!

(When I first wrote the sentence above, I accidentally substituted knows for nose. I crack myself up to no end.)

I sense Crazy Frog popping in with his quirkiness—something about wanting to make the laptop an actual female lizard and his potential mate for life.

I do sense this laptop has feminine energy. Although, I’m noticing the word feminine bothers me. Mainly because I’ve been indoctrinated with all of those feminine napkin commercials and advertisements since birth! Anyone else harbor word-issues as a result of massive advertisement campaigns?


I’ve discovered I’m not so strange after all! According to Live Science in cooperation with Scientific America, people are prone to assign a gender to inanimate objects and people see odd numbers as male and even numbers as female. Take that! You mental health professional of the past who raised a brow at the fact that number three IS a male! Seems I’m not such an odd duck after all. Or rather we are all odd ducks together.

By the way, if you Google feminine napkins, a lot of information about Cooties shows up!

“Disposable menstrual pads grew from Benjamin Franklin’s invention designed to save soldiers with buckshot wounds.” Who knew!

This YouTube has an inappropriate word at the end. I just pretended I was at a comedy show.

My feelings aren’t so far off the mainstream when the whole feminine napkin icky-feeling-word is concerned.  In a research study, mentioned in Psychology Today, when a package of cookies in a shopping cart was touching a box of feminine napkins, participants viewed the shopping cart significantly less desirable, when compared to the other participants who had viewed the cart where the two packages were not touching.

More on Feminine:

While learning French in high school, and again in college, I was fascinated that the English language does not use gender nouns; and more so in awe that other languages do have gender nouns. By the way, I can only speak ten French words now and translate the one English sentence “I only eat the vegetables” into French.

In English all nouns are neutral and the gender is shown through the form of the word. However, in a quick review of some gender-based nouns, I’m realizing that oftentimes the female counter part is not used at all or implies a derogatory statement.

Take these for example:

actor – actress          (Actor is used often for both.)

bachelor – spinster    (Spinster…such a nice word.)

billy – nanny             (Have you ever hired a billy?)

bull – cow                (We eat the cow.)

dog – bitch               (No explanation needed.)

leopard – leopardess (Is that the sexy term for leopard?)

peacock – peahen     (I’ve been calling all those females peacocks!)

Le champion des dames (detail), 1451.
Martin Le France (1410-1461), Public domain. From: W. Schild: Die Maleficia der Hexenleut, 1997.

According to Maxson J. McDowell,

(Is that a cool name or what? Oh! That’s my iMac’s name! Yes, it is. Starting now.)

According to Maxson J. McDowell, trolls and witches represent repressed or split-off feminine.

That’s encouraging. (Sarcasm). Does that mean when I lose aspects of my feminine self I become a witch or troll? If that is the case, then I am firmly sticking with Princess Vampirette Abyss. Watch out ladies. Keep painting those fingernails, dying that hair, buying those push up bras, plucking those brows, shaving those pits—don’t turn into a troll.

My idea of feminine? On the Internet I found images of big busts, hour-glass figures, Marilyn Monroe, flesh, flowers, pale-skin, big lips…

Personally I like the YouTube I found of feminine burping collection. Although now, I swear my coffin-study, that I’ve now returned to, smells like pickles and beer.

Don’t blame me! You signed up for this!