Day Eighteen: A Sports Bar Induced Stroll Down Memory Lane —

 

Oh boy! Did you luck out! I ranted on and on about fake cheese, before I forced my finger to hit delete. Little voice protested, but I prevailed.

Thank you for being there. I pictured you listening to my witty prose. Fortunately for you, I erased the massive mess that oozed out of my brain. If I’d typed on a typewriter for an hour, and used whiteout to correct all my spelling errors, I’d be phoning you, and reciting the entire post. Like I said, you totally (born and raised in California) lucked out! Seriously! Wipe the sweat off of your forehead and shout Amen!

I have to be fair and offer out that not all my posts are going to be Bambi-Little-April-Shower-happy. The song I would jump up and down on my bed to, when I was five. I’m listening to the song as I type.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=168kHWL-GXw

Okay, it’s hard to type to this beat!

Boy, talk about a repetitive song.

Memories flowing back.

So lovely….

Wait.

Scary music? Haunted house, theme-park ride music?

Okay, bad analogy: Little April Shower is not as chipper as I remember.

I didn’t sleep well, and blame the tossing and turning on the fake cheese. I went to a bar yesterday—that’s where the fake cheese came in. (This was written on Thursday, so it was actually the day before yesterday. Not that it matters, but I’ve got that whole honesty thing going on.)

I had some quesadillas that probably wouldn’t have qualified as food.

A bar? Are you crazy? Perhaps. (I’m serious. No smiling!)

A group of classmates at the university, that studious-me attends, were headed out for a celebration. (I just deleted an entire paragraph about my theories of why people drink. Another Amen.) This was my first invite to a bar in eons. My little voice (inside my head) was excited, and she said: “OH, this could be a fun experiment! We could blog about it!”

She was all sweet and convincing, and giving me all these facts, like I need to be brave and bond with my peer group. We had a little argument, little voice and I, as I stood in the elevator, stuck and not going anywhere with four of my classmates. After a good four minutes, I said, “Hey. Did anyone press the number one?” We all had a good laugh, and little voice used that as further nectar for her warped plan.

When I arrived at the noisy, crowded sports bar, the only place left to perch was in the far corner; which would have been tolerable, maybe even preferred, except I had to sit by two gentlemen from class. And my least favorite social thing to do in the whole entire of all the universe, both discovered and undiscovered, is to engage in small chat with men, particularly men I hardly know. In retrospect this situation easily merited me ordering a glass of wine.

But, nooooo! little voice was adamant that I had to be the real me, and not compromise my normal behavior in order to attempt to fit in. (She’s on some trip with that lately. It’s rather annoying. Years of functioning without recourse through role-playing and pretend, and now she has to go and be all real.) Thusly, against my really-wanting-booze judgment, I ordered a Shirley Temple. And then, to torture little voice, I ate two, very-bad-for-me cherries. While little voice was going on about the red dye health hazards of cherries, I ignored her and pictured myself cuddled up at home watching the series Breaking Bad.

But soon, I was interrupted with the same old tapes playing in my head, (or cd’s or Blu-Ray discs): What to say? How to say it? When to say it? How to sit? Where to look? When to smile? Blah, blah, blah.

I did receive a table-full of laughs when I mistook the miniature trivia, game-playing contraption (one of seven the waitress plopped on our table) for an ATM machine. I kept asking, while holding my little blue machine up high, “How does the machine know what I ordered for dinner? What buttons do I press? How does it know me?” Before looking for the slot to put my debit card in.

It’s nice to know that the whole over-my-head quality I had in high school, hasn’t changed. (Sorry…I know I do this a lot. But what does over my head mean, literally? Is it facts flying over me? Am I ducking? If I stood up taller or jumped, would I reach the adequate information?)

I ordered a Shirley Temple, instead of my standard water (usually bottled or sparkling, but bars usually don’t have that. I think it’s a conspiracy to make me order alcohol). I ordered a S. Temple, because in first grade, I lived right around the block from Shirley Temple Black. I used to walk up to her wrought iron gate, daydreaming about getting her autograph for my spy notebook, and try to figure out why she changed her name. I ordered the soda, for the sole purpose of saying: Shirley Temple. But no one knew that. Just like no one knew I can’t stand soda.

The bar visit wasn’t as terrible as it could have been. I managed the small talk, okay. Overall, I’m pretty darn proud of me, and even thankful to little voice, (just don’t tell her), because I faced a huge fear without a best friend, or even a friend, by my side.

As I was sharing with you, just now, I was reminded of my love of Shirley Temple’s: On the Good Ship Lollipop. I can still feel my feet pressing into the golden fibers of our shag carpet. And visualize my dog, Justice, a black mutt, dancing around with me. The way dogs dance.

I was obsessed with the Pledge of Allegiance back then, and would recite the entire pledge, just to get to the line: And Justice for All! That’s when Justice would come running to me. It was a game I played several times a day. It wasn’t until years and years later, when I was in my early twenties, that I realized And Justice for All was the last line of the pledge. For some reason I thought the line came earlier. I made my friends and relatives say the entire pledge, too. That’s how things worked at my house. We pledged to my dog. That’s saying something; now isn’t it?

While dancing with Justice, I had a difficult time picturing Shirley Temple’s Lollipop Ship, and trouble understanding how a ship was good.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1r4bbgv1If8

I think, if I’d had an inner-Blu-Ray-disc playing back then, I would have seen the ship as a cross between the Love Boat and the S.S. Minnow (Gilligan’s Island.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2XfQo1YguY (copy and paste for Gilligan’s Island)

Every chance I had, I would watch Gilligan’s Island. The show was great exercise for my brain. I thought: Why did they pack all those things on a tiny ship for a three-hour trip? How did all those clothes and furniture fit on the tiny ship? Why wasn’t my favorite Mary Ann in the opening scene? And why didn’t Gilligan get to be the leader of the gang? I mean, he was a mighty sailor man and fearless. And the entire island was named after him!

I guess since I’ve provided this whole telling about my childhood music and television show fixation, I might as well include the lyrics/song I would scribe in pencil on my desk, every single day as a freshman in Massachusetts. Everyday I wrote, then erased. I desperately missed California. At home, I would play the song over and over on my record player and later in my head. Even with my dyspraxia and dyslexia, I memorized the song to perfection. Little voice sang the lyrics all the time. Oh, listening to the words now brings me back. Makes me want to cry for that little girl in a strange state (as in Massachusetts).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUbTW928sMU

In the end, my short trip to the sports bar paid off, after all. I was able to share some of my favorites and take a trip down memory lane. Thanks for taking the trip with me, and for packing lightly.

Day Seventeen: You Rock, Aspergers Girls

It’s 7:00 a.m. and I’m wide awake, even though the chickadees (my kiddos) don’t have to go to school today—which means no hustle and bustle dance this morning. I love the night before school holidays or the weekends. As my head hits the pillow, I let out a huge sigh of relief, knowing I will have no restrictions first thing in the morning. But, I have to be very careful (and I mean very), because without a schedule, I tend to turn into a dog, or more liken to a cat, and I develop this keen ability to lounge around the house all day. Oh, I still stretch, and move from one piece of furniture to the other, eat some kibbles and lap up some water, and even partake in minimal grooming. And when I’m in my true element, I try to look all cute and cuddly, in hopes of acquiring a backrub from my hubby, after he returns from a long day at work. I know…super bad kitty!

Now, I’ve backed spaced, and am sitting here wandering… I confuse wondering with wandering; probably because I am always wondering about something or another. Maybe I’ve hit upon something: mainstream people wander about and Aspies’ wonder about. We just got the words mixed up; that’s all.

I need to think of a word for when I digress, and then return to what I was saying, back to the time before my brain peeled away from the curb (image that is confusing this brain), and left me standing with huge bags of groceries (filled with a lot of information). Mean brain.

Backspace won’t work, because when I backspace I delete all the ingredients simmering in my mind—or fermenting like old fruit. Picturing the green and white moldy fuzz I often find on oranges at the bottom of the fruit bowl. Wondering/Wandering if you ever find old fruit.

The word Back up could feasibly play the part, except when I picture the word backup, as I do picture most words in my brain…(Brain=big squishy mass like those stress balls you squeeze. If you have one. But with carved out ridges on it. And I mean if you have a stress ball, because I’m assuming you have a brain. But you know what they say about “assume.”)

I still remember learning the ass-u-me trick from Felix on The Odd Couple. I chuckled at seeing the word ass on television. The word was written on some board I think, or paper. Oscar and Felix were interesting characters to study. But I liked to study Mr. Rogers, the most. Hey, one time I heard that Mr. R was a navy seal. That was tough because that image, that of Mr. Rogers all dressed mysteriously-like in black, or some other secret-tough-awesome-guy outfit, very much jangled my brain—that squishy stress ball.  See, I can go full circle without even trying.

And you thought I didn’t have a point. The jokes on you. Another one of those sayings!!! Irks me to know (no) end, because my stress ball is now thinking where is the joke actually stuck on you? I’m thinking your shoulder and there’s an archetypal wad of gum there signifying the joke.  No offense. At least I didn’t put the gum in your hair, like the time…

Now I want you to know, that I purposely rambled on so you would see my vital point about requiring some sort of way to Back Up.

And if you believe that, then the joke is on you, and you probably haven’t read any other parts of my blog! This time, the gum on your shoulder is watermelon-flavored Bubble Yum. The flavor doesn’t last as long, but the smell is Yummy. As long as you don’t have food sensitivities and smell sensitivities like me, then the watermelon-gum smells all-fake and chemically (that’s a word?); please back away. I can’t stand the smell. Thanks.

1)   If you can remember what we were talking about (aka: what I was typing about), then you have an awesome short-term memory and do not have dyspraxia!

2)   If you have to scan back up to the first line of the second paragraph and regroup, then you know what it feels like to live in my squishy stress ball.

Now, that I’m thinking about that whole self-manifestation/visualize your destiny mumbo-jumbo, (Not that I don’t believe in active visualization—I just like that word mumbo-jumbo, because I picture little clams playing the drums in a Cajun band. Don’t ask me why.), I’m wondering/wandering if I ought to maybe picture my brain as something other than a stress ball—like maybe at least transferring the image over to a squishy world ball or a water balloon. Any ideas on how I might visualize my brain? If you’re laughing, I don’t want your suggestions.

I don’t have to scan to the top of this post, to know what I was writing about in the very beginning, before I so trade-markedly transgressed, even though I have dyspraxia, because the remainder of my written words are still below this string of letters on my computer screen, from before I had to back up. (That’s a long sentence.)

Very conveniently my thoughts are still here in black and white. Very thankful, as I’ve long forgotten from whence (I like that adverb: picturing a stuffy old English, as in UK, professor. Not that I think your stuffy, if your English. Just stereotyping the professors, like I was stereotyped when I moved to Massachusetts and everyone called me surfer-girl. Still irks me that they didn’t even know what an OP shirt was.)

Hmmmmm….. In analyzing myself this morning, I’m thinking, when I don’t have to get up early, and worry about all the sensory issues involved in starting my day, that I get sort of giddy and humorous, and fun to be around, and because of that I am more relaxed, and it’s easier to be myself. And lucky for you that means you get to read an entire post that never actually went anywhere, except in one big circle.

For you in the slow group, let me connect the dots. No offense if you were ever in a slow group at one point or another in your life. That was unfair for people to put you there. I’m visually patting you on the back…and pulling off the wadded gum. Do you want to chew it?

1)   For you in the slow group, let me connect the dots (Deja vu! Weird!): On the days my boys don’t have school, and on weekends, be prepared to perhaps read only the first and last paragraph of my posts.

2)   Unless you are in the advanced group, then you might figure out it is in your best interest to skip the post entirely.

3)   For those of you that are still confused, I give you permission to press the like button without actually looking at the words on any given page. Also, I give you permission to send the link to a relative—let’s say (since I already stereotyped) a person like your mother-in-law, and tell them: “This is the most deeply insightful post, I have every read in my entire life.” Say it, just like that. And then wait…wait…wait on it! And just see what festers. Kind of like the old fruit at the bottom of the bowl.

4)   And let me not forget the marvelous Aspies. You move to the top of the class! Yes, you do. Because you not only understand this post but you seriously get it. And you’re so happy because you found a new best friend!

For all you who have stayed with me this entire post, let us pause for self-applause, a little pat on the back, a little “You Rock!” aloud.

Say it. “You Rock _________.” Slow group: insert your name on the blank line. Okay, try again.

Finally, back to the dangling sentence from fifty minutes ago. As I was saying, (Dang, I have to scan up to see the other part of the sentence. Just a second.) All right, I found it. It’s in the second paragraph. (All right should be one word, already!)

I’m doing the cool walk, acting like this was all supposed to happen, this rambling on and on and on. I’m picturing my teenage son, who struts like he’s all that (odd saying), and wondering/wandering how I could think fourteen-year-olds were mature, when I was younger and kissed one.  Like super young, fourteen myself. Not an adult. Yuck!

Anyhow, so (I like the word so—leftover rebellion from my youth: SO? Accompanied by eyes rolling up and lips pressed together. Oh, oh, I know like that one multiple personality alter in that show The United States of Tara. )…Anyhow, so, right now, (in my head), I’m doing my inner cool strut, thinking I’m all that, to avoid the inevitable of appearing like a rambling fool, and seriously (another word I like. Won’t get into the visual), and seriously wondering/wandering how to put the pearls back on the string of this conversation.

Note how I called this a conversation. Because for an Aspie—This is a conversation! High-five to my Sista! (That’s Tara again. Watch the show, if you need to know.)

There’s just no easy way to do this. Here it is, the rest of my sentence from (let me count), about thirteen paragraphs ago. Look for IF.

{Here’s the sentence where we left off, from atop the post:} “Now, I’ve backed spaced, and am sitting here wandering… ”

“… IF super bad kitty” is some type of saying the mainstream uses to indicate the unmentionable on my G-rated blog. Pondering. Evaluating. Thinking, I’ll have to double-check with my husband. Just in case there is any confusion: super bad kitty, in my book (which is so darn thick) means extremely inconsiderate cat. There that’s better. I had naughty, and had to strike that, too. Oh, bother!”

Confusing. Isn’t it? I’m nodding, knowing the words came out of my squishy stress ball…I mean globe ball. I’m holistic and earthy now.

I was so excited to write to you this morning that I just now pulled out the earplug from my right ear. I couldn’t before, as I was caught up in this deep insightful prose! (Note this is the last paragraph that the slow group will be reading, as mentioned in number one above. So let them think it’s insightful. Don’t burst their bubble—or stress ball…or water balloon. You get the picture. And that’s why: You Rock, ____________!

(Slow group, insert your name on the line.)

* So far the main insight I’ve gained, by venturing to create this blog, is that I am particularly fond of the words: so, sort of, kind of, see, saying, anyhow, for, and wandering.  Somehow that doesn’t seem like progress?? Oh, and the words seem, like, and oh.

Day Fifteen: Rules and Other Ramblings


Masseuse just phoned to report, in a crackling-croaky voice, that she is sick.  My little inside voice immediately whispered loudly: Glad it’s not me! Then the little voice reminds me I ought to have empathy, while little voice is still whisper-singing, “Glad it’s not me…glad it’s not me…glad it’s not me.”

Changes my schedule for this morning. But I’m not in a hectic state. No panic pansy here.  I’m not. It’s just a little glitch, a little change, and I’ve already adjusted my written schedule for the day. Scratched out relaxing, take-me-away massage, and replaced with the word blog. Blog isn’t a nice sounding word, is it?

Anyhow, thankful I’m not a faucet-nose hacking up snot-colored blobs today.

I’m thinking I don’t have to put “other ramblings” in the title of anything I write. It’s seriously a given. But I’ll leave the words there, for those first timers, as kind of a warning for what’s ahead, like those hazard signs on the road. Danger. Proceed with Caution: Unpredictable Conditions Ahead. I was thinking (big surprise there) that could be the title of my entire blog. But then I was thinking (at a deeper level) that could be the sign for life.

Truthfully, don’t bottlefeed me the shows Love Boat and Fantasy Island, and then wean me with The Brady Bunch. Just start me with the strong stuff. Give me Jaws and Friday the 13th Part Three in 3-D, from day one. ‘Cause that’s what life’s about, isn’t it—watching out for the sharks and whose behind the mask!

You think that’s what life is? You might ask.

I know, I know, I’ve read all those spiritual, feel-good, do-good books. It was a grand fixation last year. I read 100 books in roughly eight months time; give or take a day. So, yeah, I’m experienced with creating your own reality and all that jargon. And I respect and gravitate toward the Buddhist take on here and now, compassion and forgiveness, and uphold the values of Jesus. Delete. Backspace. Delete. Excuse me for a moment, I just rambled on and on about how Jesus is not a bad word and that the religious right-wingers are to blame….and that took us way, way off track. Suffice to say: Delete. Return.

Where was I? Backup. Before Jesus, books, movies, ramblings, snot and schedules, what was my main point? Oh Crap! (My little voice’s favorite saying.) I never wrote a topic sentence! Hail Mary full of grace. Quick sign of the cross. And by now I’ve chased away any devil-worshipers and Jesus-freaks. No offense Jesus, for hyphenating your name with freaks. Amazing the power of words.

Caution. If a person can’t take a joke, he or she probably isn’t going to like this blog. Having Asperger’s and a long string of comorbid conditions that resembles one of those Cheerio cereal necklaces, I laugh to survive. Especially at myself….and you (just kidding).

No topic sentence. No great lead in. No contests. No promises. I’ve probably lost half my blog followers by now. Weep. Weep. Just curious: Do you ever ask yourself why you are following a thing called a blog? I keep thinking of the Blob (‘cause it rhymes, and that’s what’s probably coming out of my masseuse’s nose)—the horror—the fear. I’m so utterly grateful I was raised primarily in the 70’s, with all the access to horror—especially glad my mom dragged me to see Dawn of the Living Dead, when I was all of ten. Yep. I’ll post that recollection sometime. For now, just type terrifying, highlight it; scan up with your mouse to Tools, and then Thesaurus, look under Synonyms (which I can’t spell, but makes me think of toasted bread) and that will just about cover it. And I’m only referring to the disgusting sticky floor where I was huddled in fear. The movie?

Oh dang it! This post was supposed to be about rules and how having a blog when I’m self-imposing a bunch of rules on myself, like only one post a day, and don’t miss a day, blah, blah, blah, is so stressful and draining. And now I’ve typed this whole prose without mentioning rules at all. What is my life coming to?

Oh, and just one more thought, I have to squeeze in, really quick, since you wasted all this time on my babble anyhow. When I typed the word Thesaurus earlier, it reminded me of the word dinosaur, which reminded me of this funny standing joke. (Ouch, that hurts my brain. I don’t understand how a joke can stand.) Well years back, when I was pregnant with my first born, my hubby and I would sit up in bed late at night talking and joking, while trying to come up with a perfect name for our firstborn son. Anyhow, my husband’s grandpa’s name was Ottis and my Nano’s name was Horace. And together we arrived at: Ottis Horace, a new breed of dinosaur! Say it. Just try it. It rolls of the tongue and can’t help but make you smile. And truthfully, that’s what life is really about—connections and smiles.

Time to wrap it up folks. I’ve got a self-imposed schedule to follow. Namaste or whatever rocks your boat! (What does whatever rocks your boat mean?……)

Day Fourteen: The Proverbial Foot in the Mouth (Both Feet)

 

For Day Fifteen, I wanted to write about Death Terror; you know that gripping existential fear that we subconsciously all suppress but that surfaces in subliminal ways in our waking hours. Or in my pathetic case, the all-encompassing dread that bypasses the subconscious and just haunts me pretty much 24/7.

But I figured Death Terror would be just a little bit too bleak for Valentine’s Day.

I tinkered with writing about this term I’ve coined Flash-Sense, the sensation a person has when he or she gets a flash from the past, an extreme sensory experience that seemingly connects the past to the present in one blast. But that would have been a long boring list of all these fragmented memories that have been coming back to me locomotive-speed-fast, since my diagnosis of ASD. And although, I super-dee-duper love lists, and will gladly write you one anytime, (and edit your diary while I’m at it), I didn’t think a list of my current flash backs would interest you much.

And so I asked myself, what would make me happy to read on Valentine’s Day? I scratched out (in my mind) the idea of love and gushiness—‘cause seriously how many people want to read about a middle-aged married woman proclaiming her love for her husband? (Besides my mom.) Nope. Scratched that one.

And thus, I was left with the old fall back, something I’ve always been super good at doing; it’s one of those hidden talents that catches people by surprise. Sort of like a cute cuddly kitten hacking up a fur ball on your new carpet. Yes, I thought for Valentine’s Day, I’d treat you to one of the most embarrassing moments in my life, and then we could all laugh together; and maybe you might offer out some of your secrets; especially if you’re not going to let me edit your diary, quite yet.

I’m thinking you’re with me on that one. I mean about skipping the whole Death Terror prose; although, doesn’t it sound a little intriguing?

But alas, instead, my fine friends, the story I shall scribe for attentive audiences involves the wonderful magnificent Asperger’s trait of NO CLUE WHATSOEVER. (Write that in your silly-old DSM-V, Stupid Heads.) Did I make that clear enough?

Here it is, the story, The Proverbial Foot in my Mouth.

(And still she digresses???) I will say, it’s not as bad as the time I told my roommate’s brother, in passing (whom had just graduated from college with a teaching credential): “Congratulations, the chances of you getting hired are great, since you’re an ethnic minority and a male!”  But it’s pretty close.

And then there was the time, just three months ago, (love you number three), that I asked my son’s math teacher, while I was working with the students in her middle school classroom, “Do you actually like math?”

And after she responded with an adamant, but very odd-sounding, “yes,” I still (perpetually clueless) responded, “Really? I don’t.”

Hmmm? And I hadn’t yet figured out I had Asperegers? Go figure.

This story is similar, only time stood still, in the way it stands still while you’re waiting for that call from the doctor about those tests, or waiting for that special someone to return your call, or waiting for your dog to take a poop in the rain, and tugging and tugging at his leash, but he just won’t finish, and you forgot your jacket, and you’re soaking wet, and cursing at yourself because you’re still not used to the Pacific Northwest weather….yes, that last one, that’s the ticket—that’s a clear reflection of the inner agony of everlasting time that victimized poor little clueless me.

Once, not too long ago, (in a far away suburban neighborhood with little trees that hadn’t yet grown tall and lots of concrete), my friendly neighbor, the type that’s always kind and willing to lend a hand, well, he returned from a trip that he had taken back to his home of origin in another country.

And me, in my infinite blindness, having been caught in the front yard by said kindly neighbor, (before I had time to duck behind the bushes and sneak into the backyard), graciously accepted my predicament, and partook in the ritual of small talk. (Definition: What people do when they’re connecting out of courtesy and societal norms, but they don’t have anything substantial they want to offer out at the moment, because they don’t trust or know the person, or worse, don’t want to bother. But they know they’re supposed to, so they talk anyways; even though it’s typically meaningless, and both partners know they really could care less; but they are sort of stuck, so have to proceed anyhow.)

Returning to the story.  Me and my neighbor (and I mean me and my neighbor, not my neighbor and I—because let’s get real, this encounter was all about me—my processing, my nervousness, my fear. The guy in the jeans and white t-shirt, he was kind of an afterthought.)

Starting again. (You are so patient. Has anyone ever told you that?)

Me and my neighbor, we were engaging in this dance I like to call the Small Talk Tango. (Insert music here. Any type you like. I’ll adjust to it, and probably make it my favorite eventually, if you’ll be my best friend.)

Begin:

First I wave.

Then he waves.

Then I look at my shoes; they need to be cleaned.

Then I notice my face heating up in embarrassment because I am in the presence of another earthling other than immediate family. And he is the male species, which causes me to turn a deeper shade of crimson, than the females cause me to turn.

Then I shuffle ahead; force myself to make eye contact with his chin. (He has a nice chin, but needs a shave.)

Then I search my brain, similarly to how I search on Google, input the words: talking to neighbor + help!

Hit return key.

Downloading.

“I’m fine thank you,” I answer, because he’s spoken somewhere in between the chin and input.

Retrieving Data:

“How was your trip?” I ask.

Steady and appropriate tone. Check.

My little inner voice supporting the process shouts: Good Job!

Quick, high-risk glance at male species’ brown eyes.

Return to chin.

Closed mouth, medium-sized grin. (Deleting image of full mouth with big teeth from brain.)

“Great,” my neighbor answers. (He’s a fast processor.)

Pause.

Time to insert remaining string of data.

I offer, in a happy-go-lucky, I’m-as-cute-as-a-puppy, tone: “I bet you’re glad to be back!”

Fumble.

Need more data.

Recovery.

“Because…”

Thinking. Keep it real and simple.

“Because…because…

…because it’s so much cleaner here!”

Smile with some teeth, offering out support.

Wondering if I flossed the spinach out.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

He’s not responding.

His face is curling into itself.

Kind neighbor does not look so kind.

He sort of looks like I told him his zipper was undone.

What’s that look?

Oh, crap!

The running voice in my head speaks louder. (The running voice is that little inner voice; the voice that sounds like me; at least the voice that sounds like me when I speak inside my head; which is actually different from the voice you hear with your ears; so you’ll never know what my inner voice sounds like; thus the thoughts of existential isolation and death terror resurfacing…)

Oh, crap!!

Oh, double crap! !

Inner voice retreating, abandoning ship, leaving me no raft.

Silence.

Blinking red light; beware.

Responding to the alarm.

Insert something to break never-ending, dog-relieving-self-in-the-rain silence.

“I only mean… I’ve heard it’s so…

…so…

..dirty there.”

Emphasis on dirty.

Sigh.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Hearing heartbeat in both ears which are both aflame.

Need to escape.

Oh, no!

Epic Fail.

Two strikes and OUT!

He spends the longest minute explaining, in a very diplomatic and kindly manner, the error of my comment, while I break into the equivalent of ten thousand pieces, each piece shouting out the way I should have small-talked.

Lots of chatter in my head. But no reliable inner voice, still.

Big smile. No teeth. No words.

Big wave of hand.

Stepping back.

Big nod.

Stepping back.

Can’t feel face. But I think I’m still grinning.

Another big nod.

And a final lie.

“Great catching up.”

Turning around.

“Walk slowly, so you don’t appear like you’re in a paniccasual-like,” little voice, inside head, offers, in a meek little tone, knowing she’s in deep doo-doo. Her, and whomever runs the Google in my head.

Silence.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

More silence.

“Sorry,” little voice whispers.