If I was to turn back the pages of my life, to the first calm months at my stepfather’s house, my days would appear wonderfully simple and sweet, and in truth they were. It was a time when a gentle thread of calm and security weaved through my days. A brief moment I fondly remember and continually reflect back upon, perhaps in an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy or to remind myself there was some good.
There weren’t any worries about money. My stepfather Drake was an attorney and helped the city officials acquire land for approved projects, which sometimes meant property owners had to give up their homes. It was rumored much later, when I was an adult, that Drake’s firm was actually responsible for my great-grandmother having to abandon her house in Monterey, California for demolition, to make way for a multi-level parking garage for tourists…
The rest of this story is in the book Everyday Aspergers
1) When a young man says, “I’ll call you,” the statement is often equivalent to “See Ya.” It’s another form of goodbye, where you never see the person again.
2) Just because a man goes to couples counseling with you doesn’t mean he’s not married and also going to couples counseling with his wife.
3) People will most definitely look away and cringe, if you share up close photos of giving birth or breastfeeding. Then they won’t want anything you offer them to eat.
4) When you are a restaurant hostess at a popular night spot, even if your boss says to be honest with the customers about the wait time for a table, do not smile and say: “That will be about 137 minutes.”
5) If one hairdresser tells you that you should always wear bangs, that doesn’t mean you have to wear bangs for the next five years.
6) If a dentist says, “In order to blend in your dead front tooth with your other teeth, the best method would be dyeing all of your other teeth darker,” run and don’t look back.
7) When the orthodontist tells you, as a teenager, to wear the headgear and neckgear for your braces to middle school, don’t!
8) If a boy calls you cow eyes, don’t go home and cry, punch him.
9) When you are little, don’t wear the same hippy dress you love two years in a row for school photos.
10) Don’t play tunnel tag in the short, Italian wool dress your grandma gave you , unless you wear shorts underneath.
11) Tell your mom when you get your period. Don’t wait three months, and don’t use the free, plus-size, super absorbent, expandable tampons that the gym teacher passed out!
12) Don’t buy life insurance and agree to automatic payments from your bank account, and then wait three years to research if the company exists. It doesn’t.
13) If you have just given birth, and you are sharing a hospital room with a new mother who talks nonstop on the phone into the late hours of the night, complain.
14) If you are an elementary school teacher, and spend three hours on a letter of recommendation for one of your fifth grade students, make sure you spell the student’s name correctly, especially if you don’t want to irritate the parents.
15) While a student in middle school, don’t draw pictures of different boys’ body parts, label them with names, descriptions, and insults, and then leave the illustrations behind at your desk on accident.
16) Even if you have dyslexia, don’t put the spelling words for the test inside the pleats of your cheerleading skirt. You will greatly disappoint your teacher.
17) If you have big ears that stick out, and people laugh at them, wear your hair down until you have high self-esteem.
18) If Italian in America, pluck thick Italian eyebrows, and remember Italian only has one letter l.
19) Don’t save a drowning honeybee in a swimming pool; sensing danger, he will buzz super loud warning his friends. His friends will land on your arm and sting you!
20) When a fake blonde, with a fake tan, and fake nails tells you, “You would look pretty with highlights in your hair.” Don’t say, “I prefer the natural look. I don’t like fake things.”
21) If your boyfriend’s mother invites you to a private lunch, with just you and her, and then says in confidence, “Don’t date my son. You are too good for him,” listen.
22) If you have the flu, and are ghastly sick, don’t beg your boyfriend to take you out-of-town to meet his parents for the first time.
23) Don’t date your weight-lifting trainers. Just don’t.
24) If you are getting a haircut as a teenager, and the hairdresser ignores you long enough for your wet hair to dry, before she returns, leave.
25) The movie Fargo is not a good first date movie.
26) Ask Dad before rearranging his entire dining room and living area.
27) Ask Dad before bringing the puppy home.
28) If you are going to miss one day of college for a funeral, you don’t need to write a letter and then cry to the professor in the hallway, in order to be excused.
29) French classes in high school and college are useless as a second language when you live in California.
30) When you have a long-term boyfriend, and you meet someone at the public swimming pool, you don’t give another boy your phone number and say: “I have a boyfriend, but let’s be friends.”
31) When a young teenager says he’s going to travel from his town 100 miles on his bike to come see you, he might just do that. Better to tell him ahead of time, you have a boyfriend and you aren’t interested.
32) If a young teenager says he’s going to drive his car across country to see you as soon as he gets a job, his license, and a car, probably not true, regardless of what he promises.
33) If you write enough letters to a school district office about the hard water from the sprinkler system damaging the paint on your new red Mustang car, when you park in the parking lot at the school where you work, the district will pay for all the employees to have their cars detailed; however, the superintendent of the district will not smile at you ever again.
34) If you consume too much Excedrin, iced tea, and soda at the same time, you will have a caffeine overdose; and to avoid a thousand dollar hospital bill, you will have to convince the health insurance company the trip to the emergency room wasn’t due to a panic attack.
35) If you’re a teacher and the principal says to you, “You should choose between raising a family or being a teacher, you can’t do both well,” sue him.
36) If an acupuncturist tells you about his failed marriages, his mortgage, his childhood, his parenting woes, and then spanks his wife on the butt in front of you, all while you are under treatment atop the table, don’t go back to that acupuncturist. And don’t feel guilty about not going back.
37) Doctors are practicing medicine.
38) You will offend a LDS person by calling them LSD, even if you have dyslexia.
39) Not a good idea to say, “That pisses me off,” in front of an entire fifth grade class, when you are a teacher.
40) No amount of protesting and letter writing or phone calls will keep a principal from assigning you to teach seventh grade, instead of elementary school, if she thinks you are a good teacher, even if you cry and tell her you hated middle school as a child.
41) If you kiss a mean ugly man enough times, he remains a mean ugly man.
42) When you ask a boyfriend, “Should I get a shorter haircut,” and he says, “That depends.” And you answer, “That depends on what,” and he responds, “That depends on if you are planning to lose weight, or not,” run away from the relationship.
43) The joke: When you’re dancing with your honey and your feeling kind of funny, and your nose is kind of runny, but it’s not, isn’t funny after the age of ten.
44) Don’t read your personal diary to fickle teenage girls.
45) When you are a kid, don’t announce to your seventh grade class you are wearing your first training bra.
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:
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.
I’m sorry to T for lecturing you on my thoughts on God after I’d had one to many caffeinated beverages.
I’m sorry to Mom for having a blog where I discussed everything horrible I thought you ever did to me.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
I’m sorry to the drivers I yell at when I say: “Come on! Can you go any slower?”
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.
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)
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:
Why aren’t spider veins in fashion? Almost all the naked ladies in the locker room have them on their legs.
Why do all the naked people choose to not shut the shower curtain when they shower? It’s one quick pull of the curtain.
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.
Is this what swimmer’s ears feels like? Can I die of swimmer’s ear? Everything is echoing. “Helloooo.”
As long as I keep my eyes closed, no naked people will come into the whirlpool.
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!
Everyday Asperger's 
