thoughts

Thirty-Three: The Celery String is Alive! Personification Pondering.

| Aspergers Girls



For those of you wondering: Yes, I do have a life outside of processing what’s going on inside my head. It’s just that, at the moment, what’s going on inside my head is extremely fascinating. Just so you know, I did just return from my city’s quaint downtown, with a cheese puff and apple fritter in hand, from the best bakery this side of the western states. And, I might add, I had a hot brewed cup of coffee with just a tad of nutmeg. This, after partaking in a relaxing venue atop the acupuncturist’s cushioned table. The coffee is about to kick in, so I will try to make this fast, as to not dial into manic-mode. I’m one of those types that given a drop of coffee, becomes frantically intense and even more interesting, in that peculiar, glad-I’m-not her, kind of way. I’ve been known to rearrange an entire room, sometimes clean for eight hours straight, given the adequate amount of particular slow-roasted beverage. Coffee is certainly and enigma of our time. I wonder what substance or activity will eventually replace the black gold as our source of rapture and excuse for social gatherings.

I cried all the way home from the bakery, while balancing my coffee, and listening to Jars of Clay. I’ve listened to the same song some 100 times in the last couple of weeks. Finally thought it was time to share the song. I added the video at the end of this post. Though I have reservations, as the group is Christian. Reservations only because I fret you might not listen for that reason alone. Which is sad. Because I’d like you to hear the song, for no other reason but to connect to my experience and feel supported, by whatever support that brings you peace. (For my thoughts on spirituality/religion press HERE.) Because when I listen to the song I picture us all together in a large non-denominational, unconditional-love stadium, think the 1970’s, with our arms up swaying back and forth to the music, and supporting one another through this experience someone once named life.

Sometimes I picture us holding white candles, until I think of the fumes, the potential fire hazard, and the possibility of wax dripping all over my arm. In my vision, we are weeping, in the same way I wept all the way home this morning while wailing aloud to the song—there has to be a word for that huge release of energy that comes from a good cry, the type of cry that explodes with love and knowing that we are not alone. The type of cry that means: I made it to the other side, and I’m still standing! And here we are standing together.

Anyhow, that’s how I was crying. There has to be a word.  Maybe: vociferating restitution (wailing with gain-based recovery) combined with hue and cry, (loud public outcry). Restferating Hue! That works. I had a huge restferating hue!

Part of the restferating hue was in response to a video clip I watched yesterday. The other part was the freedom I felt in no longer being connected to the heavy energy from the university. And, yet another, very important piece, is being able to connect with people like you. Well, not like you, but YOU.

Today I would like to plan a gargantuan of a party to celebrate the freedom I am feeling. I think of hosting a party quite often, for you all, in my town in Washington, in the best weather-month ever—August.  I’ve said before that I love to plan a party. Not to be at the party, per say, but plan the party.

I imagine the whole of the gathering would be quite the happening. Everything would have to be very well thought out, though. I’m thinking sunglasses and hats, lounge chairs with pillows, soft lightening, definitely name tags, and for certain the use of inside-voices. NO perfumes. NO loud clothing or squeaky shoes. No toenails showing, hair just so, as to not be visually distracting. Sorry, no children—they are far too unpredictable (in a good way).

All attendees need be double-showered, maybe wearing name tags on their backside as well.  And background checks would be beneficial. Crazy frog is laughing! (Press LINGO BUTTON, if you’re new to my rambling.)

I do imagine meeting you. Our conventions would be a hoot. I don’t think I can do the entire dialogue, LV’s got going on in her head, justice, as I’d have to wean out a lot of material that LV is giggling about. But let’s just say there is a lot of sensory-issues and people-watching, and tons of brutal honesty.

“How was your flight?”

“Crappy!”

“What’s your greatest fear?”

“Standing here talking to you!”

“If you could be doing anything right now. What would you be doing?”

“Running the other direction.”

Like I said, LV is having a laughing fit!

The BBC video that LV was all happy and get-up-and-go about, introduced the most precious little girl who spoke about personification. Personification: giving human traits (qualities, feelings, action, or characteristics) to non-living objects (things, colors, qualities, or ideas). For example: The rain-covered window is crying. The verb, crying, is a human action. A window is a non-living object.

This discovery is getting a bit too emotional. Just a minute.

I’m back. Crazy Frog is doing deep breathing exercises, and looks so darn adorable with his green bubble chest inflating so. He’s quite muscular. Let’s all take a deep breath and relax the shoulders, shall we? Better.

I have this thing (there’s no better word I can think of) I do, that I’ve always done, that the little girl in the video does, in a similar fashion.

For the longest time, before knowing other people do this thing, too, I thought I was over-sensitive, connected to another dimension, and/or just plain wacky. Well, even with the discovery, those thoughts haven’t changed.

I’m sure there is some cool British word for wacky. I shall allow Crazy Frog (Lingo) to cut loose from the deep emotional stuff for just a minute.

Crazy Frog is such a Jeeves. (Jeeves = resourceful helper; cool word, right?) He loves Yahoo! Here are some British words for wacky, according to Yahoo! Yes, I know, real alive Brits would be the best direct source, but no Britons happen to be in my house at the moment.

Other words for wacky, British style:

loony

gone off my rocker

nutjob

headbanger

stark raving mad

bonkers

a few sandwiches short of a picnic (cucumber sandwiches?)

completely mental

mad as a hatter

barmy

dippy

total spaz

and my favorite: away with the fairies.

With fairies, I’m thinking a lush green, mossy forest with magical waterfalls and pixie dust sweeping through the air—the smell of honeysuckles and hyacinth flowers.

Wouldn’t you know that hyacinth is my favorite smell, but I can’t pronounce the name. I sound like this when I say the flower name aloud: HIj-sint-HY-sin-t- Hy-nt-sin-ahhhh-ahhhhh. Poop!

I know this wacky list was from Yahoo! So I’m not so certain the list is entirely accurate, but assuming most of the words are, Crazy Frog is thinking, “You Brits have a lot of words for a crazy person.”

Crazy Frog is now trying on different hats, and considering changing his name from Crazy Frog to Sir Barmy. Crazy Frog loves the eccentric, daft, flighty elements of the word. The Daft-Hatter Frog is blowing kisses to himself in the mirror and tipping his hat.

Back up. Scratch that, like there’s no tomorrow. (Sorry if no tomorrow makes you think of the Mayan calendar.)

He just saw that barmy can mean dumbass. He is throwing off tall black hat, and placing daft-hat on nearest politician. I’m liking Crazy Frog.

I’m placing the barmy hat on one of my recent professors whose actions were dumbass in manner. Oops. That kind of slipped out from nowhere. Blame it on the Frog who’s away with the fairies.

So, as I was saying, I do this thing where I personify objects. The little girl in the video clip personified her shoes. She gives objects feelings. If one shoe is on her foot then she feels the other shoe is lonely. And I do the same thing. With shoes, and practically every inanimate object in my world!

For example, this may get a little gross, but if two globs of minty-green toothpaste are clinging on for dear life in my bathroom sink, and one glob is washed down, and the other glob is still there, I feel sorry for the lonely glob! And sorry for the other glob that I washed down the grimy drain, too. Fearing what awaits him. Notice the him. Nothing is an it. There is no it! Which has me thinking, if you haven’t read the children’s classic: A Wrinkle in Time, you ought to. And The Giver, while I’m going there.  Strings, strings, strings. Isn’t it cool, if you’re a regular reader of my ramblings, that you actually get my use of strings?

I even sometimes feel sorry for fruits and vegetables, like when I’m shoving cucumber peelings down the garbage disposal to their impending doom. When I used to fry (massacre) potatoes in a cast iron pan, when I was about the age of ten, the potatoes would make a squealing noise, like they were crying in agonizing, your killing us, pain. It was actually just the horrible sound of oil sizzling, but I felt for those particular potatoes. Sometimes I removed the ones that cried the loudest. But then I didn’t know what to do with them. Because who wants to be put in the garbage?

All this personifying is a big part of the reason eating and cooking, even preparing school lunches, is sometimes hard for me. It’s probably why I don’t ever care to empty a jar completely, or don’t finish the last pages of a book. Who wants to be brought to an end?

Personification is likely why I don’t eat meat; although, oddly enough, I have never felt sorry for chocolate. Except, of course, for the left over chocolate that must join the rest of his commune in my stomach, as soon as possible.

This marvelous discovery, this whole personification thing, explains why the other day, I was actually wondering how the strings of celery must be feeling as they were traveling through my digestive track. Sounds loony, right? I pictured the strings like they were at some waterslide park that ended in a tomb of bubbling stomach acid. Who does that?

Well! Supposedly sometimes some other people with Aspergers do that! So there! LV is sticking out her tongue, which is covered in blue from the jaw-breaker she is sucking on. (I even personify my thought processes!)

It’s okay in my heart that I feel sorry for crumpled paper that didn’t get tossed into the bin, and is now stranded on the floor, because there are other earthlings that feel sorry for the paper too.

What huge compassion I have. If you understand the compassion I have for inanimate objects and food, then image the immense compassion I carry for animals and people! It’s phenomenal.

My blog is personified, too. Bet you didn’t know that. It’s a living breathing entity. And when you are there reading my words you validate its life form. That’s why comments and stats are so important to me. If I know someone’s been here the blog is alive. Writing in a journal isn’t the same. The journal remains lonely and untouched. Get it?

Wow! I’m making huge revelations and connections. Now, the only issue is I have to turn off the study light and leave my poor computer idling in sleep mode, alone in the dark. Maybe you can keep him, Mr. Computer, company while I go frolic with the fairies. And why you are at it, when you make a comment, know you’re keeping Mr. Blog from isolation. Cheerio! (That’s goodbye not a cereal.)

Clarification:  I didn’t use personification in the exact way one is supposed to use the word. Personification references a rhetorical technique, one of many types of figure of speech or metaphor; whereas pathetic fallacy describes a disposition of the mind. ‘Pathetic’ isn’t derogatory; the word pathetic is in reference to being empathetic towards something. To further research look into pathetic fallacy.

Addition: My Blogging British Friend AilienHippy (BBF) added some more wacky words for me: “Barmy, Bonkers, Plonker, Noodle, Wally, Narna and Nutjob.” She does say, “…away with the fairies. And…He’s off his trolley.”  Laughing Housewife added her thoughts, too “…nutter, a bottle short of a six pack.” Schmidleysscribbling (hard one to spell with dyslexia, but a great lady) added: Bodman

Below is the video: Shelter by Jars of Clay. I picture us never walking alone. Upholding one another, and letting our inner light shine! I told you Little Me is a hope-filled melancholic. She can’t help herself.

Thirty-Two: Myttin da!

| Aspergers Girls

Attention folks. I’m using my teacher voice here, and then I will be checking for understanding, and administrating a pop quiz. If you have not read many prior posts, you might want to press the LINGO BUTTON. Repeat back what I said, to avoid further confusion. Thank you and onward!

Side Note: I will be venturing deeper into the realm of my Aspie mind and touching base on more serious issues soon (as in someday), but at the moment, Crazy Frog is buffering me from the insanity that has surrounded me in the last few weeks. So, stay with, if you can, until Crazy Frog retreats some, and we can get down to more serious business. Or not.

I figure one medium-sized chocolate-chip cookie (130 calories of gooey, pure heaven), that I devoured at 5:00 in the evening yesterday, is equal to the loss of thirty-five minutes of sleep.  I had three cookies. Plus my earplugs are defective; that, or my husband, having returned from his leisure business trip, picked up a multiple-of-two on his visit to Arizona, and attached said multiple to his snore factor. Regardless, I couldn’t sleep last night.

And I had chocolate-induced dreams, where I think, if I remember correctly, I was some sort of Star Trek Borg (cybernetically enhanced beings who assimilate other races into their group and devour everything in their path) hooked up to the genius-stream of the all-knowing Google God.

My husband’s snoring sound ZZZ-Zzzz-ZZzzz-hn-oink-GGggoofffh-Ppwwbhww- zZZzzzZZ was the source of the Borg’s power. Right now LV theorizes she can use Borg and Star Trek as search engine terms for this blog, and pick up some more traffic. Attract people to the Geek Posse (Lingo), like those cool characters from The Big Bang Theory television show. Currently, the Big Bang Theory is LV’s and Sir Brain’s salivating-worthy fascination.

Did I mention it’s 5:00 in the morning! I’m thinking Sir Brain is up because of the upcoming IEP meeting (Individual Education Plan) for my middle son at his school this afternoon; that and the fact that LV had this running dialogue (hamping) about our life-forces dependency on my internal organs, and how at any second our heart could decide to give up, or even explode. Sir Brain wasn’t totally freaked out, until LV added the whole aneurism (brain explosion) probability to the equation. That’s when Sir Brain packed two rectangular-1950’s-style suitcases and stood up on his toothpicks legs and said, “I’m out of here.” Until LV explained that he was the brain and couldn’t leave. Which bothered Sir Brain to no end, as he didn’t understand how he wasn’t a separate entity beyond a body organ. LV and Sir Brain are still debating on that one.

I wrestled with the thought of staying in bed, until LV brought me back on the hamster-wheel, and reviewed repeatedly, (think copy machine spitting out 1000 copies), the fact that I didn’t show up to my afternoon college course yesterday.

Thus, I rose with puffy, slit-eyes, appearing as if I’d been born and raised on a planet without sunlight. I mounted the stairs, walking like a zombie, while listening to LV chatter it up, in her California, valley-girl dialect, about how I don’t have to be from another planet, because I live in a little town in Washington State, which is primarily absent of sunlight.

And now I’m here typing, while LV goes over with Sir Brain, (who is frantic about exploding), about how yesterday was the first day in my (count them) 7.5 years of college that I missed a class. I haven’t missed a class (not big into rule breaking), since that time I was a freshman and broke down in front of the professor babbling and bawling like a Fool (picturing tarot card), because I needed to go to my beloved Nano’s funeral that was two-hundred miles away, and I wouldn’t be back in time for the next week’s class. That was in 1986!

So, understandably, LV and Sir Brain are a wee bit perplexed about me basically playing hooky from school. Although, they are quite aware that we have left the university but can’t withdraw officially yet, because we’re waiting (and waiting) to hear back from the authorities that be, to see if I have to spill the beans about how I was woefully treated, before I can get my tuition, (the equivalent of two-month’s mortgage) reimbursed. I’m thinking it’s not too early for a glass of wine or a horse tranquilizer. What’s your opinion?

I had something I was thinking about typing about when I was tossing in bed this morning, but the thought is beyond me now. Prophet in my Pocket is still in his 18th century pajamas and nightcap, attempting to sleep. LV is in la-la land wanting to travel with Sir Brain and his suitcases off on some tangent. And I’m thinking I’d like to take a ride on Elephant and get the heck out of Dodge. (Which I now know the meaning of, thanks to one of Brain’s prior followings of string.)

Thank my lucky stars. I just ran to the phone and received an automated message: Do to icy roads there will be a two hour late start at school.

Crazy Frog just woke up with a jolt. He’s a morning frog. Wide awake. He arose to tell me he is super excited about going back to sleep. He found a song! Almost three million people have seen it! It’s a perfect video: it’s weird, talks about sleeping, and the guy walks like a borg! The first one Crazy Frog found.

I’m not going to let Crazy Frog edit this prose or rouse me any further, as I’m taking Prophet in my Pocket’s cue, and crawling back in bed. “Don’t wake me, I plan on sleeping” (song lyrics). Oh, before I go. One thing that made me laugh this morning, besides the processing of my own brain:

When I was looking up ideas for snore sounds (because I don’t really have a life), I found this article about this lady’s husband who is a chronic snorer. And this novice lady author, she’s rambling on and on, going way off tangent; and then right in the middle of the article she writes, “…and my husband, he’s had lots of wives.” And I stop. Backspace. Reread. Chuckle. Reread again. And pause frozen, completely unable to read the rest of the article, because I’m thinking this chick definitely has Aspergers.

Crazy Frog does how a softer side. He found this. Make Yourself Sleep in 40 Sec. (Don’t show this to children.) Thanks Crazy Frog! You Boob!

Spastic-Colon (my dog) just busted out her doggy-door and is barking at the sunrise. Now she’s back. Must add her to the lingo dictionary, after I get some shut-eye. Which is odd when you think about it, because our eyes never shut—they just get covered in a flap of skin.  Ironically, my alarm clock just went off in the other room. Time to wake up! Myttin da! (That’s Cornish for good morning.)

Thirty-One: Y’all Come Back, Now!

| Aspergers Girls

 

If you missed Day Thirty’s post, it was a doozy (something extraordinary and bazar)! I had to include the definition. My post was extraordinary in that non-boasting way—out of the ordinary for me. Not so much bazar. Did you know Doozy is an Americanism. I am full-on stopping myself from wandering off and researching Americanism, and what words are Americanized; but if you get an itch, I say scratch it!

I always thought doozy came from the word bulldozer, because a bulldozer picks up an extraordinary amount of dirt, and dozer is similar to doozy. I was wrong.

Just last year, I learned that nosey neighbors do not partake in ease-dropping, they eavesdrop. I thought they eased their way into a conversation—that makes so much more sense than standing under the eaves so one can be in close proximity to overhear a conversation. Imagine trying to explain that one word of eavesdrop to a room full of second-language students. I used to teach second-language students. I would fail.  I can’t draw an eave. And don’t get me started on old wives’  tale….seriously? How about my lifelong version: old wise tale. Better, isn’t it?

My mom used to make a celery at her job (salary). I partook in a friendly game of chest (chess), until I was in my early twenties.  My boyfriend at the time found me simply hilarious. Hamburgers were ham-buggers. As in one of my favorite words: bugger-butt—it’s a term of endearment, in my book.

There is actually another human in the world besides me that Googled: when did the word bugger occur.  Oh my, I can’t share the origin here! Probably shouldn’t use it as a term of endearment anymore. No wonder I stopped eating meat. What’s another word for digress? (Laughing.) Digress also means ramble! Who would have known?

Before I so trade-markedly steered off tangent, Day Thirty’s post was the topic. Yesterday afternoon, I was confronted once again with the injustices of the world in regards to the treatment of my son with Aspergers. Pausing.

It’s so hard to write about this, when Crazy Frog is doing the Mexican hat dance in my head.

After the melancholy (but necessity, I might add) of Day Thirty’s post, Crazy Frog is making up in oddity, double-time. He still is trying to figure out where he was when Elephant plunged through. (If you haven’t looked at my lingo, yet. No doubt I’ve lost you. LINGO BUTTON.) There’s an awesome music video on the lingo page

See what I mean: I wrote this line for this post: “My heart was aflame in grief.”

My heart was. It really was. But not now! ‘Cause Crazy Frog is laughing at my words.

This is what Crazy Frog thinks is ridiculous: 

Melancholic Little Me Wrote in reflection of Day Thirty’s post: “As I wrote those words yesterday, a voice rose and spun up from the depths of me like a steel bristle brush. As it moved upwards, the brush swirled round and scraped off all this goop and gunk that had collected and stuck like barnacles to the symbolic-flesh of my very soul. The words excavated, don’t do the experience justice. I don’t know where this new part of me had been hiding, but I reckon she’s a part that was pushed down right about the time I was four years of age. She’s a feisty thing, all done up, like a strong and mighty male elephant, with a silky-sweet interior. She’s the one hiding behind the curtain. “

Here’s where Crazy Frog stepped in to avoid me going into deep emotional, opposite-of-bliss state. Notice how my voice and inflection change: “Anyhow, this voice, she was mighty powerful, and as I think about her I get an odd Southern dialect mixed in with some back-woods cowboy. Crap? Is backwoods cowboy offensive? Oh! It is. In-bred rednecks. Interesting. It’s actually racist; and I didn’t even know. Is it okay to use the words still, since my relatives have the last name McCoy and lived on a farm near the woods with over twelve children? No offense intended to any in-breeds out there. Or to my family. I guess?? I’m getting flashbacks of when I used the term…(omitted) Oops! I reckon I best be stopping myself right there.

Life is hard, when I can’t even get through a paragraph without worrying about burning someone’s britches. Oh, that doesn’t make sense. I used burning britches the wrong way. I give up. I did find a neat article about eavesdropping and its origin, but I can’t include the link, because the poop-head (LV’s two cents; LINGO BUTTON) that wrote the article included some inappropriate jokes at the end. Seems to me that author has a bit of digression issues herself.”

I think that brief description  illustrates nicely the difference between Little Me (melancholic) and Crazy Frog.

And my point? I spent all day thinking about yesterday’s post—the meaning, the release, the seriousness—until I realized a part of me had resurfaced, one I hadn’t connected with in a very long time. So I’m adding Elephant to my lingo list, and letting Crazy Frog teach Elephant how to dance. (Remember he appears as a him but is a girl inside the elephant suit.) Wow! Real life is stranger than fiction.

I think I’ll take Little Old Me and join Crazy Frog and Elephant now, in that dancing. (Tipping my hat.) And  just let the dust settle from yesterday’s post. See what’s left behind in the dirt, after this backwoods cowgirl rides out into the sunset. Buenos noches. Y’all come back, now! You here.

Twenty-Seven: Who Let the Frog Out?

| Aspergers Girls

Don’t be fooled, this post is NOT about dogs or frogs or hamsters!

I tell you it never fails. I sit down to type, and everything I’d planned to say the night before, goes out the window. And mentioning the word window reminds me of the song How Much is that Doggy in the Window. Sir Brain is following that string again—completely off subject. Here’s a funny dog video, then I promise to get back to my post!

 

Okay folks. Looking to get rich? After viewing a dozen Doggy in the Window YouTube videos, I conjecture you can make a million by producing a quality Doggy in the Window quick flick.  Who is with me?

Oh, one more…. You have to blast this one! It will cheer you up! 

 

Last night I was up until one in the morning, again!

I was typing a letter, in that therapeutic fashion, with no intention of giving the letter to the recipients. I was planning on sharing the letter with you. Until I woke up this morning and decided the process of writing was healing enough.

And then I thought (that nasty th word again) to share another letter I wrote—which took about four hours—the letter that I will probably be sending to the dean of the university. It outlines in a professional and factual tone the demeaning words one of my professors said to me after class. I was very much an innocent in the situation, and I offer this fact with sincerity and clarity.  Even would swear on something, which is a ritual I don’t quite understand.

Nonetheless, sometimes there is a discrepancy in my mind, let’s say 99% of the time, and I can see the error of my ways, and how I most definitely contributed to an outcome. On the flipside, I can also recognize when I contribute something for the benefit of someone else. In this situation, with the professor, I was a victim. (Picturing a Salem witch trial and people without health insurance.)

I decided, in the end, not to present either letter, because I began to understand my motives. Something I try to be in touch with quite often: the whys of my words and actions. Which, in and of itself, the continual inner questioning, makes for a circus of self-criticism. Perhaps I shall develop a way to question without the critique. And let you know in the next millennium or so, how that pans out.

In questioning my motives to present the letters, I realized I wanted your empathy. I wanted your comments about how you felt so sorry for me, how outraged you were, how terribly sad and teary-eyed you were after reading my words.

And I thought, is that the vibe I truly desire to put out there: come hither; gather round my fire of sorrow and pity me. Support me. Lift me. Concur. Share in my sufferings. I’m shaking my head and squinting my eyes and mouthing, “No.”

Of course there are times when ranting and venting are therapeutic, and I don’t judge those who need to put the frustration all out there. I would say in the majority of cases, venting on a blog is probably a lot healthier than many alternatives—like having a heart attack or throwing a pan at your husband.

I’ll get through this event fine, just as I always do. I understand, to some extent, that my journey is a continual series of lessons. You know those sitcoms that reach 100 episodes and get duplicated in mass production on to dvd’s. Shows like Friends and Seinfeld; those shows you can always find broadcasting somewhere. In a way, my life lessons are somewhat syndicated, in the sense that my life lessons seem to be the same episodes over and over.

I joke that I’m one of those rascal spirits that stood in front of a board of wise spiritual advisors, before my birth, and presented a grand life plan. I was full of pride and accomplishment.

Upon review of my plan, the advisors all laughed hysterically in unison, proclaiming, “No way. Not approved. Too much learning.”

And me, I stood there, all brave like, with little wobbly knees, (as I image myself quite petite in the other realm), and responded, “Oh. Don’t worry. I can handle it!”

And they raised their brow and shook their heads, before waving me on with a sarcastic tone: “Good luck with that.”

Only, I didn’t understand sarcasm.

Then I figure, the door shut and they all had a good laugh.

The jokes on me! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Please insert a bratty-tone to my laugher.)

When situations get rough, as they often somehow seem to do—The Darn Plan is to blame. Often I stare up (or across, or somewhere) to the powers that be (that I purposely choose not to quantify, to avoid unnecessary defense and questioning from my readers), and say, “You were right. I made a mistake! I take it all back. Change the plan. I can’t take the heat!”

But no one answers. Except sometimes my spastic-colon dog, who thinks I screamed treat!

I think my super radical plan came with a contract, and that I signed off all rights for alterations after I took human form. Does anyone know of a life contract lawyer?

The good news is I’m about 200 times stronger than I was forty years ago. Because I figure I’ve been challenged by significant circumstances at least four to five times a year and that I gain one point for each challenge I overcome, which puts me somewhere between the vicinity of 160 and 200 growth points. (Multiplied 40 years by 4 or 5.) Just call me spitfire! ? Did you know that spitfire means: Highly emotional. Someone that is wild and free, without a care in the world. Considered strong and emotionally spiritually. Someone’s whose angry words are like fiery ice. A high-spirited out spoken female. Usually loud, lusty, lovely and pretty and untouchable. Typically a red head. ?

Okay, then, so I’m not a spitfire, but my alter ego is! And that weenie, who stood up to the board of advisors and thought this life was a manageable plan, was certainly, if not a spitfire, out of her mind.  (Which I’m thinking now is very accurate, because if she didn’t have a body—she would be out of her mind! I love the way I think. I really do. I’m a laugh a minute. There’s never a dull moment with LV (little voice in my head), Sir Brain (squishy ball), and Prophet in my Pocket.

I’m thinking….lol

…I’m planning on starting a dictionary for my blog, for inexperienced new readers, so I don’t need to keep explaining LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet in my Pocket. And, since I’m assuming, more characters in this fictional-like story of my life, will continue to surface, I ought to start the dictionary now, rather than later.

I want to include the word hamping.

Hamping is what I’m calling the loops that go on in my mind. Where I have a repetitive thought that I can’t dispel. You understand, I think…just imagine those times you’re on the couch and all you can hear is the chocolate calling you from across the room. “Just one more piece. Just one. What harm can it do? I deserve a little pleasure in my life. Gosh darn it, I’m getting myself a piece of chocolate.” And then you sit back down, after devouring half the bar, and all you can think about is the other half you placed up high on the top shelf so you couldn’t reach it without a lot of effort. And you’re wondering where you put the stepladder.

That’s hamping. I call it hamping, because I imagine a cute fuzzy hamster.  If I’m going to have repetitive thoughts, I might as well be adorable while partaking in the process. The hamster is in a cage on a wheel spinning round and round. He can’t help his little old self. Can’t get off, even though he knows he’s going nowhere and that the cat thinks he looks really stupid (and delicious).

Tomorrow I’d like to be able to post all these other stories I’ve been savoring. I have a whole list (in my head), such as my ghost encounter; the premonition of my childhood dog dying; the terrors of college. Wow! Now that I’m listing them all out, I’m thinking I savor the doom and gloom. Melancholic at it’s best!

Well folks, I’m off to go work on the Everyday Aspergers Dictionary now. Or hunt for chocolate. Probably chocolate. LV, Sir Brain, and Prophet are still dancing to Who Let the Frog Out!  As I listened to the song ten times while editing.  Oh! I just found a new character:  Crazy Frog—he’s the one that keeps me laughing.

* You can YouTube “Crazy Frog” for more upbeat music.

Day Twenty-Four: Life is Like a Roller Rink (and a letter from LV)

| Aspergers Girls

 

February 22, 2012

My Dearest Samantha,

Here are a few things you need to get straight. You are a loving being, and humble enough. Don’t pray for any more humility, please, because you already know where that gets you. Take your husband’s advice, and ask for more pride, for goodness sake!

And don’t eat frozen carrot cake by the fork-full when you’re stressed out; it’s not good for the system, or that spare tire you’ve got going around your waist. Thanks to you, we’ve got this non-stop, hacking cough, because YOU shoveled the cake so fast a nut scratched your throat. Thirty minutes later, after a cough suppressant, Benadryl, and cough drop, you’re still coughing. And so loudly, you’ve concerned the youngest lad. And you don’t even like carrot cake. You only like the frosting. What’s up with that?

What’s going on, anyhow? You know what I’m talking about. Where’s that go-getter who wouldn’t let the world stop her? The lady, who taught, counseled, advocated, and even woke up early to meditate? Where is she?

Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, you’ve latched on to this Aspergers gig like there’s no tomorrow.  By the way, I read your post from a few days ago, and I don’t talk that much during most movies, just the boring romantic comedies with no plot worth following.

Come on Girl, I’m dying in here watching you beat yourself all up. And who cares about the professor not recognizing your writing ability and knocking you down points, because you didn’t follow her rules to the exact. That’s life.

You can’t always earn full points in life. Isn’t that what you always tell Joe—to not let what others’ think bother him. But here you are worrying all the time that you’re not enough. Get with it, already. You are already enough, and so much more.

Pull out the prayers and poetry you use for inspiration. Reread some of the plethora of spiritual and religious books you’ve collected. Stop focusing on only one genre: That of poor little old Sam and Aspergers. You’re creating more clutter in that brain of yours than you need.

Yes, you can write a post like this. Who fricken cares? If this is the only post they read, and they think your nuts, so be it. I might wear those tight sweaters with the LV monogram, but I’ve got enough of Brain for the both of us. So let me take the lead awhile, would you?

Stop trying to control life and just ease up and relax. Just because you don’t think you can, doesn’t mean you can’t. You aren’t even trying. You’ve got all you need around you, and more, but still you wallow in self-pity. This isn’t thirty years ago. You don’t need to be sad anymore. This is life—right now, this day, this moment, seize it.

Get that pedicure! See that movie. Have that tea with a friend. Stop hiding in your house. Blast the music. Open the windows. Let the fresh air in. Bang pots and pans. Light incense. Scream. Shout. Cheer. Do whatever it takes to break out of this funk.

Yes, Scooby’s dead. Yes, you have to retrieve his ashes. Yes, sometimes college totally sucks, and your fixations seemingly suck you dry. But you know what, you are the one who has a choice. You always have the glorious choice. Continue to sit on your rump and feel sorry for yourself, or get up and get moving. I don’t care how far or where. Just take a step in any direction.

I know this is harsh, but harsh is what you need right now. I know what’s best, and I see what you’ve been doing. Enough already. Get back to where you were. Nothing has changed that drastically. If you must, keep mourning the loss of Scoob. But please stop mourning the loss of you! You’re still here. You’re still you. Even when others don’t see, you’ll always be you.

Here’s a poem to keep handy. Now get of your butt and start skating! The world’s waiting.

Your Friend for Life,

LV (the Little Voice inside my head)

Life is Like a Roller Rink      (February 2012)

Life is like a roller rink.

We each groove and glide to our own beat.

We slow down, speed up, and then slow down again, taking the turns as they come.

Though others may knock us down, run us over, or push us out-of-the-way, we get back up eventually, and keep moving.

We glide forward and sideways, and every once in a while find ourselves going backwards.

After twirling too fast for too long, we laugh; we cry.

We hold hands to keep our balance.

In moments of bravery, we speed out to the inner circle, keeping our pace in the fast lane.

In moments of caution, we remain on the outer circle, gripping the wall for dear life.

Sometimes another gently pulls us off the wall.

We get blisters and bruises.

We ram into others, stop and apologize, and then lend a hand.

We tangle up our feet and fall on our butts.  Some of us have more grace, some of us more padding.

If we aren’t careful, when we try to pull others up, we fall down right with them.

From the sideline, we observe those gliding by, wondering how they do the things they do, or questioning if we might, someday, do the same thing.

We sweat.  We stink.

Sometimes we trade in the skates that served us well, in hopes of discovering a better fit or style.

There are speeders who don’t pay attention to anyone else, until they collide into someone, or collapse from exhaustion.

Racing ahead, we partake in games, in hopes of a prize.

Some are left behind.

While many never seem to catch up.

We feel the wind in our faces and the rush of adrenaline.

We are surrounded by lights that illuminate our way.

Some spin and do tricks, in hopes of gaining attention.

Somewhere, up high in a box is a person in charge.  We may make a request or keep moving without second thought.

We don’t take much notice that we are going round and round, only to end up right back where we started.

When we rest, regroup, and nurse our injuries, there is nothing that can stop us from getting back on our feet, and starting the circular journey, all over again.

And in the end, when the music inevitably stops, we all must leave.

By Everyday Asperger’s Blog author, Samantha Craft