My good buddy is visiting for the weekend. She gave me a photograph of her and I in her swimming pool over the summer in California. In the photo, we are close together with our arms supporting one another. The caption reads:
The Best Mirror is an Old Friend.
Her gift reminded me of the true gift of friendship, beyond the giggles and tears, and pure joy of spending time together, I am learning about myself and my journey through my friend—a reflection of me.
I was also reminded of my favorite poem by Dale Wimbrow.
THE MAN IN THE GLASS
When you get what you want in your struggle for self
And the world makes you king for a day
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself
And see what THAT man has to say
For it isn’t your father or mother or wife
Whose judgment upon you must pass
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one staring back from the glass
Some people might think you’re a straight-shootin’ chum
And call you a wonderful guy
But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum
If you can’t look him straight in the eye
He’s the fellow to please, never mind all the rest
For he’s with you clear to the end
And you’ve passed you most dangerous test
If the guy in the glass is your friend
You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years
And get pats on the back as you pass
But your final reward will be heartache and tears
If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.
Alternate Title: What Accounts for a Good Day in my Book…assuming I had a book, which I don’t. That’s why I blog.
I seem to be big into the alternate titles. It would be fun to make a list of alternative titles for people, places, and things. I bet you can think of a few alternative titles you’d like to call some people! Of course, I mean this in friendly, Buddhist-minded terms—like the enlightened one and the gentle being.
Okay, so I’m a goof. This I know. Nothing wrong with goof, except that goof is closely related to the spelling of goon and goob. Coincidence? I think not.
Backspace, Samantha.
Speaking of the name Samantha, I’ve been using the name Sam so much to answer readers’ comments that I’ve started answering some of my personal emails with the name Sam, instead of my given legal name. I find this quite funny. I imagine getting an email back from a close friend I have known for twenty years, and her signing her name “Rhonda” instead of “Lisa,” and that just cracks me up. I’d be thinking: This chick has surely flipped. Then I’d be thinking what does “flipped out” mean, and what is the origin of this saying. I digress.
If you ever read a post of mine and I come across as level-headed, straight to the point, dry and organized, please assume I have been taking over by a life-sucking pod like in the classic horror flick The Body Snatchers. I am not going to wake up one day, in this same human form anyhow, and be able to stick to one agenda or one point, unless I’m making a list. And even then, the list will likely meander or be super long. I don’t get how someone can just list a few facts and be done. If I tried to do that I would have so much stuff leftover in my brain, I’d need three more blogs to write the rest of the list.
Hmmmm? Have you ever noticed how some bloggers have more than one blog? Maybe it’s so they can appear sane. But I bet if you put a person’s multiple blogs’ blogging-words (posts) together, the combined words would create and entirely different profile. Something to think about if you work for the secret-service, FBI, or stalk people.
Invasion of the Body Snatchers Found at All Movies; click for link
Don’t worry. I’m sticking to one blog with posts that could easily over spill into three more days of posts.
Backspace, Samantha.
I want to talk about how people used to say: The field of battle, and how they now say battlefield, and how the field of battle sounds so much cooler. I can picture a bunch of goobs upping their sophistication level ten marks, while munching open-mouthed on chips and dip, by saying, the field of football. But I’m not here to talk about that. But what other ways could we feasibly employ this sentence structure…Beatles song: “Fields of Strawberries forever.”
I wonder why I couldn’t focus in school? I still don’t agree with the one comment on my fifth grade report card: Has trouble occupying self when finishes work early. I’m certain I was occupying myself fully. I just happened to appear comatose and staring off in space. No doubt. Unless I was body-snatched since then.
Do you see how I did a full circle back to the previous prose in the last sentence? That is the sign of a gifted writer—or a rambling circular-state, similar to when a dog chases its tail. Dogs are cute. I’m okay with that. No butt sniffing though. Or licking, or poop eating, or garbage hounding…crap, for being so cute, dogs do a lot of gross-me-out stuff.
Image found at Spiritually Directed
Backspace, Samantha.
I better stop myself. How do I do that? First scroll up to remember what the heck the original title of this post was. Now focus.
Good day? Well so far today sucks rotten eggs. It’s only ten in the morning and I am yawning constantly, dealing with a leg cramp, messed up the time of my massage appointment (= no massage), waited in the waiting room for blood tests, until I found out I was supposed to fast (= no blood test), opened an envelope with unexpected and unwanted bill, and opened a new loaf of bread to discover clouds of green mold.
Here’s what a Good day looks like in my book:
A Good Day in My Book
The internet works efficiently and I can log on and obsess about my social network group page and my blog stats.
When I slept the whole night through without being disturbed by a dog’s bark, my husband’s restless leg, or nightmares where I find myself back at college, only I’ve forgotten how to find the classroom and I’m late to class.
When there is some form of chocolate in the house that I can reach and open with little effort.
When no one rants, raves, whines, or screams at me.
When I can stay in my pajamas all day, not brush my hair, have no appointments, feel no attachment to doing chores, and my husband cleans the dishes and brings home takeout.
When Netflix adds new television series to the menu. Especially intense documentaries, genius comics, and the show Weeds.
When someone calls and says something nice, like I love you, Let’s get together soon, or Can I please, please, come and clean your house and watch your kids?It would mean a lot to me.
When my dog doesn’t eat my underwear.
When I can think of something to write without having to watch two hours of Internet videos first for inspiration and without having to delete the three page post I wrote while tipsy.
When a reader truly gets me and I find a way to make her or him smile.
All in all, yesterday was a good day in my book. Everything on the list happened, except no one volunteered to come over to the house and my dog ate my underwear, again. She only eats my underwear. Makes me wonder. But that will have to wait for another post.
Here Comes The Sun. Oh, and here comes Spastic Colon, my dog, with my underwear!
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!
For the 4-Play of my writing today, I watched cheesy videos on the Internet and learned:
59 million people have listened to a lady repeat the phrase “sitting on the toilet” about sixteen times. I played it twice and tried to count, and gave up. It ends with a flush.
19 million watched a “fat kid on rollercoaster” for 57 seconds. Who posts that?
35 million people watched a ninja baby for 36 seconds. That one was sort of cute.
10 million watched “young girl drops c-word on national TV…Twice.” It was on the Today Show.
Now I’m watching something called “Extreme Face Omelet.”
Each day I live, I become more confused by culture.
It’s been about an hour, and I’ve yet to find something I’d actually want to share with you. Except for the fact that my husband thinks I’m stranger than ever.
After watching freaky eaters, strange addictions, soggy flappy faces in slow motion, and Weird Al, and the like, I am quite worried that if alien life forms have access to human’s video clips, they’ll choose to extinguish the entire human race.
I’ve concluded: People are Strange.
At least we’ll always have the Brady Bunch.
My husband wanted me to remind you that the Brady Bunch lost to the dog act when they did their Keep on Movin’ dance scene.
Today, I was planning to share a story about how I was beaten with a board by strangers when I was a little girl. Now, after my introduction, I’m laughing and realizing child abuse just doesn’t fit with the feel of this post. So I’m keeping with the Strange Theme.
Unverified Strange Facts About People
Unverified because I’m not in college anymore, and I do not want to back things up with research ever again! Please keep in mind, my idea of strange is subjective and may not accurately represent your idea of strange.
Some people let snakes slither on their backs for a snake massage. The treatments are said to ease migraines and soothe sore muscles.
In a sleep study researches discovered dreams prevent psychosis.
Charles Dickens slept facing North. He believed this act would improve his writing.
There are more collect calls on Father’s Day than any other day of the year.
Thomas Edison was afraid of the dark.
In a survey Americans revealed banana was their favorite smell.
Married men change their underwear twice as often as single men.
On average 100 people will choke to death on ballpoint pens each year.
On average a person farts 14 times a day.
The earth could be repopulated to its current population level by the number of sperm that could fit in an aspirin capsule!
You are actually reading what I write in detail.
*Important side note: The colder the room you sleep in, the better the chances are that you will have a bad dream. That’s why I’ve had so many bad dreams since moving to Washington State.
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