challenges

Day 53: “Un-Friended”: A Female with Aspergers Experience with Friends

| Aspergers Girls

You are either going to love this post or say to yourself (or perhaps your neighbor): Look how long this fricken post is! 

Here’s some easy listening music to get you through the first 5 pages.

No. I’m not kidding.

It’s a soundtrack song from one of my favorite shows of all time. If you haven’t seen the movie, you haven’t lived!

Love Actually: Christmas is All Around song, by Billy Mack

This is NOT connected to the story in anyway. But this post is so fricken long that I don’t have time to look for other images that aren’t copyrighted.

I did what would be the equivalent to my very first “unfriending” of an individual yesterday.

I pressed the button on the  social network site and PRESTO-MAGICO (said in a French accent), they are gone from my life.

Through this unfriending process, I realized that I have NEVER once un-friended a person!

I mean real, walking, living breathing life—friends I hang out with, who I touch regularly…okay, that just didn’t sound right.

Today I reached the massive conclusion that I did not come equipped with an un-friend button.  Whomever or whatever force created me, forgot to install the un-friend button. (And I don’t mean my mom and dad.)

I’m also missing the whole and complete manual that explains the workings of friendships.

Luckily, through sweat and tears (literally lots of tears), I’ve managed to recreate my own friendship manual that looks fairly equivalent to other people’s  manuals. Of course, MY manual is written in some obscure language only Crazy Frog can read.

I’ve lost a number of friends due to my quirkiness and lack of friendship manual. Not so much now, but a fair number in my early years, and a recent loss in my late thirties.

There are two that stand out.

One loss happened with a friend I was close with for a good four to five years. And then one day, she just stopped returning my emails, stopped returning my calls, and un-friended me on Facebook. And her brother in England, he un-friended me, too! No explanation. No closure. No reason. Just erased me from her life.  And at the time, she only lived a block away from me.

This is what I imagine she would say, if she were asked to explain why she dumped me. Remember I had no idea I had Aspergers at the time, and neither did she.

She freaked out a lot over things.

She was needy.

She obsessed about her health and writing.

She worried a lot.

She was very intense, too intense.

She talked too much about her church.

Oh, and she insulted my husband one too many times, like when she said, in front of his whole poker gang:

“I bought you these specific low-salt chips because your wife told me your blood pressure was high.”

And another time at a party when she said, “I told you that you should have gotten that mole on your forehead checked out a long time ago!”

The other friend, was the only friend I made the first four years of college. This college friend simply disappeared. She stopped returning my calls. And when I phoned for the tenth time, her father informed me that his daughter was too upset to talk to me and no longer wanted to be friends. I’m still clueless on this one. But I imagine this person would have said something to this tune:

She talks about spirits and ghosts all the time.

She talks about precognitive dreams.

She dates men out-of-town she hardly knows.

She obsesses about men she just met.

She talks nonstop.

She’s odd. I mean who has never once bought themselves a soda?

And how could she not know I was dressed as Mrs. Bundy on Halloween? Doesn’t she watch Married with Children?

Interestingly enough, these two friends both have the same name. I’m not super fond of that name anymore.

 

I try to keep my blog PG-Rated, but these stories are probably PG-13, some strong language.

Vignette: The Bleeding Napkins

The thing I remember most about Renny, besides her over-sized nostrils and cooked-spaghetti-like hair, was the bleeding napkins.

“We show them at the county fairs and other places,” Renny said, one afternoon in her dingy kitchen.  Squeezing my face together, I covered my mouth and nose with my hand and stared out at the pile of gray and blue cat carriers stacked high in the corner.

“You’ll get used to the smell in a few minutes,” Renny apologized.

I smiled.  “I like your orange wallpaper,” I offered.

Renny pulled down an enormous bag from the pantry shelf and proceeded to fill up five bowls with cat food.  Nine cats and three kittens came running.  “Mother and I show them at the cat shows,” she announced, and pointed to a shelf laden with dusty ribbons, plaques and miniature, gold trophies shaped into cat faces.

“Do you get money?” I asked from behind my hand.

“No,” Renny frowned. “We only get the prizes.”  She pushed aside some dirty dishes in the sink and filled up a large water bowl.  Then she wet a stack of napkins.

“Oh,” I said, sinking my hands deep into my jean pockets.  I breathed in.  Renny was right, the smell was fading.

“I used to have thirteen cats when I was little,” I said.  “But only for a couple weeks.  We had three cats and two got pregnant, and soon there were thirteen.  But I like the number thirteen.  It’s my favorite.  So that was pretty cool.”  I was rambling.  I rambled when I was nervous.  “But then one day I came home and there was only one cat left, Ben’s cat.  That’s all.  And I asked Mom what happened and Mom said that she found them all good homes.  But I knew she hadn’t really, because it was only one day.  And no one can find twelve cats homes in one day.  So I knew they were dead.”  I peered out at Renny who didn’t seem to be listening.  “Did I tell you ten of them were kittens?”

Renny glanced up and smiled.  “Come in here.  I have something I have to do,” she said.  The water dripped off the napkins, making a trail from the kitchen into the living room.  Renny kicked an empty soda bottle out of her way and tossed a clump of her sister’s clothes onto a chair.  “It’s a good thing we don’t have carpet, my mom says.  But they still find their way to the couch, mostly this couch. That chair over there isn’t so bad. You can sit there if you want.

“I’m fine,” I answered.  I picked at the green alligator appliqué I’d sewn by hand on to my old shirt, an alligator I’d plucked off of a ten-cent, stained polo shirt purchased from the local thrift store.

Renny stopped moving, and asked, “I do this everyday—well most days.  Do you want to try?”

“No, thanks,” I said with shifty eyes.

Renny set the pile of wet napkins on the arm of the couch and began separating them from each other.  One at a time she spread white all across the seat of the couch, until there appeared to be a long line of paper ghosts.

Like magic, the napkins began turning red, bleeding out from the center to the edges.   I twisted my face in disgust.  “What’s that?” I asked.

“Flea poop,” Renny said quickly.  “It’s one of the downfalls of having cats.  But it’s worth it.  You saw all those ribbons.”

My eyes widened.  I gulped.  “I guess.  Do you think I can use your bathroom?”

Five minutes later, after I’d rinsed my hands under the water several times and stuck my head out the open bathroom window, I found Renny atop her waterbed.  There were no blankets.  Well there were, but the covers were all piled in a corner of her closet.  But there was one big orange sheet.

“My mother’s old boyfriend Ben used to have a waterbed,” I said.

“You’re pretty safe up here from the fleas.  Here.”  She tossed a training bra at my head.

“Yuck.  What’d you do that for?”

Renny flashed an unfettered smile.  “My sisters have them.  I thought it was about time I got one.  Plus when a guy goes to feel me up, if I’m not wearing a bra, what’s he going to think?”

I touched my sunken chest and frowned.  “Who’s going to feel you up?”  I looked up.  “Do you think I need a bra?”

Renny jumped down from the bed.  I flicked a flea off of my arm and examined the floating green cluster of goop in the water under Renny’s waterbed liner.  “Yuck,” I said.  “You need water conditioner or to drain it.”

Snatching the bra from my hand, Renny held it up against her shirt and galloped about the house neighing like a horse.  I followed, prancing about with a pair of Renny’s floral underwear on my head.  We were both out of breath when we heard the sounds of barking laughter.

We peered out the living room window.  At the end of the driveway, Renny’s sisters flashed their black bras at two shaggy-haired boys.  Renny’s mouth was agape, her pointy ears turning red.  I pulled my eyes away and focused on the flea on my sock, catching the parasite with the first try and popping it in between my thumbnail and finger.  A drop of blood squirted out.

Renny stepped away from the window, taking the string of the blinds with her. The blinds clanked and scraped against the mildewing glass causing a miniature dust storm.  Coughing, I ran to Renny’s bedroom and sought retreat from the fleas under the orange sheet.

Minutes later, Renny lifted the lid of a red and white cigar box, and pulled out a small bud of marijuana.  “It’s the expensive stuff,” she said and bit down with a sour face.

I wasn’t too impressed, but smiled anyhow. “I’ve tasted the seeds before,” I offered.

Renny chuckled, set the box down, and pushed an orange tabby cat away. “Mom keeps the dope hidden in her closet but my sisters are always stealing.”  She pulled off cat hair from her sock and scanned her slovenly room, the whites of her eyes turning pink.  “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I wish I lived with my father.”

I pang hit me hard in the stomach then.

Day 52: Stop Stealing My Articles You Boob!

| Aspergers Girls
This is our Scooby who passed on in February. His photo is here because he makes me feel safe.

If nothing else is gained from this post, at least you got to see a good-looking dog.

That’s our Scoob. He passed on in February at the age of six years. I miss him everyday. Today Scooby’s photo is here on my blog because he reminds me of the beauty and love in the world.

I’m not feeling too happy about people at the moment. Not you, but the boobs of the world! The people who seem to mess it up for the rest of us.

This is my dog Spastic Colon. She is still alive. I put her picture here because Scooby loved her and she's a Boob!

This is my other dog. I love her, but she is a boob.

I just spent three hours going through my entire blog and deleting as many photos as I could find. Fun times!

Hopefully you weren’t following my blog for the cute images.

If you cruise through my posts now, all those animal images Crazy Frog found are sadly gone. Sigh.

Vanished are the YouTubes as well. But there are still links.

At this point, I’m seriously hoping you like to read.

I removed the photos because of copyright infringement. I learned today, through my own research, that I ought not be posting others’ photos without permission; which makes a lot of sense in retrospect. Kind of that AhHa! factor.

I was researching copyright laws after I discovered some BOOB is taking my most popular Aspergers articles and posting them on his/her blog.

I want the word about Females and Aspergers to spread, but at the same time, I don’t want someone stealing my thoughts and my work.

Considerate and honest people contact me first and ask how to go about quoting my work.

Conveniently the “blogger,” who is supposedly some lady, has no contact and no comment section. I don’t think one article is anything he/she wrote.

I needed to do something about this injustice, so I made a cool sign! You can see it below.

If you go to the blog page I listed, which you probably are tempted to do, (as I know I would be) then PLEASE consider coming back to my blog afterwards, and supporting me with comments.

Words like that boob in the comment section would work wonders for my stinky-state of mind.

I know the article says Aspegersgirls—but I don’t want my work and my words on his/her page.

If you look, one of my articles still has my copyright protection on the bottom. Obviously he/she isn’t putting much effort into this.

I know this might not seem like a big deal.  But it’s a big deal to me. This is my heart’s work. Please consider not supporting bloggers who steal other people’s work. Don’t follow them. Don’t visit their blogs. It discourages other honest people, like me, from wanting to blog at all.

I will gladly remove the sign when my articles are removed from the blog page where they don’t belong. I also thought to include my own sign. Because if Boob gets one, then I should, too. I don’t care if this Boob’s blog hits go up. Hopefully it will only be for a day. Thanks for letting me do a mini-protest. Not that you had a choice. But thanks, anyhow.

The sign has been removed after contact with blog owner. However I will replace the sign, if needed.

Day 49: The View From Atop the Triangle

| Aspergers Girls

Last night I was up until 1:00 am worried that I wasn’t good enough.

Some of my worries:

I’m ugly

I’m fat

I’m aging

I’m weird

I’m obsessive

I’m not a good enough mother

I’m not a good enough wife

I think about me too much

I don’t do enough to help others

My blog is stupid

I care too much about what others’ think

I’m lazy

I obsessed on the computer most of the day, fluctuating between a social network page, YouTube videos, and this blog.

There is something extremely calming about my blog. I just click on the main page and stare, reread, and peruse the comments. My blog connects me to another realm, to another part of myself, and to other people who know my journey. The writing offers me a reflection of me: my uniqueness and beauty. My blog is my passion, my talent, my creativity.

Beyond the computer, I felt frightened, somewhat like a little girl running outside the protective circle of her guardian. When I pulled myself away I was nervous and I overate. I grounded chocolate-pudding brownies into mocha-almond-fudge ice cream. I had bread rolls and garlic bread, hash browns, and other carb-filled delights. All the while feeling worse and worse about myself.

I felt entirely alone and useless, despite my family being home. So much so that I googled: Why it’s okay to be lazy and Why it’s okay to do nothing.

I felt extreme guilt about being ME. I analyzed why I had this guilt, but the analysis made things worse. I knew all the things I should have been doing, such as: exercising, showering, drinking green tea, taking my supplements, getting out of the house. But I couldn’t do anything. I was immobilized, trapped, frozen. I couldn’t even change the stained shirt I was wearing or bend down to pick a crumb off the floor.

These types of days, where I am overcome by grief, fear, and fatigue, are nothing new to me. I’ve had these days since I was a teenager. The challenge is that now I’m not a teenager, I am a mother and a wife, which comes with responsibilities beyond my own needs.

These roles’ obligations add to my guilt, my feelings of low self-worth, and my inability to fully retreat, regroup, and reenergize.

Yesterday wasn’t the easiest of mornings for our family. There was some turmoil. This spike in the energy of the household left my brain sprawling. Any type of unexpected event causes me to feel unease and fear.

No amount of reasoning, cognitive tools, or talk can dissipate the fear. I have to go through the fear. Then, once on the other side—whether within minutes or a day—I have the clarity of mind to process and release.

Yesterday the fear stayed with me.

Yesterday I hated myself for starting this stupid blog. I thought for certain I’d never ever have anything to write about worth interest. I hated myself for thinking I was making a difference. I hated myself for my lack of willpower, my messed up emotions, my inability to relax, my constant, constant challenges. I hated life.

My life felt like poop, so much that I even Googled poop. I watched a YouTube on crap—and then wondered whose crap it was.

About midnight, I began preparing for the next day, hoping I’d awake in a different mindset. I wrote a poem about how I’m okay, listing everything from wearing pajamas all day to overeating. I started researching self-acceptance. Starting telling myself I am okay.

I understand with further clarity how I’m trapped in a cycle of perfectionism—always have been, and imagine I always will be. It’s something about the way my brain functions. My strong analytical ability and extreme fluid intelligence enable me to have complex thought processes and to produce quality work; however, those same abilities put me into overdrive of self-analysis, worry, and remorse.

My own thought processes set me up for failure.

I understand with further clarity how a well-balanced person experiences the ABC’s of Acceptance, Belonging, and Confidence. And how having Aspergers evokes feelings of Rejection, Not Fitting In, and Timidity.

 

I understand with further clarity how Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs relates to this female with Aspergers.

My physiological needs are being met.

My safety needs are not being met.

There is no security, stability, or freedom from fear. There are moments of relief from fear, but they are fleeting, always temporary, always changing.

My sense of belonging is limited.

I feel continually that I am not upholding to the rules, expectations, and norms of others. I question my actions, my motives, my own belief systems. I upset my spouse; I neglect my family; being a lover comes with its challenges. I have friends that love me unconditionally, but I worry that they will discover, at a deeper level, I am too odd, too strange, too much to deal with, not enough.

My self-esteem is limited.

I achieve mastery sometimes in my writing, in my thinking, in my ability to love others; but there remains an underlying doubt and fear about others’ judgment and rejection. I like ME most of the time. I would choose ME as a friend. I’d be happy with ME as a friend. Yet, at the same time I doubt my ability to be enough. I achieve recognition and even respect, but I over analyze both. I question am I worthy to receive recognition and respect? What if I disappoint, offend, and/or fall short? What if my faults are singled out? What if I am ridiculed, judged, and rejected? What if I become prideful?

My self-actualization is intriguing.

This is where my triangle is top-heavy. I do pursue my inner talents. I do pursue creative endeavors. I do feel fulfilled by my endeavors. It appears my self-actualization is reached from a different avenue than the norm. I do not progress up the triangle. Instead I take a ladder, lean it against the triangle, climb up, and bypass the center of the triangle, to reach the top. I pursue my talents because that is my refuge, my retreat, my coping mechanism. In this realm, atop the triangle, lies my freedom and power. Atop the triangle sits my obsession, fixation, passion, joy, and extreme love.

And that explains where I was yesterday. I was seated on the top-level of the triangle. High out of reach. I retreated to my place of comfort.

Today, I climb back down the ladder, back to the ground. But I carry with me a greater clarity, a clarity only found because I sat at the highest peak and viewed my world.

“We would worry less about what others think of us if we realized how seldom they do.” ~ Ethel Barrett

“I was a personality before I became a person – I am simple, complex, generous, selfish, unattractive, beautiful, lazy, and driven.” ~ Barbra Streisand

“I would step into a place of being lined up with a sense of purpose and my inner compass, and everything was going in the same direction. Then I’d get lazy and get off the track. And then things would start to fall apart, and I’d back up and get it together again.” ~ Kathy Mattea 

Kathy Mattea in 1994 Teach Your Children Well

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Day 46: Vampires, Naked People and Amazing Super Power Jeans

| Aspergers Girls

I did the unmentionable this morning—I stepped on the scale. I’m hearing horror music in my head, like from the shower scene in Psycho.

I’m not on speaking terms with food. I’m so over eating.

As in done with chewing all together. I need someone to stick an IV (intravenous tube) in me with a nutritional drip of fresh-juiced organic fruits and veggies. Then I need someone to remove my refrigerator, my pantry, to cook for my children, and escort me to the athletic club. I need a cook, an athletic trainer, and blinders—like the horses wear. Actually, I probably need all my senses blocked. I can see myself with blinded-eyes, arms stretched out, feeling my way to find the food, like some starved zombie. I can see me with my pointy chin in the air and my nose twitching, as I sniff out the sweet and sours. I can even see me, once absent of all my senses, except the ability to taste, walking around aimlessly licking things.

Maybe that psychic was right! Maybe I was a dog in my past life!

I try to workout, I do. I’ve done the dance and yoga thing. Even the occasional treadmill in the dark room at our gym. A whole darkened room dedicated to those of us who don’t want to be seen with our fat jiggling. What a concept!

I’ve got this mind-boggling, athletic club phobia happening at the moment. Some of you know what I mean. All of the sudden the gym becomes this monstrosity of the mind. You can’t figure out how to get yourself to go, but yet you have this running tape in your head telling you that you should go. And then you promise yourself you will, or make some excuse.

My excuses are actually quite good. Forgetting for a moment that I’m disabled and I actually undergo substantial pain exercising, I’ve got a long list of reasons that home is better than the gym. Basically, what it boils down to (odd word phrase to picture) is the following:

dyslexia (makes dance classes hard)

body odor and odd body movements (makes yoga class hard)

naked people (makes the locker room hard)

sweat and germs (makes the treadmill room hard)

People in general (makes leaving the house hard)

Hard as in not comfortable, as in a mattress you wish you never bought.

Of course, this time of year, the outdoors aren’t super inviting. I did choose to live in one of the wettest US states imaginable. Which does indeed make for supple skin and that pale vampire complexion.

Just on the way to school today my youngest son said, “Wow. So dark outside. So much rain. Look at all the puddles. I wonder if more ducks will be here soon.”

I’m convinced the town I occupy, in the state of Washington, is runner up in cloud-coverage to the town where the popular series Twilight takes place. The author of Twilight researched to find the cloudiest place in the USA, a town where vampires would want to live.

Perhaps my current location and complexion is the reason I am rethinking my whole vocation and life purpose, and considering this whole vampire lifestyle. That and now a days vampires are so good looking and hot! Which is ironic as they’re physically quite cold. An irony I probably only find interesting. Which concerns me to no end.

I like to walk. I am very thankful for these two functioning legs. But the majority of the time, in these here parts, a stroll in the neighborhood means sopping wet shoes, drenched clothes, a rain-slapped face, and dog-shivers—and that’s with an umbrella.

Plus, this born-and-raised-in-California gal is still adjusting to the temperature change. Where I used to live, if the temperature was 40 degrees in the morning, it rose to 65 degrees by the afternoon. I thought, for most of my life, that all places gradually rose in temperature throughout the day.

Here in my town in Washington, when the temperature is 40 degrees in the morning, sometimes it’s only 41 degrees by mid-day. What the heck? Not one single Washingtonian thought to inform me of this meager frigid-factor when our family was scoping the neighborhood. I’m fairly certain that Washington natives get a kick out of watching the newcomers from California adjust to the pangs of climate change. I actually sleep in my day clothes many nights because I’m too cold to undress. And I’ve developed quite the close relationship with my space heater. Even my socks and me are buddies.

On a sunny day, I have to be careful in traffic. As it seems everyone takes the day off of work, and there exists a good three-times as many vehicles on the road. Give us a little sunshine, and we’re all tongue-wagging chipper, like a bunch of canines set free at the dog park. Only instead of sniffing butts, we are all glancing up at the sun and smiling wide. Some of us even point up: There’s the sun!

If you ever think about moving here, don’t be persuaded by the green-lush beauty and the natives telling you that you can wear open-toe shoes in May. Last May the temperature topped in the high-50’s. The smart folk, they head down to Arizona for the late winter or fly across the ocean to Hawaii.

Of course, if you ever visit in August, you’ll see why we stay. When the sun comes, the land looks like pure heaven.

click to see where image was found

Despite my aches and pains, my issues, the weather, and the temperature, I do need to get the ball rolling, so to speak. LV (see MY LINGO) keeps chatting in my ear. She’s whispering day and night the likes of these types of statements:

You do know that it’s not too good to be able to pinch a full half-foot of belly fat in one try, right?

 How can these same jeans still fit you when you are clearly carrying some fifteen pounds more of fat than when you bought them? They must be Amazing Super Power Jeans!

If you keep going at this rate they’ll have to get a crane to move you out of the house.

Crazy Frog has been flashing images of sperm whales and singing: “Do you know the muffin-top, the muffin-top, the muffin-top. Do you know the muffin-top, that lives on Sam Craft Lane.”

And Crazy Frog has done the math: two pounds from being snowed in from snowstorm, two pounds for three-day power outage, two pounds for the loss of our dog Scoob, two pounds for the university incident. He figures we should sleep for the rest of March to avoid anymore stress-eating.

Funny Fast Food Video Folk Song!

I have no idea how to end this post. I’m just staring at the screen thinking about cream puffs, cinnamon bread, and bagels, and wondering if I can in fact sleep the month of March away and wake up some 15 pounds lighter. I’m wondering about the Amazing Super Power Jeans and Vampires, and thinking of a new superhero. I’m wanting to search YouTube for superhero songs. And, I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that I really do need to get out of the house more, take the first step and head to the gym–despite the Naked People!!!

Day Forty-Three: Sam Craft’s Lament

| Aspergers Girls

You know what’s great about this blog? Don’t think too hard.

Answer: You never ever know what to expect!

You know what? (Again don’t think so hard.)

I never know what to expect either!

Isn’t that fantastic?

Just nod.

For instance, I thought I’d be writing about the blustering Winnie-the-Pooh day outside, with fallen trees and cresting waves on the Puget Sound. Instead, I end up comparing my experience at the university with the impaling of a vampire. How cool is that?

Just to be completely honest, before I type on, I’ve been working very hard at out-witting my own dang rules. Having seen the dilemma of me against me, I’ve decided to lighten up some. Today, I’m quite gleefully typing in my pajamas and socks. Who wants to get showered and dressed to blog? Who was I kidding?

This is good, or rather beneficial, this rebel mood I’m in, because today is the big day I’ve been both anticipating and dreading, for around three or more weeks. I’ve lost count. And it’s not worth my time to look at the calendar. I’ve spent enough time and energy on this whole university blowup event.

That’s what I’m calling the happening: a huge blowup. Blowup as in filling up a balloon with so much helium that it bursts. Blowup as in a tire’s thread worn to the bone causing the tire to bust. Blowup as in a restless volcano blowing its top!

I’m pretty darn proud of myself that I haven’t blurted out all that transpired in black and white on this blog. I like the mysteriousness surrounding what I have offered, and the respect I’m giving the villains.

I’m feeling okay about calling them villains, even though I know we are all God’s (Universe’s, String Theory’s, what-have-you’s) creatures.

I know these people have taught me plenty; especially about how I don’t want to lead and teach like them. And I know these lessons will carry me far, that the experience has already given me that extra sheet of armadillo-layer across my soft-bellied-sensitive-tummy.

Still, something feels so delightfully good about calling them villains.

Some words for villain are anti-hero and contemptible person.

I picture a little ant with a small red cape that reads HERO going up against a grotesque giant in a huge white nappy (diaper) that reads Anti-Hero. And I envision the ant winning by some divine intervention from the Roman Gods.

I like the term beyond the pale, too. It’s a word related to contemptible and means an unpardonable action. I believe I am in the right to say the professor was beyond the pale.  He was outside the acceptable and agreed upon standards of decency. And dang it, if I have to constantly adjust my actions and phrases to make others feel comfortable, then he ought to have at least had decency.

A little word origin lesson, as I’m a teacher at heart, and always shall be: The pale means a stake or pointed piece of wood. Think vampire. I’m thinking a sexy vampire. Pale is in the word impale, like in the Dracula flicks. A paling fence represents an area enclosed by a fence; so to be beyond the pale is to be outside the accepted home area, or designated safety zone.

Fenced areas or regions were set up for people for safety, such as when Catherine the Great created the Pale of Settlement in Russia.

So the message is: “If there is a pale, decent people remain inside the pale.”

Look what Crazy Frog Found!

By the way, my professor, he jumped the fence.

Now I’m stuck on word origin again. I just reviewed the origin of flipping the bird, ducks in a row, and, you might be happy to know with all my rambling, I’m reviewing that’s all she wrote.  Okay, done.

Last night I dreamt that I parked my ten-speed bike in front of a quaint neighborhood house. When I returned to retrieve the bike, I found it broke into two (repairable) parts. I knocked on the door of the nearby house. An older man answered. (He looked like my professor but way uglier.) The man explained that he took the bike apart because I left too much of my bike sticking out in his driveway. I hadn’t. He then offered to fix the bike for a large sum of money. I knew he was applying trickery and trying to gain from my loss. I declined, and instead had him carry the pieces into my van. I drove away.

Hmmmm? I wonder how my subconscious is feeling about my dumbass professor?

Another thought: How in the world can I produce such deep felt all-loving, nonjudgmental prose like The Wounded Healer and On Leadership one day, and then turn around and have the audacity to call a professional a dumbass?

Oh! I’m raising my hand! I know. I know. Call on me!

Answer: Because I’m human (just like you’re human, I hope), and I refuse to act like I’m not human to earn some semblance of self-manipulated respect. Plus, who hasn’t wanted to call at least one teacher in their life a dumbass?

Okay, just so you know Melancholic Little Me is still around, and obviously Sir Brain (as I’m still rambling). Little Me is carrying an index card that reads:

My Authentic Self: “…caring, nurturing, kind, creative, intelligent, beautiful being who doesn’t wish harm on anyone and wants to be the most beneficial light wherever she is.”

I said those words aloud during a group therapy meeting (in the college course I’ve dropped) when asked by the professor, “What do you wish to share in this group?”

But I didn’t share what I truly wanted to share. I had wanted to say, in group, how my heart had been impaled by two professors and by my classroom study-partner. That would have been authentic!

 

Who is Van Helsing? A protagonist in Bram Stoker’s 1897 Gothic horror novel Dracula.