It was low tide and the sun had almost tucked itself beneath the waves of flickering cobalt. After a quick introduction, idle chit-chat and three or four bouts of nervous giggles on my account, a cute dark-eyed boy pointed to me, and said with a wink, “I choose you!”
I leaned in closer to Renny and grabbed hold of her warm hand. I knew instantly, out of the three boys, I liked this dark-eyed boy the best. Even as my knees knocked and my mouth grew dry, I was beginning to think that the whole meeting-at-the-beach-in-secrecy-plan wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
I crossed the fingers of my free hand, just as my favorite boy approached and casually brushed his shoulder against mine.
Yes, this would work.
I began dreaming about my first lover’s embrace. I imagined this boy would want to know everything about me, then perhaps stroll me home and ask me for a good night kiss. As my mind played out a romantic episode, more suitable for an after school television special than real life, I heard from a distance my boy say, “First you.”
I looked to my side to find him tilting his head sideways in the direction of the shack on the edge of the concrete pier. I was processing what he had said, when he spoke again. “And then her.” He pointed straight at Renny.
All of the sudden, I wished I had bigger boobs.
I crossed my arms across my chest and then heard the words Oh Crap shouting in my head. Renny curled into herself with a blushing giggle and the boys appeared to be salivating. Oh Crap my mind repeated.
Soon the circled boys shouted, “I’m next!”
Okay, so by now I was in a bit of trouble, but before I could think to say anything, my boy gleamed his full set of braces my direction, grabbed hold of my trembling hand and led me swiftly down the concrete pier. For a fleeting second I believed he loved me. Right up to the point, that is, when I glanced behind and eyed two boys nodding their heads, barking like sea lions, and flaunting a huge thumb-up. Right about then my stomach, as well as my hopes, dropped a good ten stories.
The thought of slut crossed my mind, roller-skated back and forth, and then plopped down with its wide butt and sat there.
Out on the edge of the pier, with the sound of the waves crashing, I shook crazily inside the dark shed. I tried not to breathe too heavily. And I tried not to move my feet on the tacky floor. There was just enough light trickling in that I could see the boy’s tinsel-smile.
With the door shut, the boy shuffled forward and set his hands on my shoulders, from there he slid them down my side to my waist. His scent was that of the beach air: the smell of cypress, suntan lotion, and salt.
This is it
This will be my first kiss
I let out a deep breath and the boy’s hands touched down.
I felt him there, touching my hips, caressing me through the layers. In the next few seconds I forgot all else.
But then, something inside shifted, and my heart started beating so fast I could barely breathe, and I’ll I wanted to do was escape.
I pushed his hands off of me, and without thought yelped an adamant, “STOP!”
On my word, the boy leaped back, almost tripping.
I could see his eyes narrowing and his left brow arching in question. And I could visualize my pitiful look as I bit down on my bottom lip and made a sound like a puppy that had been stepped on.
I counted ten hard-heartbeats. Then the words stumbled out of me, bumping here and there, so my voice sounded uncertain and unnatural. “I can’t because…” I paused for a split-second. “I can’t because our…” I thought as hard as I could, so much that my head hurt, and then I closed my eyes and said, “Because our braces might get stuck together!”
That was all I said. All I could say. Because before the last syllable left my lips, I opened my eyes, burst open the shed door, darted up the pier, sprinted past the astonished boys and Renny, and raced the entire two-miles back home.
If we went out for coffee and I drank coffee, and you looked like you might be at least half awake, this is likely what I’d tell you:
Four teenage boys are up at my house celebrating my oldest’s birthday. Their record is 6:00 a.m. bedtime. At least that is how late they stayed up the last time they all gathered at someone else’s house. So looks like I’m in for a long night! Or at least they are. However, I had that quarter cup of coffee at eight in the morning, and that’s enough to keep me still awake at this late hour of 1:40 a.m.
Of course letting my son buy Hostess desserts that have enough sugar and preservatives in them to last until his hundredth birthday was likely not a keen idea on my part. It is the first time I’ve actually bought Hostess products. Twinkies scare me.
I always feel weird filling my grocery cart up with junk food. I want to wear a sign that says: “I normally do not poison my children, but it is a special occasion!”
Today’s shopping excursion with my newly fifteen-year-old was painless. Just a few swipes off the shelves…..first stop Coke, second stop large bag of Doritos, third stop Klondike ice cream bars, fourth stop donuts. Okay, I managed to convince him to buy some orange juice. Of course, I normally don’t buy orange juice because of the lack of nutritional value and high sugar content. But considering what else was in my cart, the OJ came up on top as feasibly the only product that had real food inside of it.
The boys are loud. Very loud. My husband assures me that wrestling at this age is perfectly normal. They are testing out their manhood and showing who is top dog. I’m sure glad I’m a girl. I am not good at wrestling. I did warn them to stay clear of the fireplace hearth as they are throwing each other down on the ground.
The first time I went into the daylight basement game room to see the boys, the first words out of my mouth were: “Wow! It sure stinks in here.” I then opened the sliding door and turned towards the teens to smile. The boys looked at me like I was very odd. One boy shyly asked if I was indeed Michael’s mother. I’m not sure what to think of that comment. Who does he exactly think I might be? A friendly neighbor bringing junk food and candy to random children?
What an odd week. Everything felt like it just missed the mark….kind of like the whole universe was singing off-key and I was tone-deaf. So I didn’t really notice, but knew something was askew.
My ankle went weak on me on my walk a few days ago and I just about ate dust. Hip still healing.
A friend from California called me out of the blue and I totally freaked out because I had to change my plans for the day. But we had a grand time. The second day I saw her we took a walk. My ankle went out on me, again, and this time I slammed my wrists down to stop my fall. Ouch. And we took this walk on this road, and every time a car came by, clouds of dust blew up into our face. Oh. But we did find this vacant house and sat on their deck and admired one of the most awesome views of water and layers of foliage and hills and mountains I’ve ever seen in my life. But I had decided to leave my camera at home. Later my friend informs me that her husband heard swear words coming out of my oldest son’s mouth that even he hadn’t heard before. That was a pleasant surprise. Almost as pleasant as the fall and dust clouds, but not quite. It was fun watching her elderly father fall asleep with his finger still pointing to the line of text he was reading from in his political book, and hearing from him that divorce is just a way to legalize prostitution, and finding out that he thought I was my sister. (I don’t have a sister.)
When I tried to go to my weekly massage appointment…I know, I know…but it’s for pain management…really it is. Well, they had just finished putting in a new floor. Seriously just finished. I mean I watched the carpenter’s van drive away. Well the whole building smelled of toxic floor glue. So I had to reschedule my massage (weep-weep) and calm my lovely masseuse down, as she wasn’t too pleased with the smell herself. Which turned out to be okay, because my three boys were home alone, and I’d forgotten my cellular phone. And I figured that the fact my massage appointment was canceled was a darn good excuse to treat myself to a gourmet chocolate truffle at the Food-Co-Op. Of course, the CoOp had just finished pouring a new driveway which smelled like tar. But I risked the stench for chocolate.
A couple of days ago, my dog (Spastic Colon–her name, not her condition) took a crap at the lake where we walk everyday; and me being so utterly unprepared, because she only does number two at home, started worry frantically about the poop on the ground. I was so embarrassed that I yanked her before she was done and left a trail of her droppings. I noticed later a sneaker print in one of the droppings. Icky. After her “accident” I had to go retrieve the intolerably-smelling blue doggy bags the city provides and walk back and scoop up the poop. The poop doesn’t bother me so much. Well, it does. But those dang doggy bags that are scented with this awful artificial smell that stays on my hands and whatever else they come in random contact with are the worst! Once I forgot a city bag in my pocket, and the bag served as a laundry freshener. The wash came out smelling like doggy bags: a pungent rancid baby powder smell.
Today, when I tried to walk Spastic Colon she decided it was way too hot and just spread out on the grass. I had to yank her back to the van.
After meeting my neighbor for tea, five minutes into our conversation, a much-needed conversation, and much-needed company, I get a text from my oldest: “Mom. Please stop what you are doing and come home now. I cannot stop myself from punching my brothers.” That was fun. Then what had to be the largest bug in the world flew into our faces at our outside table, where we were having our tea, (well actually I was having sparkling water) and we both stood up and screamed and flapped our hands. Then the bug came back again. Turns out it was two black insects in the heat of romance. I still don’t know what they were, but they looked and sounded scary, with those black wings flapping and their darting about. I wonder what that would be like though….flying and doing what they were doing.
Today it was so very hot, some 95 degrees hot. That’s hot for here. We have no air conditioning. Our upstairs was eighty-eight degrees at 10:00 tonight.
Earlier, I took my two youngest chaps miniature golfing and my “baby” swung the club super hard and smacked a ball right into my ankle. Ouch! Then at dinner, a vegetarian trying to cut spare ribs for her son, (that would be me), with a butter knife, ended up sliding the ribs off the plate and smack onto the floor. Smack again.
I’m just glad it’s finally officially Sunday, the start of a new week in my book, so I can get back to my normal life. Like a few months ago when I came home from a walk to find my youngest two barricaded in the bedroom screaming as my eldest (then an immature fourteen year old) was threatening to kill them with an iron fire poker.
Oh, I forgot to mention. While I was at the restaurant supping with my boys this evening, a half-naked drunkardly-looking guy, carrying a toddler in his arms, rode by on a green fluorescent unicycle. And when we left the restaurant a fire truck was stopped in traffic with the fireman staring at me with wide fearful eyes, while I was staring at the scary man standing in front of the boys and me on the sidewalk, who had on sloppy white clown makeup and a costume red nose and old tattered clothes. He was attempting to do magic tricks by pulling out some type of tattered colorful scarves out of an old black wagon.
My middle son, with ASD, after we are seated in the van, he looks up and, with a deep sigh, says: “Did you see that fireman? Did you see his weird expression? He gave me the creeps!”
Monster of the dark, why do you come to me at night and steal my joy so readily; and leave me shaking, a small child, lost alone and terrified?
Monster: I steal nothing, young heart of mine, that you do not wish already stolen, that you have not already offered on table for me. Nothing you have not called me forward to retrieve and swallow whole. Nothing you do not already miss because you never allowed yourself to seize it. This fickle mind of yours, so solid in one truth, and then the next. How bitter the taste to savor something that is already abandoned.
Monster, I do not understand. How do I wish anything to be stolen?
Monster: You speak of love. Love, love, love. You cherish love. You want love; but when this love is given to you, you know not what to do with it. Instead it as if you spit on love. Spit and spit, unwilling to even grasp the idea of someone loving you. And yet you say you love? Ha! I laugh in your face. I spit in your face. If you loved than you would gladly take this love they give.
Monster, this is not true. You live in a false illusion. What you see is the fantasy world. You cannot see my world. Only muted shades of black and white. You see no colors. You do not know what I feel and what I hold to me.
Monster: Then why don’t you take in what these people tell you?
Monster, I do not know. I want to. I open my arm and hands and heart and mind, and I want to. But I cannot feel it, any of it. Everything of this world feels numb to me. This world of love. Everything seems a ribbon or prize…nothing that I am worthy of. I cannot take these prizes when I do not feel I have been a participant in the race or contest. Yet, life feels so very much like a contest, where in everyone is struggling for prize. And I don’t want to be like this, yearning for one prize after the next. Constantly striving. I just want to be.
Monster: But you don’t take at all. You don’t accept at all. You are this constant giver who will not receive. And that makes you a monster, too. Do you not see? The greatest gift is to accept what others give, to with open hand reach out and accept their truth as your truth. This is not absolute. This does not make them right or you wrong. This does not make you prideful. This makes you real. And yet you play this dance where you cannot accept, cannot stand to feel. What is it you fear from these feelings? What do you fear?
Dear Monster I fear loss. I fear if I collect anything—friendship, objects, compliments, words, or thoughts—that they will eventually be lost. People leave. People perish. Objects come and go. Opinions change, and words they are shape-shifters based on the speaker and witness.
Monster: Yes. Yes. But you miss the greatest point, the finite reason that your theory, your way, is flawed. For if you spend your whole life not accepting for fear of loss, then you spend your whole life losing for fear of accepting. You set yourself up from the start to suffer loss over loss, without remission. Where if you were to open your hands and let some slip into your possession, then chances are you will hold onto some and lose some. But then again, even the lost was once had. With your way nothing is ever had. Why are you so afraid to feel?
Dear Monster: If I let myself feel, I risk everything. If I let myself love, I risk everything. If I let myself think for a fraction of a second that I am special, I risk self. I do not know the fine line. I do not know how to remain humble and how to accept love at the same time. I know how to give love. I know that well.
Monster: No, you do not! You do not know how to give love. You think you do. You think love is sacrifice. Love is not sacrifice. Love has no feelings, other than love. Nothing that pulls and tugs, digs or plunges, nothing that burns or confuses, nothing that makes someone hurt, is of love. You are not giving love, you are giving fear. You are giving what you think love is. You are giving a safety net, a security blanket, a voice to calm the potential storm. Do not look at people as if they are about to explode or cry or reject. Look at people how you want to be seen. How do you want to be seen?
Dear Monster: I want to be seen as a loving worthwhile being of light. I want to be seen as important and special. I want to be held over and over again in kindness and affection. I want people to come to me for shelter and I want to receive shelter. I want to be weak and strong. I want to be happy and sad. I want to be me in totality and to be loved unconditionally.
Monster: Then you have your answers. Let people see your light. Let people see you are important and special. Let people hold you in kindness and affection. Let people be your shelter. Let people love you unconditionally, in all your states. They are trying, but you are not letting them, dear child. That is why I steal from you at night. For you leave everything out on the table like scraps for the dog. And I smell this waste. I smell this discarded love. And of course I come after you. I am hungry. I am starved. I am the monster that is you, who refuses to eat, and instead cried that there is no food. How many times must a man say he cares until you listen? You feed off of ghosts and cry of starvation when there are plates full all around you. How can you point fingers at me, this monster, who only comes out crawling when he is called by the bitter woes of you? You ring anger’s bell. You ring sadness’s bell. You summon me again and again with this feast of forgotten love. And I take. Of course I take, because you will not.
Dear Monster: Friend indeed, a part of me. Here to show me what I cannot see. How I trick myself time and time again thinking there is something in the shadows stealing and haunting my dreams; when in truth I am my own shadow, my own monster, my own robber of hope. How I do remember now, my familiar face—the hideous claws—the fang-like teeth—how I remember hiding them onto myself so I could face the world. So long ago, I hid you monster, my fierce protector and guide. So long ago when you were once beautiful, a lovely song, a summer’s sweetheart. How I hid you and disfigured you, and made you this hideous teacher to blame. And now you come out, to me, in truth, and I take your hand. I see your beauty. Your eyes. Your hair. Your breath. The very essence of you. You are beauty from the dark. I am beauty from the light. And together we make days upon days, birthed out of wholeness and completion. Nothing is as it seems. Nothing at all. When even the darkness is me.
1. I get concerned about what I write, how I come across, and if I am expressing myself accurately. I mean do people really truly understand how quirky I am? Or do I need to prove it more?
I cleaned my study for 3 hours. Frequent readers will notice the neatly organized shelf. You can clap now. I had caffeine. Can you tell? This is not my normal expression.
2. I worry that I am exposing my inner most secrets to an unknown alien race or zombie civilization…or worse…my mother-in-law.
Yes…I call my dog Spastic Colon…but you should hear the name I called her the other night…She smelled really bad….
3. I stress that I will reach day 366 (leap year) two weeks early, on account that I posted a few times too many in one week; and that in actuality I will be ending my year of blogging short, and thusly lying, and making my whole blog, Everyday Aspergers, one giant scam!!!
Totally off subject….but because of a dear, dear friend…they upgraded our first night stay in Maui from standard room to the 2,000 square foot Penthouse with ocean views…..Yes….this was AWESOME
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View from the PENTHOUSE. When in line for free veggie burgers, I was giggling and saying loudly in line: “Boys, should we go back to our PENTHOUSE after this.” And “Wow, I can’t wait to gather at the PENTHOUSE later.”
4. I laugh when my sons inquire when I am going to add advertisements to my posts to start rolling in the cash.
My youngest asks everyday when he can get a high paying job and who employs ten year olds. Today he said that he has everything he wants in life and is so happy he can cry. Amazing what an I-Pod Touch and a Slip-N-Slide can do for a kid! Of course I said, “The test is to be this happy when things aren’t going perfectly well.” He said, “I know.” And then I started thinking I still have a lot of practicing to do until I fully understand that concept myself. Like when it’s the tenth day of no fricken sun in Washington come fall.
5. I miss commenters, wonder what they are like in person, and wish I could visit each and every single person who visits my blog. I think about how long this would take, how much money, and which places in the world have the very best chocolate.
Maui has a secret place in the mountains where you can find fresh baked banana bread (from banana trees on property) with bread dipped in chocolate and ice-cream in the middle. If you send me a ticket to Maui, I’ll take you there!!!
6. I make super good friends that I talk to every single day (AlienHippy) and share intimate details of my life with, and get to act like I’m twelve, and giggle, and joke, and talk about my wood elf fantasy life, and count the months (36) until I can fly to England and meet her!!!
A magical elf land photo just for you AlienHippy. I can’t wait for you to take me to the magical forests in England and introduce me to the Elf People!!! Yay!! he he (Photo on yesterday’s walk)
7. I get obsessed about photography. Every moment is an opportunity to share my world with people! A hailstorm. A party. A stream. A tree. Heck, even a sock nailed to a post. Everything is more exciting and worthy of sharing!!!
Hail on my birthday!!! The Gods were celebrating!
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Freak storm with lightening and thunder and hail! Happy Birthday to me!
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Coming down in buckets. Neighbor said she hadn’t seen the likes of a storm like this in years! July 2012 Yep…..SUMMER
8. I wake up in the middle of the night with the best poem in all the universes, and scribe the words in detail, only to awake in the morning thinking who wrote this poop? Then I spend two hours re-crafting my words, and feel like a genius, when my sea sister , blog brother , Sweet Angel, or long time supporter, George, compliment me. If they only could see the original draft…we’d all get a good laugh then.
I love this photo….maybe a poem….Sail on mice and wheat grass of ebony mountains with Robin Hood.
9. I wait nervously staring at the computer, waiting for that first comment to validate that I actually communicated and sent my thoughts out into cyberspace to be tracked and received by a real person.
Sending out an S.O.S.
10. I want to stop! I want to quit! I want to say enough. Until I get a message from a female with Aspergers saying how much my words mean to her. Then I tear up, and my heart swells big, and I know I am on the right path, or I am the Grinch…or something like the Grinch, with an over-sized heart who wants to join hands and sing around a tree.
Boardwalk Path through state park yesterday. 🙂
11. I get obsessed with stat numbers that catch my attention. Like today 66,600 visits was the total around mid-afternoon, and I just couldn’t settle my mind until the three sixes disappeared all together. Or the 513 subscriber. I love 13, and was so giddy at the 13; that subscriber 514 was a wee bit of a letdown. And at one point today, my post 116 Reasons I Know I Have Aspergers had exactly 116 views! Now that was coolness to the max. Did I mention the quirky aspect?
Lucky me!!! Three deer. Count them. Three, stopped in front of my van in Pacific Grove, California when I was about to make a right turn. 🙂 “Oh, I have to take these photos for my blog!” Boys: Rolling eyes.
12. I meet another blogger in real life!!! Someone I didn’t know at all 4.5 months ago, that now is a part of my waking, walking, breathing, flesh world! We live 11 hours away from each other. And turns out our parents live about one mile from one another, and we both lived in WA and CA at different parts of our lives. And we both have a great “drunk” look, without a drop of alcohol. By the way K, my husband said he thinks you’re hot. (My biggest worry in meeting K was that she would finally discover how my I-Mac computer is god-like in its ability to hide my wrinkles and shrink my nose in up close photo shots.)
Cutie K, laughing!
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Our “How sweet our we?” Pose
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Our drunken pose….seen late at night in local dive bars….lol My nose is not that big….it’s the angle….my husband reassured me..several times
13. Oh….and I sometimes forget what I was going to do. Here’s the sock photo.
A sock photo taken entirely for your enjoyment.
14. I spend up to three hours looking for the perfect song to match my mood.
15. I say WHAT THE HECK!!! LIVE a LITTLE, GIRLFRIEND! No one, absolutely no one, will care if you publish at 11:53 pm, instead of midnight, and count the post as the next day’s post. It’s okay. Really. It’s all going to be Okay!
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I was having a really good hair day in this photo. Don’t you think?
Everyday Asperger's 