Day 59: Premenopausal-Aspie-Freak-Prophet’s List of People Types

                                                              You Are Entering the Danger Zone!

I just have to say, if you read the title for this post, and are still interested enough to read, I think You are Totally Awesome! But just remember the source of the compliment. Always remember the source!

Premenopausal-Aspie-Freak-Prophet—that’s how I felt yesterday. Not sure if you picked up on that energy, or not.

No one told me there’d be days like these.

Click to see where image was found

Yes, I figured out a lot by watching my own parents and people on television, but didn’t know the heart of mood swings, until my early forties. I feel like I’m back in the pubescent period of discovering aspects of myself that would be better off buried one hundred feet underground, beneath a thousand-pound golden statue of a fierce, scary creature that everyone believes is possessed, but in actuality is a Greek God that turns into a handsome mortal warrior and visits me with passionate kisses at night…I digress.

Today is a dip-cubes-of-dark-chocolate-into-a-mug-of-hot-chocolate day.  Yum! Gone are the past few days of dieting. Dieting at certain times of the month is just plain stupidity.

Yesterday, I detoxed something terrible—emotionally and physically. The rings of sweat under the pits of my shirt were simply frightening. (That’s that whole over-sharing Asperger’s part of me that you will either find endearing or offensive.) One time, a couple years ago, I shared on Twitter that I stunk so badly my dog was licking my armpits. It was true.

No animal licked my armpits yesterday, but if given the right circumstances, who knows.

Yesterday, tears came out of me from nowhere, and I was immobilized with dread and fear. I thought for certain my time had come—that time we all as mortals must face. I thought the Gods were escorting me out of here. Yet, here I am! Still blogging. Aren’t you relieved?

Yesterday was not a good writing day. Maybe it had something to do with my literal stinky mood. My first post didn’t resonate with me, and left me all antsy and misunderstood. I do this weird thing, where if my home page of my blog doesn’t vibrate with beneficial energy, I can’t stand it, and I obsess. Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep, didn’t do anything for me. Think of a creep of a boyfriend/girlfriend latched to your arm that you want to shake off.

Thus, I took away the title of Day 58 from the post. Then, OF COURSE, I felt guilty, like I was hurting the post’s feelings. Got that whole personification thing going on big time. I fretted about the letter D’s feelings. Felt like I’d honored him, put him in the spotlight, and then yanked away his stardom. Bad, me! And then I worried about what my blog readers would interpret by my rash behavior. Worries which led me to write another post; only Melancholic Little Me was back, and coming off of a much-needed chocolate high, and Little Me shared about a God experience, ‘cause that’s what she does when she is sad.

But sharing about God experiences in the past has always, without fail, scared people out of my life. Unless God is used in the context of OMG! Which is a highly, socially acceptable saying that has no actual connection to a higher power source: kind of like a nightlight with a broken bulb plugged into a socket. It’s there—that OMG!—but doesn’t light up or call attention to itself.

It’s so fun being ME! (Gagging myself with my finger.)

I got all wigged-out last night, about taking the title of Day 58 off of one post and applying it to another, that I delved into Escape-Ville. That’s a far away land I plunge into feet first to escape myself.

In Escape-Ville, I did what all citizens of Escape-Ville do: I researched.

Click to see source of image

No one can figure me out, professionals and spouse included, so I rely on Google-God for the answers. He is the King of Escape-Ville. His Queen is a collaboration of non-fiction books, in all forms. And I imagine the court and prince and princesses are documentaries, newspapers, blogs, websites, videos, and the like.

While in the faraway village, ruled by Google, I discovered incarnated angels, indigo children, and other life forms. I’m officially no longer from this earth—Sir Brain has decided. LV wants to remain an earthling. Crazy Frog—he doesn’t care as long as there are hot toads on the planet where he lands. Hot as in frog legs that sizzle. Wink, wink!

Little Me is convinced Sir Brain is borrowed from someone else. I figure there is some brainless creature on a distant planet wanting to curse me, but lacking the mind to do so. Either that or I’ve been possessed by some demi-god whose sole purpose is to blog and get to know you. It’s a toss up.

Yesterday’s funk—got me thinking

I was contemplating why I felt drained of all my beneficial energy and spunk. Essentially why spunk had transformed to funk. Hormones and lack of sunlight came up first. Then my iron and vitamin deficiency came up second. There are always my disabilities to consider.

But primarily, what came to mind, were all these school events I’ve had to attend of late. There’s been a bundle: violin concerts, choir, plays, etc.  Events with crowds are hard on me. Which is sort of funny, because and event without a crowd would likely be a big flop or burnout, a no-show.

But a room full of people is not my cup of tea (said with a British accent/or should I say UK accent?).

I am overly affected by others’ energy—in person, online, or across the states. Who knows, I’m probably affected by energy across the nations, planets, and quantum physic’s multiple dimensions. That would be just like me, to be affected by another dimension’s being, like some balding barber in Transylvania fretting over an infestation of cockroaches.

A wise friend of mine said it is best to try to raise the energy of another person who is vibrating at a low level. I have tried this by using positive words, support, asking about positive events in someone’s life. But certain types—I’m not pointing any fingers—but certain types of folk, they will continually try to pull me down.

With those types, I find it is best to bolt away at high speed!

I’m pulling this list out of my head as I type. It’s how I’m feeling at the moment. Please don’t hold me accountable. Blame the list on some brainless alien on a distant planet or the whole possession thing. I do hope, if I have to be possessed, it’s a beneficial source of light, and gorgeous, too.  Here is my list, straight out of another life form’s mind-source.

People-Types (Sometimes referred to as Energy Vampires)

Lonely Lillys: These are people who lack proper nourishment of the soul. They haven’t acquired all the love needed in life to flourish. They are seekers of others’ light because they are lacking their own light. They have yet to realize that what they seek is already inside of them. Lonely Lillys will cause a person to feel weak and helpless. A person will feel a need to want to help but want to run away at the same time.

Willow Droppers: These are enormous energy takers. They are so filled with others’ energy that they can’t distinguish their energy from others. They take and take without realizing they are doing so. They droop like the willow tree and partially block others’ paths. Much of the energy they collect is not beneficial, and is a combination of rage, anger, disrespect, eagerness, and injustice. They are protesting against something or someone all the time, unable to love themselves, and equally unable to love others. They have stopped realizing they have something beneficial to offer the world beyond their feelings of anger. There is a disproportionate amount of non-beneficial power that causes another person who comes in contact with a Willow Dropper to feel overwhelmed, frightened, and nervous.

Angel Bears: These are people who act like angels but have raging bears inside. They pretend by saying what the other person probably wants to hear, but have a hidden motive at all times. They are not self-conscious and worried; they are not over-compensating; they are not in contact with their inner essence enough to know that they can be themselves and not a model or idea of what others want them to be. The energy of an angel bear is not threatening but odd. There is something amiss and not quite right that one cannot put their finger on. Angel Bears need love and take love, but they do not mean to take. They see themselves as givers.

Juggling Jacks: The energy of a juggler is always changing because the juggler is involved in too much. He or she has too much on their plate and is constantly trying to empty some of their load onto another. The juggler is an energy stealer because the juggler takes the beneficial energy from one and leaves instead a heavy residue of what another does not want or need energy-wise.

Dramatic Diva: Dramatic Divas did not get enough love. They are still seeking love through every action and word. They are very defensive and subjective. They analyze what others say, and wonder if it is directed at them. They are in the spotlight, and if someone else steps in, they drain the person so they cannot shine. Dramatic Divas offer unsolicited advice to make themselves feel better, create drama, and believe their problems are everyone else’s problems. Dramatic Divas are the hardest energy to deal with because they are so busy focusing on themselves and zapping others’ energy they cannot hear what you are saying.

Rapid Rovers: Rapid Rovers steamroll over people, and they enjoy doing it. They know exactly what they are doing and they set out to hurt others and steal their light. Rapid Rovers have been hurt repeatedly in their lives and believe they have no other recourse but to hurt others. They think because they are different that they have a right to be themselves no matter the consequence to others’ feelings. They hide behind titles and names, believing they have a right to do what they please. They do not understand rules and context because they choose not to understand. They are the first to blame others for their wrong doings and the first to lash out. Their energy causes others to want to run, hide, or charge forward and fight. You will know you have been caught in a Rapid Rover’s energy if you find yourself saying or doing things that go against your character and belief system.

People Peezer: These people piss on you. They come across at first as someone who wants to be your best friend, comrade, or buddy. They appear trustworthy, sound-minded, honest, and sincere. But they have a history of backstabbing and serving their own best interest. They will surprise you with their charm, and equally surprise you with their ability to turn against you and throw you to the wolves. Their energy feels comfortable with a strange tinge of discomfort. They have an energy that makes one say: There is just something about them I’m unsure about.

Moody Mac: This person’s energy makes one feel like that ate one too many hamburgers (or veggie burgers). They are heavy in energy, over-compensate, over-eat, over-worry, over-obsess, over-state, over-step, and do pretty much anything you can add over to. They are out of balance and typically without direction or goals. They are seeking help and direction. They are energy takers. They suck up the beneficial moods of others through their actions, words, and presence. They are confused, baffled, and sometimes boring. A Moody Mac needs a hobby or something that enables him/her to shine. If they aren’t shining, they are doom and gloom, coming down on another’s parade. They may appear crazy or out of their mind.

Cinderella Cindy/Charlie: Cinderella Cindy/Charlie is happy all the time. Nothing gets him/her down. She doesn’t understand when others are sad or disheartened, and is the first to say so. He says things like: Cheer up; Things will get better; Don’t worry about it; Focus on the positive. Cinderellas will refer back to a time when they had a rough patch, and explain how they got out of it just fine. Their energy feels heartless and self-centered. They take without meaning to do so. They have beneficial intention, but forget how to empathize. They find it easier to smooth things over than to deal with emotions.

Reactive Reapers: They pull everything apart, analyze, dissect, and worry that what they have discovered somehow affects them as a person. They are convinced someone or something is always out to get them, to find their flaws, to embarrass them, or to point them out of a crowd. They are hyper-defensive and hyperactive. Their energy wears a person down and makes one feel like they are gasping for air. Reactive Reapers can clear out a room. They don’t understand how they are not the center of the universe. They are closely related to Dramatic Divas, but don’t long for the spotlight. They are very much trapped in a cycle of looking for oppression and feeling oppressed as a result.

That’s all alien-brain wrote, folks. Tune into tomorrow for more adventures in Sam’s-Head!

Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep!


Here’s the song, so you can have the tune in your head.

Replace the lyrics Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap with the words Dirty D’s, Don’t you Weep. And then you’ll know what the inside of Sir Brain sounds like!

Crazy Frog has a crush on Joan Jett. I like her nose. And she’s easier on my ears, than AC/DC. Thus the choice in videos.

I herby proclaim myself a defender of the letter D!

I’ve been thinking about the letter D for about a week now. Yes, this is an example of what I think about. Laugh now, or forever remain silent.What made the D-thinking worse, is having the D’s singing and dancing to the song of Dirty Deeds by AC/DC, inside my head.  I knew there was no resting until I wrote about the letter D. My sanity takes precedence over what I write about. Hmmmm??? I have to wonder what that previous sentence actually means.

Did you know that the letter D has a bad rap? Think about it. The letters A, B, and C get all the credit in grade school and college; D is passing, but barely. It’s like the lowest of the lowest, before you fail. Not a very nice position to be in.

Poor lowly, D!

D is associated with words like dirt, ditch, demon and the ruler of the underworld. D is the beginning letter of dystopia, which means a place where all is as bad as possible! I can’t write that sentence without an explanation mark. It literally doesn’t get any worse than dystopia. (That’s humor.)

D starts the word dysteleology, a doctrine of purposelessness in nature, as in nonfunctional or nonessential parts. Yikes. And the letter D is found in one of the most debilitating phobias: dromophobia, the fear of crossing streets (sidewalks can be dangerous, too). Imagine that one! Thinking Aspergers and dromophobia would be an awful combo!

The more I ponder letter D, the more I realize I do a lot of avoiding of  D-words. (Sorry, Letter D.)

In fact, I often write for the sole reason of avoiding D-words!

I wager you avoid D-words, too, without even knowing. Take a look at this list. How many D-words do you wish you didn’t dwell upon? How many of these words have the potential to drag you down or get the best of you?

Dirt

Discrimination

Desperation

Divisions

Doctrines

Duties

Deliveries

Dating

Debt/Dollars

Decisions

Disaster

Death

Dying

Depression

Dysphoria (uneasiness/general depression)

Darkness

Despair

Dimwits

Dilemmas

Dirty Duds

Dirty Dishes

Divorce

Dog Doo

Daylight (lack of in Washington state)

Diagnoses

Dumbasses

Dork heads

Disabilities

Diving (I just threw this in because the first time, which was my last time too, that I ever dived into a swimming pool, a honeybee landed on my arm and stung me, right as I was taking my plunge. I took this as a sign to never dive again.)

Dormition (death)

Dubiety (doubtfulness)

Doctors

Dentists

Disappearing

Danger

Driving

Dinner (preparation)

Doorbells, Door knocks (This is for those of us with Aspergers.)

More I thought of: Dieting, Deception, Dementia, Delusions, Dust, Dust-mites, Dander, Dank Days, Dictator, Diminishing Democracy, Digestion, Deficit, Dungeons, Doomsday, Drunks, Dirty Diapers…it’s endless…

I can’t formulate another list using only one beginning letter other than D that thoroughly explains things I dread or worry about, as well as this list. I know. I tried.

If you research the letter D, (laughing, thinking this is highly unlikely), you will notice that the letter D has one of the shortest list of positive words available. D is right in there with letters like x and z—limited number of positives. (But a letter that is much easier to use in the game of Scrabble than x and z.)

The letter D has had a HUGE responsibility of holding down a lot of the masses’ frets and worries. Including yours and mine. And the time has come to celebrate D’s uniqueness and positive attributes. To say: “Thank you D for doing the dirty work!”

You can consider me one of those types that gives birthday parties for dogs; just pretend D is a dog. So here’s to you Darling Letter D! We aDore you!

D words to Dig!

Dreams

Dog

Duck

Doves

Deer

Donkeys

Dimples

Disport (play or frolic)

Dance

Dynamic

Dads

Daffodil

Daffy Duck

Dinosaurs

Donuts

Danishes

Darling Dear

Decent

Delicate

Delectable

Desirable

Dreamy

Dazzling

Debonair

Diligent

Dinner

Determined

Divine

Daisy

Dutiful

Dandy

Dessert

Dumplings

And my favorite song when I was eight: Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah! (I’m counting this one.)

I Do!

Did it!

Deserving

Doritos Chips

Diamonds

Perhaps even Dreadlocks

Oh! And Dough, as in raw cookie dough!

And maybe Dark as in Dark Chocolate…am I digressing?

After digging up the D-words, maybe I will finally get that dang Dirty D’s, Don’t You Weep out of my head. (Nope. Still there.)

There is a very good chance, I am being haunted by a mob of classic-rock-loving letter D’s. I can see them with long dark hair head-banding and air-guitaring. Cute D’s but very annoying, they be!

Like my mother always says: Anything is possible.

Thinking I used the word think a lot in this post!

Now I’m realizing, if you primarily speak another language, this post is entirely a dud! Darn it!

Does anyone else have an inkling to want to color in the Big Letter D with the Count from Sesame Street atop the post? I’m thinking purple.

D in Love (Thanks AlienHippy for this song)

Wait a second! How did a monkey get in the picture!

Dreamweaver

Day 56: Nothing But a Heartache

 

At any given time, from the age of fifteen to twenty-seven, I tried to have a best friend and a boyfriend. This pair of people anchored me: the best girl and the best boy. In some ways, people would consider me lucky, as I seemed to attract the handsome boys. But some handsome boys, and boys in general, I later discovered, could be bad boys, too.

Many people with Asperger’s Syndrome have reported that they didn’t have a romantic relationship for a long time, if ever. Me? I instinctively clung to boys starting at the age of five. Probably as a result of the gap I needed to fill based on the absence of my father and the busyness of my single mother. Being an only child in a world of ghosts, precognitive dreams, and extreme sensitivities to people, places, things, while having an acute sense of sight, sound, hearing, and touch, left me longing to cling to something, if only for balance and retreat.

As I reached my teenage years, I became liken to a high-quality, food storage, plastic cling wrap. I’d seal a male over with my entire essence, and remain stuck there, in full-grip mode. I remember thinking I was experienced with relationships. Keen on how they worked, what to do, and how to keep a “man.”  But I wasn’t.  I was weathered for certain: rusted around the outside like a metal pole set out in the rain one too many winters. But I definitely wasn’t experienced.  I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to take care of my needs and wants, beyond lassoing a male to do things for me.  I was quite pathetic, in an unintentional, hadn’t-meant-to-be, way.

By my early twenties, after graduating from college with honors and starting my first teaching job, I was deeply ashamed of the woman I’d become.  And more times than not, I didn’t know the part of ME that I played in life—didn’t know my lines or even where to find the script. From one moment to the next I was changing.  In one scene I played the role of the dedicated soon-to-be school teacher, and in the next a desperate crazy fool clinging to whatever man she could get her hands on.  A fisherman in the game of love, I’d learned to bait my hook and cast my pole, but hadn’t known to catch and release.

As time passed, each man I met, no matter where or when, who showed the slightest interest in me, soon became my new love interest.  I was fortunate in high school to have had two boyfriends (at different times) that treated me tenderly and with respect. However, later, I dated men from all walks of life, most of whom were extremely damaged in someway or another.  And all who were addicted to something or someone.

The worst of being with a man came in not what they ever did, but what I let myself do.  I made men my bed, and I slept in them while walking through life.  And I fooled myself repeatedly into thinking I was content.  It didn’t matter if the bed was too small, or too big, or if it had lumps.  It didn’t matter if the mattress was missing all together and I was made to sleep on the cold hard floor.  It only mattered I was in the bed, or at least what I’d thought to be a bed.  My mind fooled me.  My heart fooled me.  My logic fooled me.  While all along my spirit wept.

There has never been such a horrible part in my life as the years I walked half-blind to my own wanting.  In essence I was a prisoner, unable to move forward, sideways, or even backwards without pushing, dragging, or tricking myself in any given direction.  Best to stand still in one spot—best not to move an inch—if that was possible.  But it wasn’t.  I had to keep going.  I had to keep stepping somewhere.

The highlight of my dating career had to be the season I spent with the habitual lying, sexually addicted Don—a man five years my senior, who behaved ten years my junior.  At first glance I’d fallen head-over-sandals in love with Don.  The summer day he confidently strode through the Catholic daycare where I worked, I’d tucked myself halfway behind a shelf of books and drooled over his perpetually sun-kissed skin.  He was everything I’d wanted, dark and handsome, and tall enough to look down at me with his bedroom eyes.

The times Don and I were together weaved in and out sporadically through a span of half a decade.  When I first met Don he was separated from wife number one; when I last reunited with Don, he was struggling to patch it up with wife number two.  I was the in-between, but one Don swore up and down he intended to marry.

The majority of our relationship played out like an ill-plotted soap opera, with me as the dimwitted, star-struck mistress, and Don as the notorious villain. I can laugh now, find many lessons in the journey with Don, even thank him for the crash-course in what-not-to-do ever again; but back then, having no other models for beneficial love relationships and no avenue for escape, I was stuck in the mire of pain and misery, a self-invented trap that I had no idea of how to release. I cried daily. I wrote dark or needy poetry. My focus from morning to-night was Don. My life was Don. My reason for living was Don.

There was the time I dialed his number obsessively, about twenty times, just to hear his voice on the machine; the time his lover called me and said: “Just so you know I’ve been sleeping with Don every morning after he leaves your house. I’m those ‘business trips’ he’s been on.”; the time he totaled his uninsured truck out-of-town, and called me to come get him from the hospital, even though he’d been secretly rendezvousing with another that day; the time Don and I threw a Halloween party (which I obsessed and over planned about) and no one came (except a few of my teaching program college mates), because all of Don’s “friends” didn’t respect him; the time I drank an entire bottle of wine and slammed my finger in the closet, because I’d yet again been waiting for Don to show up.

He had a habit of just not showing up. Just not being there. I’d come to expect it. To recognize the raw acid-burning pain in my chest that signified the abandonment soon to come. There was pain continually lurking behind the wall of my psyche. I’d be in bed, the only one awake, and ritually would cry up to the heavens, begging for a way out, for understanding, but mostly for a way to make him love me.

I didn’t know any better. No one had taught me. And Mother, though I love her, hadn’t prepared me. Everything I’d learned from romance came from Mother or movies, or maybe from watching soap operas or another person. I didn’t have standards. I didn’t know what standards were. And I didn’t know why someone wouldn’t or couldn’t love me. I thought everyone was good, everyone just, everyone honest, everyone sorry.

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

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 51: 4 Play

Play

I just discovered the word fore-play can only be used in one way!

In California slang: Oh, My Gosh!

And here I was thinking I could use the word to mean: the time before I played or the time leading up to play.

(I’m hyphenating the word fore-play, in hopes of avoiding the p-er-v-s that might use the search term. No offense if you used that search term and were just looking for tips with your Honey. I don’t mean you. But maybe I do. Can’t be too sure, these days…now I’m realizing I just typed p-e-r-v-. I give up.)

Writing is an act I generally enjoy. Not so much yesterday’s post, but overall, writing is like PLAY to me. I believe I ought to be able to write fore-play to imply the play time leading up to my writing. But it looks like I’m out of luck!

I am picturing myself in a crowded room (heart beating fast) and having a small-chat-chat with a stranger (heart beating faster), and casually offering, “My writing involves a lot of foreplay.”

At this time, I would probably start obsessing about my heart beating so very fast, and start hypothesizing all the ways in which I could be dying, e.g., heart attack brought on by genetic mutation, clogged arteries, and my favorite, that Sir Brain continually obsesses about—heart suddenly explodes for unknown reason!

As I was obsessing, I’d likely miss the nonverbal clues of the person standing next to me, who was processing my statement.

I’d miss the person raise a brow or I’d miss him/her attempt to raise a brow. (I can raise my right eyebrow super high, and forget others don’t have my same skill set.) I’d miss the quizzical-who-the-heck-are-you-smile. I’d not realize a tape (CD for younger generation) was playing in the stranger’s mind.

Perhaps something like this: “Is she naïve, uneducated, bold, or just plain stupid? Or maybe trying to pick me up?”

I’d miss the follow-up smirk or wink—dependent upon interpretation. And I’d mosey along towards the food table, entirely oblivious of the person’s response to my utterance, while gorging myself on prawns and crab-cakes, in an attempt to subside Sir Brain’s rapid thinking on death.

They know what I'm talking about!

 Words like fore-play get tangled in my mind.

I love words. I am fascinated by words. They are brilliant and beautiful. And I love to paint pictures with words. Words are my primary colors blended into soothing pastels, when they merge with the white of my computer screen.

Words are my friends. And they are also my enemies. I keep words close. I watch them carefully and with awe. The slightest change, just one little letter, alters the whole meaning. Just a slight dab of painted word, a speck in the corner of the canvas, transforms the entire picture.

I still don’t comprehend why the word fore-play can’t be used in other ways.

The word fore can mean: the front, that which is in front; the future. A method of proceeding. Before. Previously.

 The word Play means: Engage in activity for enjoyment or recreation rather than practical purpose. Usually involving children.

But when I combine the two together, they don’t mean: the play you do before the play. This is confusing.

Why can’t the word combo mean the play writing I do before the writing? I love to play write before I write. I usually write a half page or more, before I find my voice and know what I want to write about. Then I delete, and begin again.

Some people, reading this post, are thinking, really? This is the best you got after you played and deleted?

Yep. This is ME!

I wanted to call this post the Origin of Fore-play. But I didn’t want to attract creeps.

Just putting that out there.

It is a funny and intriguing title, after all.

Be forewarned, don’t go digging into the word origin of fore-play, unless you want an eye-full. Neither do you want to search for images or search for examples of what p-e-r-v means. And YouTube—you know how Crazy Frog likes to find associated videos for my posts. In relation to this post, AVOID YouTube searches. LV is still hiding in shame. 

You might be wondering about the point of this here post. How this could possibly relate to Asperger’s Syndrome.

Let me point out what this post demonstrates:

  1. Words mean a lot to me.
  2. Words are confusing, especially when they have multiple meanings, or when society has combined two words to mean something different than expected and/or that don’t make logical sense.
  3. I confuse words.
  4. Confusing words can cause embarrassment.
  5. I am often unaware I ought to maybe be embarrassed.
  6. My actions confuse others.
  7. Confusing others can ostracize me (or make people like me even more).
  8. I can pretty much write about anything given a particular topic.
  9. I’m a risk taker and have a hidden talent for finding cool videos.
  10. The combo of Green Tea, chocolate cookies, and the supplement Gaba make me even more interesting.

You Tube Links You Might Enjoy

Sometimes certain words leave me feeling unsettled. If you’re like me, this is to relax you.

For those of you who were really hoping for more out of this post, here’s a frisky dolphin. 

And music, we have to have music!

Now I’m wondering about the words play toy! And thinking about when I was 18 years of age, a college freshman, and how one of my first college courses was all juniors and seniors, an upper division class, that I had no idea I ought not to have signed up for. And I’m thinking about the videos in that class, and the topic, and how my face was always beet-red.