Day 66: Fasten8

Everyday Aspergers
View from our deck today
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This morning, on the way to the gym with my boys, a state trooper pulled me over. He gave me the star treatment: flashing swirling lights and siren. I felt rather important. Especially when I pulled away because I thought the trooper was signaling me to park in a safer place. That’s when the sirens got super loud and made a noise I don’t think I’ve ever heard before.

I felt like a fugitive. It was rather exhilarating and not nearly as scary as I’d imagined. I’m thinking I’d make a good villain or superhero, or someone who dodges the justice system.

I take all the flashing lights as a sign from God that I shouldn’t exercise anymore. I don’t care if you don’t agree. I’m feeling very powerful after my run in with the law.

The second to the last time, I almost got a ticket, I’d done one of my famous incomplete stops at a stop sign, and was pulled over by a young officer. I batted my eyes and smiled. Then I shyly giggled (on purpose) and said, “Oh. My husband is going to be so upset with me!” Then I intentionally stared at the officer’s eyebrows and sighed.

He asked, as if I’d scripted his part myself, “Why?”

And I quickly said in a gag-worthy, sweet voice, “Because my husband is a volunteer firefighter and he’ll be so upset that I got a ticket.”

The officer’s body language eased then. He leaned in with a smile, and suddenly started talking to me like I was his good buddy. The next thing I knew, he’s waving me off with a cheer, and saying, “Don’t forget to tell Bob, I said hello.”

I was pondering on this situation this morning, and wondering if this scenario qualifies as manipulation.

I’ve come to the conclusion that I was only using my survival skills that I’d developed over the years in order to ease my way out of uncomfortable social situations. And since I’ve been easing my way out of uncomfortable situations with exact strategies my entire life—it was only natural to pull out the big actress guns and key words at an opportunistic moment.

This morning, after my three sons were mostly finished with their scoffing, finger-pointing, laughing, and commentary that sounded something like this: Ha, ha. You’re gonna get a ticket. You’re gonna get a ticket. He’s going to read you your rights. Mom’s in trouble, and after the trooper had waved me the go ahead, I said very calmly: “See, the officer saw that Mom had such a good driving record that he let me go.”

My oldest son quickly retorted: “How many times have they let you go?”

“Three, maybe four times,” I said with a wide happy grin.

There were some chuckles.

“Would you rather have a mom who drove super slow?” I asked.

“You’d still get pulled over,” my youngest answered.

“I think he let you off because he saw your handicapped sign and felt sorry for you,” my oldest offered.

I realized, looking myself over, that my son was probably right. A middle-aged, frumpily dressed, un-showered and disheveled-haired woman, with three boys in the van, just doesn’t have that I’m-so-sexy-don’t-give-me-a-ticket charm.

I spent the last five minutes of the ride lecturing my boys on never drinking and driving.

In the past three decades, I’ve been in three car accidents, none of them my fault. Twice, old ladies hit me. Seriously old, the last one was. I had to do a triple-take of her driver’s license, after she sideswiped my van running a red light. 1913! I kept thinking I was reading the birthdate wrong.

Only I would get hit by a ninety-eight year old woman! Statistically how many people in their late nineties are still driving? Or even alive? The other time an old lady spun out on the freeway and hit me head on in the fast lane. But I think she was in her forties, then. I’m in my forties now. Back then, when I was nineteen, she seemed super old.

The time after that, I was rear ended at high-speed on the highway by a man who not only had no driver’s license but who was in the country illegally. He was very apologetic.

I’m certain there are angels up somewhere, like in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, whom get a good kick out of watching my life play out.

Sometimes I think I am some pawn in the Matrix, or, at minimum, a major character in some crazy person’s dream.

Speaking of cars. I was a bit naïve a few years back, when I was still single.

I like words. I tend to obsess. And when I bought a red Mustang on a whim, only because I thought the Mustang was pretty, I obsessed about the license plate for three days straight. I wanted the plates to be personalized and charming, and creative. I came up with several ideas. I can still see the long list, and picture myself asking people’s advice. Oh, the old me was so embarrassingly innocent.

It came down to two choices: Red Apple (I was a teacher) or FASTEN8.

I chose FASTEN8 because I thought the word was so clever. To me, the fasten meant to fasten a seatbelt, and the 8 was one of my favorite numbers. And I thought my car was fascinating, and actually that my whole creation of FASTEN8 was fantastic!

My husband was the one who finally explained to me, some two years later, why men would slow down, nod their head and wink at me, when I was driving my Mustang. I thought the looks were because of the nifty spoiler I put on the end of my car or the new moonroof. Did I mention I was obsessed with my car?

My husband was kind when he explained: “When people read FASTEN8, Honey, they aren’t thinking about seatbelts and how clever you are.”

“They aren’t? What are they thinking of then?”

Insert what you think my husband said here: ___________________________

“Oh? Oh. OH!!!!”

I don’t personalize my license plates anymore.

Things LV wanted me to briefly mention about the trip to the gym today:

  1. Why aren’t spider veins in fashion? Almost all the naked ladies in the locker room have them on their legs.
  2. Why do all the naked people choose to not shut the shower curtain when they shower? It’s one quick pull of the curtain.
  3. Oh, this is what a steam room is like. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. Where is the door? I’m getting flashbacks of that bathroom scene in Charlie’s Angels where they tried to kill Jacqueline Smith with steam! At least I won’t see any naked people, if they come in here.
  4. Is this what swimmer’s ears feels like? Can I die of swimmer’s ear? Everything is echoing. “Helloooo.”
  5. As long as I keep my eyes closed, no naked people will come into the whirlpool.
  6. I’m sexy and I know it! I work out!

Sponge Bob I’m Sexy and I Know It!

31 Jokes for Nerds!

Double Rainbow!
Everyday Aspergers
Today's view from our window
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Day 46: Vampires, Naked People and Amazing Super Power Jeans

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!!!