musings

380: Star Poop and the Naked Boy-Toy!

| Aspergers Girls

young rob

Reader Beware: This is an example of what goes on in my head. (If you are bored, scan down to the end. Where my husband made a remarkable revelation!)

I was curious about some “things” and so I asked some random questions, as I seem to have a direct line to the collective unconscious of something or another; if you are comfortable with Carl Jung, let’s go there to the expansive wave of collective thoughts—the whole hundredth monkey theory.

If you are comfortable with inner-awareness, let’s go there, into the deep spaces of my untraveled mind, the pieces I have gathered from multitude of sources, and pinned together into a cohesive, almost understandable oneness.

If you like the idea of aliens in space beaming down prophetic knowing through the crystal in my cranium, let us travel there, into the ameba of oneness, or in this case the enema of oneness.

(You know in a bad comedy how they hint to the dumb audience what they were referring to, and you are part of this assumed “dumb” audience, and you say to your partner, or buddy, or invisible ghost friend: “Like I couldn’t figure that out on my own.” Well I kind of feel like a producer of a bad comedy, with me as the star, and I truly don’t want to direct you to why the word “enema” connects to the title, so I won’t. But just thought I’d pause to explain, as that is why you tuned into this channel I am supposing. Oh, and if you think I think you are a dumb audience then you are, but if you don’t think that then you’re not. It’s all a matter of perspective.)

Or how about angels and God, those are fun places to venture, as there are always four camps it seems: the believers, the objectors, the debaters, and the unattached (aka: zen, enlightened, or I don’t give a hooting fricken chicken’s butt).

I wonder why that four-camps theory doesn’t work with the whole alien theory—there doesn’t seem to be the fanatical thing attached to alien theories, (unless you’ve been beamed up, of course)—maybe because they don’t threaten man’s perception of reality. Maybe green little men are easier to comprehend than God/Creator/Life Force. “I mean look at how huge the universe is! Aliens must be somewhere,” Earl said. With me responding, “Yeah, who cares about how the universe got here! There must be aliens!”

Perhaps you are comfortable with hovering spirits or guiding ancestors, in that case these are some pretty smart relatives and ghosts I have about.

Or perhaps, you liken the appeal of genius-aspie, as you yourself are on the spectrum or married to someone with Aspergers (lucky, lucky you!); and the whole genius aspect is intriguingly-comforting in that “I am so awesome” kind of way, or in that “at least she’s got that going for her” way.

Ideally, you think this is all utter nonsense, babblings of a mad woman who has falling off her rocker and can’t get up and has no device to contact the aliens to beam her up, or voice to beckon the spirits or angels, and no means to direct the hundredth monkey to fly down for rescue. Ideally, I say, because, how you see me doesn’t much matter. You will interpret me. I have no control over that. And honestly I don’t want to control you, unless you are chocolate; then I would like to control you and digest you. And that’s where the fun is, in eating you as chocolate, and in knowing in this moment in space, that you see in me what you see in yourself. Hehehe, you are so ________.

It doesn’t matter if you think I am a nutter. But if you are having trouble deciphering who you are, please insert chocolate.

Recently, I am thinking that I become magically transformed by your perception of me. If this theory is true, as some sages claim it to be, then somewhere I exist as a thousand replicas… time travel in its purest form!

(Remember, way up there, in my first big paragraph, I mentioned I was curious about some things…well I haven’t forgotten to get to the end of that point. I am sort of time traveling in my mind from one thought to the next, but eventually I will get to the place I was originally headed. Or not.)

I spoke to a special friend today, I call second mom, because she is so fabulously sweet. She actually counts me as one of her daughters, which makes me think she seriously is deranged—which is further proof we see in others who we believe ourselves to be.

My second Mummy (for my UK readers, Mummy instead of Mommy—comedy producer doubting audience) was the victim of my verbal spillage. I HAD to tell her most of what had happened to me in the last three weeks (Verbal Vomit.) The whole time I spilled, another “better,” and much more spiritually-matured part of self, I call the observer (or sexy goddess, depending on my mood) watched with a Buddha-grin, as I was split into two distinct forces: 1) my inner guru/semi-saint and my 2) excited-aspie-persona; then someone came and sat behind the observer watching all of us: the observer, the guru, and the aspie. Sometimes they all merged into one, and other times the guru and aspie were sparring, while the observer remained cautious. And the guy behind the observer, he resembled my angels and laughed at me. When I think about how I was able to see the man behind the man behind the me, my head hurts.

(I think as the observer as a man; no stereotypical reasons I can offer. I likely have God-abandonment issues. But the person watching the observer, I think she is a woman. So ultimately the she-me is in control; until I start to think about who is beyond her. Then I need a brain-enema.)

I decided spilling my thoughts onto my sweet mummy was liken to a little girl who had just opened a bunch of presents (toys) and has a strong desire to share them ALL at one time. And thusly, quite dynamically and swiftly, in a span of two hours, I ended up burying my dear sweet one into a huge gigantic heap of toys.

In the end, she was under a massive pile of wooden toy blocks, because figuratively speaking, I had built a gigantic castle right on top of her sprawled out body. Way down low, beneath the block castle, peering up from the moat, was dear second-MUM! While I swung from the castle turrets hollering with glee: “Hello down there!” (wearing a purple princess dress). We surmised, together, that this was okay, me burying her and spilling upon her and such, as I let her keep, after some discussion, not a Stretch Armstrong doll, not a Six-Million-Dollar-Man doll, not a Donny Osmond doll, but a Rob Lowe doll, to play with and make her very own. With this she was giggly-happy, my seventy-year old second MUM… She was especially happy after I mentioned the imaginary Rob Lowe doll was completely naked! Yes! Naked. As I’d removed all of his clothes.

rob lowe

Yes, this is my life. And I kind of like it.

As my self-proclaimed second-mom and I were speaking, before I buried her completely in my new found toys, I had mentioned about a previous vision; and my special friend, very special indeed to be buried in my toys, well she said the vision I retold to her helped her a lot. The vision I had, which I shared partially a ways back, was a breaking point for my personal healing, much like my mum’s naked boy-toy.

In this past vision, I was shown a room, a vast room filled with a thousand people. There was a stage, and each person took his or her turn getting on stage and saying what he or she thought of me. Not all of them, as even with the ability I seemingly have to STOP TIME, I didn’t want to hear the lot of them. And so, through this vision, I listened through the visual representation of imagery. And in so doing, in being there in this vision, I was taught without word, but through energetic form, that each person in the room, every single one of them, had a unique individualized view of me.

I understood, instantly and with great inner depth, too complex to relate in words of any longevity, that no two people’s perspectives of me would ever be the same. That for another to perceive me as the “real” or “actual” me was an impossibility. I was further shown that in choosing what perceptions of me seemed to be the true perception of who I was, I would have to draw some sort of imaginary line of separation. I would have to choose. For instance, would I take the top twenty who spoke great of me? Or the bottom ten that spoke ill of me? The ones in the middle? The ones with mixed feelings? Or the perceptions that they had at a different moment, say next week, or next year? When they left the room and their life experiences changed, would I still want that same perception? Was I willing to define myself by ever-changing dependent variables, and more so base my sense of worth, and emotional state, even vibrational energy, on the ebb and flow of the perception of masses? On examining this room, I was able to come to the conclusion that the thought of basing my identity on so much uncertainty and constant variation, was not only exhausting, but entirely unpredictable and unreliable. In seeing this, and drawing swift recognitions, I accepted I would rather be something simple, something I could hold onto and embrace. I would rather be a light—nothing more and nothing less. And beyond that perhaps nothing, even the nothingness behind nothing. Here I was able to accept that I was all of these perceptions of the people in the room and at the same time I was none of them. I existed somewhere unattainable in between, in the infinite space between two whole numbers, the never ending decimal.

(End of powerful vision, and start of brief intermission.)

The only issue with my identity I am having now, beyond the sparring guru and aspie, and the endless observers that alternate genders, and the God-abandonment issues, and… is that as of late, I seem to morph into different personas depending what life force is perceiving me, (who I am talking to or nearby), and sometimes animals, like monkeys or my dog, or even my pet cedar tree, Fred. This can pose a huge problem; I mean what if I am in close proximity to a pole-dancer?

And finally, what my main point was, some seven pages ago, is presented below. The lingering questions I had answered by the life force of something or another, whom doesn’t care what I call it, as long as I understand the whole non-attachment thing. All of this I was mostly shown in the span of a five-minute drive home. I tried to recapture the thoughts/vision/knowing with the help of the monkeys, but we have obviously had one too many bananas. And so I offer you, what the observer of the observer of the observer, aptly titled: Star Poop. And in which I thought later, after typing this all out: The Crap that comes out of my head and stars’ butts.

*******STAR POOOP*******

My question: “Am I creating a need for others to suffer by wanting to be of service to others?”

Yes, however the truth is in the words you choose to use, not in your intention.

If your intention is to truly serve, then where is this foundation?

If the foundation is love, then the need is based on love.

Therefore, remove only the remaining attachment of the word “need” and replace with the word “open,” and you may simply restate: I am open to love.

This, “open to love,” can mean many things, including open to service, if you deem partaking in service a form of giving love.

Likewise, if you say you “need to create,” and this is from love, then you are “open to creation.” Love works in this same manner, as being open to creation, though love is the foundation of all. So when one speaks: “I am open to love,” he is thusly “open to creation,” and open to anything he deems beneficial under the umbrella of love.

If one then asks: “But what of this love?,” and in so doing recognizes readily that even love then has boundaries, for surely he thinks one cannot love while creating hatred; then he has met the point of openness in which he might ask: “Let me be open.”

In this state, a state without need, and a state without the boundaries of love, (as love is a concept created for union and not division, and love is subtracted in the sight of separation), than one is better able to comprehend the vastness of open.

For is not “one being open,” imply open to any “thing;” in one being open to anything, he is thusly the distinguisher of fear, and thereby recognizes that love can be manifested in what would previously have been deemed “hatred.” For all are our teachers.

If hatred is a teacher that pulls us out of self and closer to egoless, or our true being state, then hatred surely is love.

This is to say: Turn the other cheek, but in turn, turn the other as well: the hidden cheek of humility.

It is not enough, to choose to turn away in physical form. To turn away in spiritual form, the mirror of illusion peering outwards into the mirror of illusion, and therefore releasing the thought before thought of self, is to truly turn away. Or in other terms, to turn forward and into self, by turning out of self, this is the measure of turning the cheek: to turn the various views of self long enough to render no self. In this state you are truly open to love, and there by an empty vessel for hatred.

Here, in this state of openness, you become openness, and in turn in being open, you are being self. This is a circle, as all life is, and without circle life is not.

Next question: “Did I tell a truth that wasn’t a complete truth, and is it better to speak the whole truth?”

A truth spoken from the heart with no intention, desire, or need, except to love, is a truth.

This does not mean the truth is a complete truth to the speaker or the receiver of said truth, it means it is a truth formed of love.

In opposite measure is truths formed from the stem of fear. All truths formed from the stem of fear, particularly the darker virtues of fear, included but not limited to greed, need, and attention, are stemmed from a place of falsehood.

To truly speak in truth the words spoken must in all ways reflect the interior intention beneath the words spoken. (The inner core of the being speaking.)

Therefore it is more “ideal” to say “I hate you,” if this is the truth of the vibration beneath a word, than to harbor this belief of truth (to keep within you the belief of hating). Because here, once spoken and declared, the truth is seen and digested and vanishes. Wherein if a person was to say “I love you,” whilst angry and in an inner state of dislike or non-congruence—which is all hatred is: an inner-state of non-congruence with self (not other)—then the truth would be buried and fester like poison in the body.

So why is it safe to utter the word hatred?

It is safe to say “I hate” because truth as the will-doer (person forming words) sees fit to match his inner state (core).

Better to say, “I am in a state of fear, or unrest, or uncertainty” than “I hate.” But still to say, “I hate you,” is in superior position in ranking the out-spring (core to spoken form) of emotion, than to say, “I love you,” or “I like you,” and not mean this utterance.

Uttering any non-truth from a base/foundation of fear is a true falsehood. Here even falsehood is accompanied by truth, as truth can be found in all measure.

However, in considering another scenario in which a one, rather feverish for another, withholds his love, by uttering, “I like you,” instead of “I love you,” perhaps because the other, he believes would hesitate, fear, or erupt with the mention of “love,” or perhaps because the social perimeters do not dictate that this person would be approved, for example, if he says “love” to another already “attached” or committed to another; in this case, if the person mutters “like” but resonates below, at the core, as “love,” but he chooses to do so out of “love” (not fear), then and only then, seeing he mumbles a replacement out of a core of love, then this can foster a truth.

This is what could be deemed a partial-truth, if the truth is stemmed from a core of love, as a mother not telling her daughter she appears unsightly; in this way she holds her tongue, which is best to do in all manners of appearance. In so doing, if the motherly figure replaced this truth of perceived non-beauty (which is a falsehood in and of itself, but used as scenario nonetheless, as seemingly relevant), in this way we say, all things stemmed from love, rather a truth in completion or truth in partial, become truth in totality. In after thought most mothers view their daughters as pure beauty; a better example may be a man peering at a former love-interest.

It is often the case, accordingly, that when one witness connects the words to truth, the other connects the words to truth simultaneously, when done in love.

Therefore, all things stemmed in love are truth, all things stemmed in fear are false.

Just as falsehood is an illusion, as fear is an illusion.

And anything stemmed in illusion births illusion.

So to state that the falsehood even exists in the perimeters of discussion, states the illusion is of some substance, and contradicts our speaking; but nonetheless negates the polarity of truthfulness, as we are speaking a truth stemmed from love, though the truth not be in totality, it resonates from the core of our being, presenting itself in exact foundation of what we perceive as self or we.

Next Question: “Are lies bad?”

All lies, except lies stemmed from love, without fear, are falsehoods, and therefore illusion.

All lies stemmed not from love are stemmed from fear. All lies stemmed not from love are thusly illusion.

There is no lie that can be told that does not have an element of fear, if the believer recognizes the uttered word as lie; this indeed contradicts the previous discussion, but only in manners of extreme theological inquiry. In truth, if lie is spoken to protect, serve, lift, support, without intention to manipulate, trick, deceive, or benefit, then this lie can be manifested as truth, if the receiver accepts the true inner core of the speaker that radiates love.

In this way lies are an illusion, but stemmed from the core of radiating love, and therefor transformed into living truth, some lies are perceived as truth. This is the only way lies transform—from love. It is the only way anything transforms: from love.

In considering the immediate question, “Are lies bad,” then it is important to distinguish the concept of “bad.” For no bad exists unless wished into existence for higher purpose, not by receiver, or wisher, but by collective; in this way no singular is responsible for bad, as no singular can be responsible for bad, as anyone labeled “bad” is a product of the collective environment of “we,” stemmed from either the majority of love or the majority of hate.

That is what “to love thy neighbor” means; for if you do not love your neighbor from an inner core of love, then what do you create, what do you stem, what do you feed the environment, to this created one?

If not love, there is either absence of love or the illusion of hatred. Others drown, if others would be, in the illusion of hatred, a toxic poison that breathes at the necessity of false illusion, to prove time and time again, through all veins of reason and travel that yes, indeed, in the illusion of hatred there is suffering.

Thusly, the liar and the lie are the same, both illusion formed and stemmed from the majority of fear, with love blocked out and extinguished, waiting in the shadows for the illusion to vanish.

For even illusion exists in thought and form, though not fluently recognized in planes of existence.

Therefore where you are, you have taken down a way of perceiving that doesn’t readily belong to you, and never has. Your perception of lies is neither here nor there, as it cannot survive here.

******

In another plane, perhaps depicted as the thought of distant stars, or say ye angels bright, then this concept of hatred exists, but only as collected thoughts from what could be said exists below.

Therefore when you embrace hatred, you in essence take in the wasteland of your own thoughts; once given to the stars for depletion, but stolen back for false comfort, for only false comfort arises from stealing falsehoods.

In this way hatred can be seen as the pollution of one world leaking into the other and being stolen back for sake of stealing, when the real culprit is the illusion of fear, unseen and untouched in the depth of the core.

Displace the illusion of fear from core, analyze and hold the fear, digest and demolish the fear, and eliminate fear at a soul-level, say earthly-level, and there exists no need for a wasteland of hatred, and then there “be” nothing of overflow waste to steal from.

Think this when you hate: You are stealing the waste of stars.

All the brightness, the nutrients, and “goodness” have been passed through the bowels of the stars, and you are receiving the manure.

Thusly, anger exists as an illusion, but in star-form as a teacher, for what can grow from manure but the finest of gardens.

In this way there is no judgment in anger, or hatred, as anything stemmed from fear, or the collectors of fear, is illusion, and beyond illusion, nothing is judged in totality or in separation: all is as is and unfolding as decided before the unfolding of time.

In this way do not judge your neighbor, rather turn the cheek and take in the waste they have collected for fertilizer for your very growing.

Feel this manure as illusion and nothing more, but gather the existence of the dimmed stardust and take this into you for your greater good.

In this way when you wish upon a star, wish for the waste of the star before the light. As you are already the light.
You are already love, and the waste itself, the nurturer of the soul in solid-star form, will un-yield you to this beauty, collecting the images of self in the other, as the anger stemmed from illusion of fear, as the illusion of self stemmed from love.

In conclusion of the complexities of this answering, we say, indeed YOU are a truth stemmed from a lie, but the lie that vibrates from the core of love, for your protection, for your safety, for your guaranteed security—for to stare into the beauty of us, and what you be, would to be again the star, only exploded with rapture.

In this way, count on your own star-sister and star-brother to be your nurturers, either in love or in the illusion of hatred. For either way they turn you into the light of you and teach you of your fullness. Take readily the hatred, until the illusion of hatred is turned into love, and the stars (we be) no longer need to filter and digest what was never you to begin with.

*********

“I keep thinking to myself, how do you do that? I mean who’s got that much shit to say?” ~ My husband, after I recited this post.

359: Call Me Crazy….an Aspie Rant

| Aspergers Girls

Call me crazy (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase in a sentence.), but I have a hard time reading a book or article about how to best associate with (e.g,. marry, date) people with Aspergers, when the authors writing the material don’t have Aspergers. I don’t know exactly how to describe this irkish-sensation…

however the scenario of a typical (non-aspie) “professional” announcing to the world how to help someone with Aspergers seems akin to an alien beaming down from a purple planet and telling me how to be more human.

Yes, I purposely did a spin on my example, as in most people’s eyes the “professional” would be the human and the aspie would be the purple-planet alien. (One-eyed-one-horned-flying-purple-people-eater entering mind.) But indeed, that is precisely my point; so much is written about how to help the person afflicted with Aspergers or how to get along with the person with Aspergers, but what about the articles and books that explain to the person with Aspergers how to get along with the non-aspie people?

Why is it that I, and my fellow non-aliens, are continually dissected in our ways, set apart, and then sorted by our inherent flaws, so the others can learn to live with us? I mean is this being done for other people with “special needs,” too. Or is it just us Aspies that need to come attached with a handbook?

If we changed the scenario, just a tiny bit, and turned this into cultural differences; I don’t know let’s say an entire book written by a Caucasian person about what it is like to be African American and how to adapt behaviors and implement strategies to get along with the African American, do you think maybe there might be an issue? Hmmmm.

Or how about if a Doctor of….let’s see…. How about someone who studies squids! Let’s call him Squidman. Well Squidman all of the sudden finds out there is a bunch of money to be made in writing a book about Redwood Trees (as they recently became 2% of the population of all trees!), and so seeing he has a doctorate degree in squids and all, he sets about to study up a bit on the mighty redwood. And soon Dr. Squidman becomes the leading expert on redwoods! Cha-ching, Cha-ching, and out he births book two. Redwoods of the Deep Sea.

Is this making sense, yet? I guess being aspie myself and all, I am just a bit weary when yet another book or freelance article comes out about Aspergers and not much attention is paid to the source, the credentials, and/or the personhood of the person writing the book. I’m certain this happens in all subject areas that suddenly become a hot topic and therefore a hot commodity, but when the subject is about an actual neurological condition with actual people who have the condition and are struggling to make sense of the condition, and the whole sharks-coming-out-to-feed transpires, the experience is just somewhat that much more frightening and sad.

I am a bit over sensitive I suppose (must be my lack of empathy or inability to process emotions the typical way) about trusting any “experts” in general, as they belong to the same clam (clan…sorry Dr. Squidman did the editing) who couldn’t figure out for the last twenty-years that I even had Aspergers and who couldn’t figure out my son had it either.

If I read one more time about how a person with Aspergers can’t read non-verbal cues, I am going to scream, have a huge aspie meltdown and run out the door naked! Because you know people with Aspergers do that. Every full moon they run out the door naked and yell at the Trees. They do, really (Squidman, 2013).

After fifteen years of being married to me, my husband is a leading expert of what it is like being married to a woman with Aspergers. With his help and my brains (and his brains, too; he is pretty smart), we could tell you how the whole marriage to an Aspie person works. And there ain’t no little book or one page article that will do the trick! It’s tons of work, tons of compromise, and tons of love; just like any successful marriage. There isn’t any secret trick or secret way to make it better or to make it easier.

I don’t need to come with a handbook that explains to my mate how to deal with me. He needs to come with one. He’s a man! All men need to come with one, and a woman should write it.

Every person with Aspergers is different and uniquely unique. We can’t be clustered into one type of person with a few easy steps to make life easier to get along with us. HELLO! I am a person. I am not a type. I am not Aspergers. And I am not a male with Aspergers, either. There is a difference, you know!

Of course I respect people trying to truly help other people; but it’s all the profiteering off of the new trend “Aspergers” that’s got me a bit concerned. All of the sudden everyone is claiming to be an expert, when the “experts” don’t even know what Aspergers is yet, what causes it, or how to classify it. I mean there are articles claiming brain imagining can now detect Aspergers. It can? Last time I checked it couldn’t.

People are so hungry for knowledge, which is a great thing, but it’s a time to be cautious too and to take notice of the wolves and deceit. People will regurgitate facts to push a book. People will copy works to make a dime.

People will do what they have always done: exploit a people to make a profit.

And that’s what’s so ironic; here are all these NT (neurotypical people) rushing out to claim fame through trickery, lying, stealing, or at the minimum claiming they actually understand a complex neurological disorder they have never experienced, while it is the people with the character traits of honesty, sincerity, no game-playing, and loyalty whom are being dissected and analyzed and spread out for display.

Seems to me I need a book about how to deal with the profiteering thieves!

I am by no means saying everyone who writes about Aspergers ought to have Aspergers. Some of the leading experts have done brilliant work and assisted thousands of families; but I am saying be careful of what you read and what truths you believe out there. There are many clichés being recycled, many which are not true and don’t apply to the female with Aspergers experience.

I am not a child. I am highly intelligent. And my husband doesn’t need someone else telling him how we can better get along. I am right here. Ask me! I know.

And since I mentioned it. Here’s my quick article on being married to a man. I have been married for fifteen years to one, so this makes me an expert! Also, I have a Masters Degree in Squidology.

1) He will watch sports a lot. Take time before the games to express your needs. He may seem self-absorbed and fixated during the actual game, but don’t take it personally. He may get overly emotional, sometimes shouting obscenities or displaying nervous ticks. Give him a timer and let him know after an hour it is important for you to receive his undivided attention. Suggest five minutes to start and slowly increase the time. Then in return let him express a need you can fulfill. You can use a timer for that, too.

2) Toilets might be an issue. Keep the lid down when you can. But if the toilet is continually left up by the man then give him gentle reminders. When he does remember to shut the lid consider leaving a sticky note with a smiling face. If he still doesn’t remember, give him a break, he has short term bathroom memory condition. This will affect the toilet paper roll being refilled and he may forget how long he has been sitting on the toilet. Be patient. His brain is different from yours and obviously he needs time away. Ignore the smells; they eventually dissipate.

3) As a man gains weight his snoring will increase. Also, he might be prone to binge eating and drinking, especially during social functions. This is a natural response to being around other people of his gender. Keep a bag of ice in the fridge, so he is prepared for unexpected guests. Invest in earplugs. He can’t help the snoring. And with all the fast food establishments, he isn’t to blame for the gain in weight. Hold tight. Reflect the behavior you want to see. Eat healthy in front of him and cuddle him when he snores. If all else fails take breaks on the couch and let him stretch out in bed. Remember his body is different than yours.

4) Socializing can present problems. Try to recognize his behavior does not reflect you as a person. Sit down and have a talk in a safe and calming environment. Provide him with notecards about appropriate conversation in front of your friends. Roll play scenarios and give him examples of how to build you up and compliment you in front of guests. If he already does this, you are ahead of the game. Show him what is appropriate to wear. But don’t throw out that old shirt no matter how ugly it appears; this represents a connection to the past and provides a sense of security. Now that he is married he may seem miserable, but be reassured he is not. You are.

(This is a stereotypical generalization of a gender. Kind of like a stereotypical generalization of a group of individuals who have the same neurological condition.)

301: Manwife Needed

| Aspergers Girls

(Warning: There is adult language in this post that some may find offensive.)

    And while you are at it, there is a c—– (insert vulgarity beeps) that needs cleaning…. This is how I wanted to end this post. But I found it overly offensive. So I put it in the front of the post, in order to confuse you more, and in hopes you might forget about it by the time you maneuver through the Nyquil mess below. I’m not calling my husband this time to check if it’s too inappropriate. I figure if people read Shades of some color or another, they can handle a bit of Crotch.

    I am writing because I need help. The house is a mess. I need a housecleaner. And no offense, but I’d much rather stare at a man doing my dishes than a female.

    I’ve been guilting myself up lately, as in telling myself those negative messages such as: I’m a lousy housekeeper, I hate cooking, I’m clumsy, I’m lazy, and I must be losing my fricken mind, as I can’t remember a darn thing.

    It’s a good thing God (or that purple-green alien guy) birthed me with a sense of humor. I’m the type of person who turns on the oven, and when the oven timer goes off, I wonder what the noise is. Worse, is, I’ll start to cook a meal, and then soon afterwards smell something yummy, and think to myself: What is that smell and where is it coming from? A while back I was yapping on my cellular phone, the palm of my hand pressing the phone into my ear, and then suddenly I panicked and starting searching the house, as I wondered where I last left my cellular phone.

    It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. And I’ve decided I need help.

    I am a danger in the kitchen. I’ll start to boil soup, leave the room, and forget until the upstairs is filled with smoke. I come dangerously close to losing a finger every time I meet up with a knife, and following a recipe is like reading a very difficult language—like Japanese converted into brail and then into sign-language. I have to reread, and reread, and recheck, and then double check. Still, I usually mess up on some portion. Unless it’s just: add eggs and milk and stir. Then I forget where to look on the fridge shelf, or leave the fridge door open, or break the measuring glass, or if I get distracted before I begin cooking, I forget all together I preheated the oven and wonder why there is a mixing bowl on the counter. Or I get distracted by memories of the recent documentaries describing cage free hens that really aren’t cage free and the cruel treatment of cows and wonder if indeed the eggs are cage free and if the milk is happy milk, and not some milk tainted in cow sorrow.

    Sometimes I think there is something terribly wrong with me or that I am going senile; until I realize I’ve been this forgetful my whole life, and haven’t progressed in weirdness, just perhaps recognition of said peculiarity.

    I am so forgetful, and my short term memory is so lacking, that even grasping the spelling of a word that describes much of my condition (dyspraxia) is merely impossible to remember. Of course that critter of trouble, lovely dyslexia, doesn’t add to my ability to spell.

    It wasn’t until I was in college that a professor actually took the time to tell me to think in patterns and visual images when attempting to memorize spelling. She noticed my high-intelligence and thought it didn’t match my atrocious spelling. (You know what I love about Google? I can type in a wrong word and find the right word! I just typed: How do you spell atroshish. And voila, now I know; at least for ten more seconds I do.) My professor said to look at the word separate and notice the letter r was separated by two letter a’s. From then on I could spell separate.

    Since my spelling is already naturally atroshish, I kind of wish I messed up on easy words, too. Just for the phone of it. (< not intended to spell that way; total mistake.)

    I’d like to regularly misspell the word as as ass and but as butt. But I can already spell little words correctly. I guess that is what texting is for: a place where a but can be a butt and an as an ass. Is that redundant? Oh, the freedom. Only text-ville and Kindergarten classrooms have an excuse to misspell.

    Which reminds me…My husband used to squeeze my son’s naked butt cheeks together, and make the cheeks move like a mouth talking, (all our sons actually) and say, “Let me asssssk you a question.” And HE has never undergone psychic evaluation. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

    This is part of the reason, the butt jokes, that my eldest son is certain he was born into the wrong family; that and the fact that he is confident beyond measure, secure, a social butterfly, and life comes easy to him.

    He is what seer told me is called “Earth Bound.” I am not. I am “Mars Bound.” The planet, not the chocolate candy. Though now that I think about it, anything is possible.

    Now as I’m trying to force out of my mind the image of Mars bars looking like alien turds, I am squeezing my brain super hard trying to remember what I was laughing about earlier that had to do with a conversation with my oldest. The labor of thinking. Or the constipation of thinking. They are about the same.

    This isn’t what I was trying to remember, but this thought is first in line. So I will share:

    When I was delivering my eldest son, the labor and delivery team told me I was really good at pushing.

    My response: “I know; I’ve been constipated my whole life, so this is quite easy.”

    I’m just now remembering this; and thinking this might have been an aspie moment.

    Now I can remember.

    The conversation with my eldest yesterday went something like this:

    “Mom, you and Dad should get drunk once in a while. I never see you drink.”

    “We drink son, just in small amounts. I was actually tipsy the other night, because I had two glasses of wine.”

    “You need to loosen up, go have some drinks with Dad and come home drunk.”

    “Son, I have been tipsy before, you just don’t see it, as you don’t spend a lot of time hanging around with us when we have a drink or two.”

    “No, Mom, you need to get drunk like Dave’s dad did the other night. He was fun!”

    “What? Your friend’s dad got drunk while you were there?” Eyes shift sideways and eyebrow springs up.

    “Oh, Mom, just a little. I wish you and Dad were more like that. His dad was so funny when he was talking to us.”

    “Okay, let me get this straight: You want me to get drunk and hang out with your friends?”

    Son’s face blushes red. “No way! Yuck. That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

    “Yes it is!” Huge smile. “That’s exactly what you just said.”

    Silence, and then I’m pretty sure: FEAR.

    ~~~~~~~~~
    I woke up this morning still laughing at the conclusion of our drinking conversation. I was still in a playful mood, as I sat on the couch at noon and teased my son.

    “Thanks for giving me your cold, again. Chills followed by fever and body aches and sore throat, right?”

    Big smiling, fifteen-year-old says: “Yep. That’s it exactly. Tomorrow expect a runny nose. And you’ll sweat a lot at night. Oh, and you won’t be comfortable in your clothes.”

    “Well. If you see me running around the house naked, you know why.”

    Yes, this is how I communicate with my NT (neurotypical) son. We tease and joke, and laugh at life a lot. It’s how we connect. He gets me that way, and I get him.

    Sometimes though, I think he sucked all the social-skills out of me and middle son. Although, I often tease him, my Leo-star, that it is my fault he has so much confidence. When he was sound asleep, I used to sit at the edge of his bed every night and whisper: “You are handsome. You are smart. You are loved.” I read somewhere in a book about subliminal messages, and assuring my eldest’s self-esteem kind of became a little bit of an obsession.

    I wish someone would lean into my ear at night, and whisper sweetness. Depending on my mood, I think if someone is already whispering, they are saying this: You are endowed with supernatural healing powers and your natural, nutrient-giving fuel is chocolate. Dark if available. But any will do.

    I think it gets lost in translation though, shifted by unforgiving dyslexia into emboweled. Thusly the Mars Candybar Turd visions.

    I can’t even remember the focus of this post as I had a nighttime Nyquil in the daytime. This is my life. I do things backwards to survive. Nyquil gives me insomnia, just as non-drowsy Claritin makes me sleepy. I’ve learned not to trust lables.

    I know I wanted to talk about the need for a manwife, and that at the start of the post I was upset that no such word as manwife exists. It ought to be a word, women’s movement and all. Earlier, I was taken aback into a parade of delight as I made up new compound words with wife, such as casstlewife, trailer wife, tentwife, Yurkwife, motorhomewife, couchwife. I think the last one suits me. Now if I can use my magical mind powers to convince the rest of the world of the worthiness of couchness.

    Couchness reminds me of what we sometimes call my dog. Are you following my train of thought still? I used to call my miniature labradoodle Violet, after the character in A Series of Unfortunate Events, then I transitioned her to Spastic Colon, as she is a hyper-spastic dog and I suffered with IBS for years, and the name suited her and my journey in life. But in the late summer, I noticed after a week of no bath she has this awful smell. I really can’t stand it. It’s a female smell of some sort, and just plain nasty. So as a result, of her doggy stench, I started, in secret and in a soft silly voice, calling her Crotch. Well the name kind of stuck and caught on. So if you are at our house and you hear someone say: Hello, Spastic Colon or Come Here Crotch. Don’t get the wrong impression. We’re still a PG-13 rated house. We just call our dog after private parts.

    Originally, a hundred-thoughts ago, I was motivated to write this post based on an article on dyspraxia that a friend Sarah Sparkle of our support group shared. http://www.dyspraxiafoundation.org.uk/services/ad_symptoms.php

    I remembered reading about dyspraxia at the start of my blogging journey, last spring, and recognizing myself and my son clearly in the symptoms. And I thought, today, as I was reminded of our struggles, I ought to send the article to my husband. Mainly because he will be home soon and our kitchen looks like a giant hamster turned the area into its habitat.

    Also I want to remind him of why I can’t remember simple things, like the name of a movie I am watching. The review of the article describing aspects of dyspraxia really got me thinking that I do need a manwife; preferably foreign and dark, or from China. As an aside, I’ve been oddly attracted to Chinese foreign films lately, and fallen in love with some of the leading characters. Yes, I know it is make believe, but this is my current fixation. So flow with me on this one. Next week my manwife will be from Spain.

    I can picture him, the man I pay, in tight jeans and topless. I know it’s freezing here, and that most of the morning I had on a wool hat and the heat lamp singing my face, but this manwife is endowed with super powers; he is extremely self-motivated, energetic, and warm-blooded. And he’s not afraid of the camera, so I can post photos on Facebook and this blog, and you can drool. Unless you are a hetero-sexual man… then I can. Pause. Delete. I had typed some reference to my dog again. Enough of that already.

    Okay, so back to the focus of this post, which is basically: See How Goofy Sam is on Nyquil and somewhere layered beneath the challenges of dyspraxia.

    Dear Husband,

    The reasons I need a Manwife, based on dyspraxia:

    I can’t balance well, have a clumsy gait, and have poor hand-eye coordination. You totally know I drop things all the time! I have extreme difficulty standing for a long time and this challenge makes it hard to cook or do the dishes (and clean toilets). Also, I have difficulty starting actions and cleaning is a definite action. Therefore, logically, I have difficulty cleaning. This is basic logic. I have a tendency to bump into things. You know this. You see the bruises. The more I have to clean, the more chances I have of bumping into objects, and the more chances of booboos. I have difficulty using knifes. Remember when I sliced my finger? Remember how you look at me whenever I have a knife in my hand? Plus the website I linked above specifically lists difficulty with: “cutlery, cleaning, cooking, ironing.” That pretty much covers housework. I have tracking difficulty and this means I lose my place when reading. This makes recipes super hard to follow. I am over-sensitive to light; it’s good we live in gloomy skied Washington, but we do have those skylights and fluorescent fixtures in our kitchen. I am over-sensitive to noise, too. So the sound of the vacuum and even the fridge, while doing its humming thing, hurts my ears. I am also sensitive to smell, which makes cooking difficult. I am sensitive to temperature; this makes cooking over a hot stove gruesome. I have a poor sense of direction. Our house is big. I could get lost. I exhibit difficulty in planning and arranging my thoughts, which has nothing to do with cleaning, but is quite accurately displayed as one of my hidden talents in this post. I forget things. I could burn your shirt while ironing, if I ever took up ironing. And of course, since this pretty much describe me: “Slow to finish a task. May daydream and wander about aimlessly,” I think you should consider I am inept entirely at focusing on something that does not motivate me. I tend to get stressed and anxious easily, and housework triggers these things in me. No one ever told me how boys pee. And frankly, the mis-aiming thing…too much to handle.

    Sincerely,
    Your Wife

    (In all seriousness dyspraxia is a difficult condition to live with. I find it interesting how many traits of ASD and dyspraxia overlap.)

    If you are wondering how I will pay for the manwife, I’ve taken up a collection. Just Google Manwife for Sam or if you are a man put on this apron when you get home, take off your shirt, and get moving.

    _________________________________________

    * I did just call my husband and read him the first paragraph. He okayed it. So if you are offended, blame him.

    ** thank you to my friend Sarah Sparkle for sharing the article on dyspraxia with me today

    *** Sometimes this is my sense of humor.

295: May My Boil Rest In Peace

| Aspergers Girls

I have a giant boil right at the jowl of my face. I don’t usually get boils, at least not since I was a teenager. But I had this streak of fixation of daily saunas followed by sea salt baths. The over-heating, followed by drippy sweat, followed by the mineral oils in my last soak of Himalayan bath salts, left my chin all hived-up and splattered with a gigantic, painful boil.

I forced myself to leave the house, certain the boil was a red-flashing siren. So concerned I was indeed, that during the three stops to different stores, I had to go to the bathroom to look in the mirror to make sure the under-the-skin, ripening zit had not exploded.

The first bathroom visit was non-eventful. The second time, I had to wait, and wait, and wait. A kindly couple finally came out, with the elderly man pushing his wife in a wheelchair. I immediately felt guilty for having thought there was a fart-filled, big-bottomed man in the bathroom taking his sweet time and stinking up the place.

I don’t mind waiting when I’m alone. But the whole time I was outside the door waiting, I was standing next to a young man. I get nervous in close proximity to men. I avoid eye contact, and if I speak, I generally, and quite truthfully, make a fool of myself.

Tonight was no different. While waiting, in this narrow hallway, I kept staring at my cellular phone and pretending to be reading. Thinking all along that this guy likely thought I was addicted to my phone. I did all I could do to keep from making conversation. My only wish at the moment, beyond wanting the patron in the potty to flush and be done with his or her task, was to not have to look at this man at all.

It was finally my turn. Of course, I didn’t really even have to pee. But I flushed just incase someone could here me. I noted there were no seat covers (empty) and no papertowels (empty). I began processing all my flusterness and all the emptiness, when I absent-mindedly left my phone atop the papertowel holder (while I shook my hands). I had to wash my hands, just incase the person listening out for my flush was also checking to see if I washed my hands after doing my (imaginary) business.

When I returned to my cart and entered the produce aisle, I panicked fast. Checking all my jacket pockets and emptying my purse, I realized I’d left my phone in the bathroom. Crap, was all I could think. I returned to the small cramped waiting area. Someone was in the bathroom, again. As I waited, I was thinking from now on I really need to log out of Facebook. Too many personal messages anyone could read at the touch of my phone! I was thinking of how I had written to my friend in Facebook that the health insurance company I had to deal with today were penis heads. I was blushing deeper by the millisecond. Someone could have potentially been sitting on the toilet reading all about my personal life! At the same time, I was also thinking the store employees thought I had diarrhea or a bathroom fetish. I leaned against my grocery cart, and tried to smile casually and pretend I was waiting for someone.

Fifty thoughts later, and the door opened. Of course it was the same man I’d been avoiding out of fear of human contact. He had my phone and a big smile. He handed me the phone, and I mumbled some nonsense indicating thanks.

Thanks to my boil, I’d spent a good twenty minutes in the store doing absolutely nothing beyond bathroom stalking.

Outside of the hallway, I strongly thought about letting an employee know the bathroom was missing paper products, but I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I decided, there and then, to just keep my mouth shut.

Of course, as I’m processing this need to not socialize, I grab onto an organic pear, and my thumb presses right through it. “Yuck,” I announce, loudly enough for the older lady next to me to remark.

“Oh,” she says, “You really ought to take that to an employee. That’s what I do when something like that happens.”

I smiled. Thinking of how unsolicited advice sometimes sucks.

I slid the pear to the corner of the fruit stand and said kindly, “I’m sure they will see it here. This way no one else will get their hands all sticky.”

I could see immediately, this stranger was not too pleased. “I think there is a garbage near by,” she insisted. And then she glanced again at the nearby employee. In retrospect, a braver me would have chucked the pear at the lady’s face.

Begrudgingly, I looked down at the isolated, thumb-crushed pear. I made a face. I didn’t want to touch it. I then felt so foolish that I offered an excuse. Albeit a sort of lie, but not a full lie. I said, in attempt to justify my pear-retrieval hesitancy, “Well, I really would rather they put it in the compost.”

“They have a compost here?” she asked.

And so yes, in the end, I had to go up to the worker stacking groceries and explain about the broken pear. But I was sure not to mention the toilet seat covers.

Of course, I was overcome with anxiety, and had to thusly spill out said events to the young girl ringing up my groceries. I explained to her all that had happened, and she just kind of looked at me quizzically saying something like: At least you found your phone.

I wanted to tattoo socially inept across my forehead, at that point.

My final shopping excursion found me in the parking lot chatting it up with a lady my age. I have little trouble talking to women. I understand them somewhat more than the male species. I was telling her all about my van door that would not close because the sliding door latch was frozen over, and how all the way to the store, my light was blinking on and off and the van was singing a ding-ding-ding noise. She was excited to report that for the first time ever she couldn’t roll up her van window because of the cold air. “What a coincidence,” she exclaimed. I liked her immediately, and noted this brief encounter as the highlight of my day.

Inside the third store, I offered to assist a man with a cane; I sincerely wanted to help, but I also was concerned, based on the last thirty-minutes of my life, about my accumulated Karma.

A few minutes later I noticed it was Five-Dollar Friday. Which meant the pizzas were only five dollars. I stared at the empty shelves. No pizzas left. But that was just fine, as my family didn’t like the store brand pizza and wouldn’t eat it. Of course as I was bending down staring at the empty shelves and processing, a male employee came up and said, “Looking for more pizzas? Here you go!” He had a gigantic rolling contraption piled with freshly made pizzas. I was too shy to explain that I didn’t want any, even though I’d been bent over staring at the empty shelves for several minutes. So I took two boxes, a cheese and a pepperoni, acted giddy, and then secretly returned them to the shelves later.

After I’d grabbed junk food for an upcoming birthday party, and worried about what others would think of my diet based on the chips, donuts and flavored whipcream in my cart, I unloaded my items at the checkout stand. When everything was unloaded, I realized I’d forgotten the ice-cream!

So, I looked at the lady behind me, and sighed, “It’s been one of those days,” as I started returning the items to my cart. She was nice enough to offer to wait for me to return, but the last thing I wanted was to be worrying about taking too long to find ice-cream. I returned soon enough, unloaded my groceries onto the checkout stand (again), only to have the lid of the strawberry ice-cream pop off and be forced to wait for replacement.

All-in-all the day wasn’t too bad.

I did get a haircut, although I over-shared with my hairdresser about the Panty-Thing Blog Post.  I did figure out how to register my son for homeschool courses, after I made a the mistake of waiting too long to sign him up. I also figured out how to write a letter of appeal to my health insurance company, after fifty-minutes of various phone calls that led to the discovery that the insurance company really doesn’t know what they are talking about. I too figured out what the man on the phone with the foreign accent was saying to me when my laptop malfunctioned and I called for tech support. Though I’m still not certain what I paid $39.99 for. And I managed to stick to my diet, until an anonymous someone shipped me chocolate, candies, and cheese straight to my front door this afternoon. I took this as a direct sign from the Gods to stop my no-sugar and no-dairy fast I’d implemented for two days.

And…I was able to find some great port wine (Can you say brandy?) to go with my cheese.

IMG_0268

Life is so interesting. And to think, the day started with this ship stuck in the Puget Sound just beyond my balcony. I should have known that by me being so very happy over the fact that the ship was stuck in the low tide and icy waters, because this event meant I could take lots of photos of the ship and fog over a period of an hour, that I was setting myself up big time for the day ahead.

IMG_0267

So here’s to Karma, and all things cheesy. May my boil rest in peace.

289: Sleepless Near Seattle

| Aspergers Girls

motel me

I didn’t sleep well last night.

Tonight, I said to my husband: “Honestly, I’m not exaggerating; I woke up at least forty to fifty times last night.”

Then I replayed the sleepless night in my head, to make sure I wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of times I woke up.

I hate to lie. And to me, any stretch of the truth seems a lie. I almost self-corrected, as I calculated that to wake up forty times in an eight-hour period, I’d have had to have opened my eyes about five times an hour. In actuality, I probably woke up four times an hour …so it was likely thirty-two times. But I stopped myself from speaking all these thoughts aloud, and just stared at my husband with squinted eyes and furrowed brow, like I always do when I am processing in my head.

Then, knowing I’d paused too long when considering typical conversational protocol, I sputtered: “I couldn’t sleep because you snored.” Only that statement instantly didn’t feel right, and I knew I’d soon be speaking my whole truth, whether I wanted to or not.

I processed more. I have no clue what my husband was doing, even though I was practically on top of his lap on the couch. I was in a distant land thinking that I ought not to have provided such a large gap of time as the space between forty and fifty times—that’s a ten point spread.

Confused in general, I tried to recover and offered, “It wasn’t just you snoring.” I was sounding weepy and whimpy, by now.

Soon, the complete truth began to leak out.  I confessed, “And there was something else.”

Of course my husband asked, “What?”

I responded slowly, with a full-blushed face.

Within seconds my husband was laughing so hard that I expected snot to shoot out of his nose.

You see, last night, we had, at the last moment, decided to stay at a motel off of the interstate, while traveling up north-east for a snow-sledding adventure. The plan was to drive up in the evening and sled in the morning the next day. I  accidentally booked a hotel (with swimming pool, continental breakfast, two televisions, etc.) that was too far away from our destination; so last-minute-searching led us to a small, what I would call “cheap” motel.

snow

I took this on our way up to the snow

I guess I was keen on the fact that we were likely staying in what could be termed a “dive,” when my husband informed me that we had scored a large room with three beds, in one of only two motels in the entire town, near a popular ski resort, for only $99. That, and the fact that the small, twenty-year old television only got one channel.

Oh, and yes, my son with Aspergers did say straight away, “I don’t like the smell of this place.”

Upon entering the spacious room, about six-feet away from where our mini-van was parked, I tried to get into my place of Zen; I do that quite frequently, set about to have a Zen-like mindset. I think to myself, what would a saint do, or Buddha or Jesus, if in a similar situation. How would he or she respond? And the answer is typically the same: act with gratitude and grace. And then I push down those thoughts of how much easier it would be to be Zen-like without my type of mind.

In considering the motel, I contemplated my good fortune. We had fresh water, shelter, blankets, warmth, electricity, and more. I snapped myself out of the “disappointment” zone swiftly, without calling myself names like “spoiled” and “unappreciative,” as I’m working on that whole positive-thinking thing, too. Which depending upon my mood, sometimes makes me want to gag.

But staying true to my state of positive-Zenniness, I began to list in my head everything the motel had to offer, right about the time my husband came out of the oddly-angled bathroom (toilet juts out and causes one to bruise knee when passing by said toilet) and announced, “Don’t forget to add that the floor slopes down at an odd angle to your list of why this place is cheap.” He knows me so very well.

So, I’m listing the positives to myself: (and occasionally out loud with a snicker to my husband)

Internet connection

Oldest son has own bed.

Even though I can’t use my bath salts as there is no bathtub, there is a quaint stand up shower.

Mold is only on the outside of the shower door.

The smell of cigarette smoke and what seems to be wet-dog-scent is not too strong.

There are other cars in the parking lot; which means other people stay here, too.

No hair that I can see: dog or human.

The sparkles glow that are set in the cottage-cheese-like ceiling; I don’t think I can get asbestos poisoning unless someone jams a fork or something up there.

The aged lamps painted poop-brown from the inside out, are all cracked and broken which makes an interesting type of abstract art; I wasn’t electrocuted when I turned on the lamp.

The boys won’t be fighting over television channels.

The door lock sticks and we can’t use it, but that chain should hold up for one night.

The light from the parking lot will serve as a giant night-light.

We don’t have rooms below us or above us, and on either side of our room are storage garages. The boys can be loud and no one will hear.

We don’t need to use the noisy heater that heats up the room too fast, especially since the curtains (that remind me of my childhood home) hang right over the heater, because if it gets cold, we can pretend we are camping.

This would be a cool setting for a Fargo-type movie or for the series Breaking Bad.

If anyone died in here, it was likely a long time ago.

I haven’t slept in a full-size lumpy bed for years.

The lacquered wall art of trees reminds me of the 1970’s.

I have both thick socks and slippers on, so I’ll be good to walk on the carpet.

~

I’m working on my list of gratitude when my husband chimes in, “And these walls remind me of my mother’s family room.” He’s pointing to the fake-wood paneling and laughing.

I fake a smile, and then whisper to him, “I probably shouldn’t tell the boys to stop rolling in the bedspread because the bedding is likely not laundered, and adults could have done any a number of things on those covers, right?”

“Yes, Hon. Not a good idea,” he answers with his trademark, I-married-a-loon-that-I-adore, shake of the head.

Right about then, my son who has Aspergers pipes in: “Have you seen what they can find with those special blue-lights in hotels?” My husband and I politely ignore him.

In the bathroom, after bumping my knee again, I notice that there is no shampoo, no blow dryer, and no supplies beyond toilet paper, Kleenex, four wrapped plastic cups, and a stack of some ten miniature soaps. Ten tiny soaps wrapped in brown paper? I think to myself.

I come out of the narrow bathroom, and soon my zen-attitude is promptly invaded by a case of the sillies…and everything spills out of my head in the form of a verbal-tag game of why this would be considered a dive hotel, with my husband.

Of course, I won, when I pointed out that there was no coffee or coffee maker.

Still, the little voice in my head circulated and percolated, reminding me to be ever-so-grateful. After all, there was a Starbucks nearby.

This brings us to tonight, and me explaining to my husband why I couldn’t sleep while in the motel.

This is how the conversation went:

“Well. It wasn’t really your snoring that kept me up. That was just a small part of it.” I paused, not so much for effect, but because I knew I was going to bust up laughing, even though I was entirely serious.

My husband Bob waited patiently.

I continued. “I couldn’t sleep because…..” I paused.

“I couldn’t sleep because I was afraid I might touch the sheets,” I said.

Bob smiled and held back his chuckles. “But you had your sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket from home and you weren’t touching the sheets.”

“I know,” I said. “But I was still afraid…I was afraid I would accidentally touch the sheets in the night.”

Bob busted up fully.

“Ha,ha, ha, ha. So you were like lying there asleep, and then you’d wake up with a jolt, look to your side and think the sheets, like they were some monster?” He stiffened his body and imitated me in a fear state on the bed at the motel, terrified to move an inch. “But you were in a sleeping bag,” he added.

“I know,” I said, “but I was afraid if I feel asleep my arm might flop out and…”

“And you’d accidentally braze the sheetttttttttttttttt!”

“Yes,” I answered, by now laughing hysterically. “I couldn’t move or relax because I was afraid I would touch the sheets”

“I love you, Honey,” Bob said, implying he knew how hard it was for me to be me, right before he did another mini-scene of me being attacked by the sheets.

Here is my bed: (See how close the sheets are???)

motel

I guess Bob wasn’t too surprised by my sheet confession, because this morning in the motel I made another of my phobias known. I had whispered to him, “Okay, I’m just going to tell you now, so when you find the wet clothes in the laundry you’ll know why.”

“Oh, no,” he responded, shaking his head. “What?”

“I’m showering in my socks!”

blue skyOn the way home

I wanted to call this post: Attack of the Killer Sheets, but I didn’t want to give the ending away.