*Tough As Nails

Photo credit: Black Heart Creatives

I've never been clear as to how she found out the state of our living situation, but she did, and she, my temporary savior, came to pull me out of the circus tent that evening.

Aunt Norma was certainly a tough disciplinarian, but I didn't mind. Strict rules felt safe. She brushed my hair and put it into a ponytail, which I loved as it was out of my face—I never like the irritating, scratchy feel of hair on my cheeks. It drove me crazy. We had dinner at the same time each night. It felt like someone was looking out for me and I didn't mind her telling me I had to be in the house before the street lights went on and I had to stay in the yard. 

She had children of her own, my twin cousins Natalie and Nicole. They were quite young at the time, not much older than three, making this arrangement for me a temporary one; her hands were full. 

For my brief stay, I certainly felt loved and cared for but still my heart sunk. I missed Mum. I worried about her. I missed Tony. I felt a constant sickness in my stomach and chest, and had a hard time eating without feeling like it would come back up, though I forced it with my mind to stay down as I didn't want to get in trouble for wasting food. I fought tears as I realized no one would be there to look after my mother. Who was going to make sure she was up for work on time, eating dinner, and breathing? Would I ever see my brother again?

Aunt Norma didn't like when I barked, so I ceased doing it around her. She didn't need to be protected anyway. Tough as nails, she was. 

Mum sounded as if she were very angry with Aunt Norma that night, but I couldn't understand why. I was obviously an obstacle in her new relationship with Bill and surely Lynn the prostitute had loftier things to do than to dress me up in her leather and spikes on a Tuesday morning. 

Excerpt from Chapter Fifteen: Changes | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

It Is Mother's Day.

Mum, each day that passed since you've been gone I learn a little more, I grow a little more, I accept a little more. I'm coming to understand you as I can now see you in me. I love you and miss you more than I could ever say. I cannot say "Happy Mother's Day", because that would be a lie, and you know well I've never been a good liar. So instead I'll just acknowledge it for what it is, and say, "Today is Mother's Day. I'm thinking of you today and everyday. Wish you were here for Breakfast with The Beatles." 

Love and miss you Mum. 

Blackbird, fly. 

*The Quiet | Part I

“Just say it, as loud as you can to that big dog over there. Go on, say it! ‘I want a carrot! I want a carrot!’”

There I sat, stiffly and nervously upon an orange plastic chair that had been placed on a table top in the front of my first grade classroom. My sweaty little hands were tightly gripping both sides of the chair bottom as if the next step were spontaneous hydraulic ejection. Regardless of having no parachute in my possession, I had climbed up onto it at the request, or rather, demand, of my teacher, Mr. Hoyt. He said I was too shy.

 Tiny bursts of hushed laughter popped up like Whac-A-Mole about the classroom. The tiny hushed bursts might as well have been nuclear explosions. Devastating.

My throat ached. It felt as if it were closing, stuffed with a big ball of uncooked dough that was rising by the second. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights was extra loud, as all of the students stared at me in attempted silence, waiting to hear my since hidden monotone voice for the first time.

Nana had made me wear a dress that day—a navy blue dress, with white lacing along the bottom and tiny navy anchor design across the waist. Those anchors were the only things mildly acceptable about this horrid nautical themed torture arrangement. “Oh, you look darling,” she’d say, with that strange, southern accent and seemingly smashed vocal cord sound that only really tiny people seem to share.

At least ship anchors had a logical purpose that I could comprehend, so I’d stare at them, giving my mind an imagination workout and my eyes a perfect excuse to avoid uncomfortable contact with others. 

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*A Wrinkle in Time, or Thirty

After struggling with the decision, I find it’s important for me to include this chapter of the story, introducing my mother as an innocent little girl, because until I saw her as one, my heart was often cold toward her and I didn’t quite understand her at all. I always loved her with a hunger and deep aching in my chest and sought after a relationship, a friendship, a comforting mother-daughtership with her until the very end, though I was also a bit guarded and awkward, which always proved to be empty and unfulfilling.

We all begin as pure, irreproachable little children having vast hopes, big dreams, unbridled laughter, and intense inquisitiveness. We go about life and our feelings are hurt, others let us down, we fail, we succeed, we win, we lose, and every last one of those moments, those scars, whether treasure or trash, wind up displayed on our faces as we live and age, like a billboard for all to see, to cherish or to reject.

Expectation and sorrow walk hand-in-hand—you can’t have one without the other. And they shape us into who we become, if we let them.

Excerpt from chapter two | tiny dancer | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Paddle Ball With Mum

Why the paddle ball cover art?

“Our relationship became a game of paddle ball—I was the flat paddle, holding still, hoping to connect; she was the red bouncing ball avoiding contact with every sporadic movement, yet attached by an elastic string known as motherhood.”

The type (Zipper) is the same used on the album cover for David Bowie's Hunky Dory, appropriately.

Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | EVERYTHING'S HUNKY DORY: A MEMOIR

*Bed Sheets, Peggy, and Irish Singers

I hate Enya. There's nothing relaxing about attempting to decipher indecipherable lyrics whilst lying naked with a measly three-hundred thread count bed sheet between you and a complete stranger. It was stressful enough to strip off all my clothes, not knowing who or what to expect for my first massage experience. . .

The massage therapist was interesting, to say the least. I silently gave her the name ‘Peggy Roughskin’ due to her leathery complexion, bright pink lipstick, and thick, familiar aroma of aged cigarette smoke on her polyester pants—I find women donning the name “Peggy” usually resemble this description to some degree.

(Excerpts from chapter twenty-four | mama told me (not to come). Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Everything's Hunky Dory

Oh dear. It’s been quite a while. "Why?" you ask. Well, let’s see. My mother passed away from cancer. I was her sole caretaker at the end. That, and, I decided to write a book about the experience, along with details of our dark, severely unbalanced, yet somewhat entertaining relationship.  And I mention throughout the journey what it was like to have Asperger’s in a world where one’s mother isn’t quite June Cleaver nor Clair Huxtable, but David Bowie (or rather an impersonator of) in all of his glorious eccentricities. 

Yes, this is my story. And there's much more to come, so please stay tuned. :0)

Dog Psychology

I became so annoyed with my dogs' incessant barking this morning, I decided to beat them to it and began hurling billowing barks at innocent passersby and random delivery trucks. 

You wouldn't believe the look of utter shock on their faces, not to mention the neighbor's.

 

 

 

Hangover Mornings: Part II

While enrolled in kindergarten at Hollywood Beach School in Oxnard, California, I rode a bus that would pick me up on the corner of Island View and Glendale Avenue at 8:05 a.m. sharp. I woke up one morning with the sun shining a little brighter and hotter than it usually did at wake-up time, and realized I was late for school. 

In a panic, I ran to my mother's bedroom door, which happened to be locked. Though I knocked several times, there was no answer. I picked up a pair of khaki pants off the floor that seemed extremely large, but identified as pants nonetheless, put on a green and blue striped polo shirt from the day before, shouted a hurried good-bye to Steve Martin (my trusty invisible friend), then ran down the street barely making the bus and tripping over the pants I had to hold up with both hands.

I spent the morning in Mrs. Brooks’ class wondering if my mother was alive, feeling extremely embarrassed about the pants and the multiple, yet unavoidable, accidental exposures of my red and white Mighty Mouse underpants. Mrs. Brooks took me in to the principal’s office who made a call to Sleeping Beauty who, minutes later, whisked me away in her speedy 1970 cherry-red Toyota Celica sport coupe. "Here I come to save the day!" If only underwear could talk. 

I happily spent the rest of the day with her in silence. After exchanging the pants (which turned out to be my five-foot-five mother’s) for yellow terry cloth shorts, I played with Matchbox cars and a Tonka dump truck that matched my shorts in our sandy backyard, both knees conspicuously covered in cat shit. She sunbathed in her favorite black bikini, filling the backyard with her sweet coconut scented Hawaiian Tropics suntan lotion, and when it was time to go inside, she wincingly washed my knees off with the hose, as per what had become old family tradition. I giggled as usual, because poop was, and still is, very funny.

* * *

I learned that day how to carefully determine which clothes were mine and which were hers by holding them up to my body and looking into the mirror prior to putting them on my body. I learned to brush my hair before I went to school and, more importantly, to never tell a teacher, nor a principal, my mom had a thing she called a "hangover".

Side note: That night I dreamt the devil, a short and stubby cartoonish-looking red fellow with a beer belly, red cape, and matching red pitchfork, had jumped the fence with full intention on harming my mom. As she sunbathed in her black bikini, unaware of the imminent danger, I hit the devil in the head with my Tonka Dump truck, and he vanished in thin air. I killed the devil and, thankfully, my mom knew nothing of it. 

Hangover Mornings: Part I

My mother didn’t become an early riser until years after I had moved out of the house at eighteen. I recall as a youngin' her more than occasional late night drinking binges would knock her out until late mornings, early afternoons, which would open doors to a curious world of investigation for small children. It also created a sense of total self-reliance in me that I would never be able to shake, which would later annoy the hell out of friends and many a chivalrous fellow attempting to win my affection.

***

One morning, whilst living in beautiful, sunny San Diego, my mother and her sister, Chris (who was staying with us at the time while my father was away on active duty), had enjoyed a few too many Michelob beers the night before, causing them to snooze past the legal breakfast hour, Pacific Standard Time. I, in an effort to get started on a productive day, climbed out of my crib in a charming pink one-piece footsie pajama (of which was filled from the ankle up with unknowingly trapped, yet very hopeful absconding turd balls), then proceeded to take Aunt Chris’ favorite bottled fragrance, Charlie, out of the bathroom cabinet, out the front door, then on to brighten up the neighborhood by “making all da plants smell weal pweddy.”

A helpful, caring neighbor (who apparently wasn’t a fan of Revlon’s most popular scent) used the very tips of his right hand fingers to guide me back to the front door of our home, likely plugging his nose with his left hand in order to protect himself from ingesting the stench of a wandering, perfume-wielding fugitive.

***

My mother learned to keep valuable liquids out of the reach of children, to latch the door chain before going to bed at night, and to cut the feet off of all one-piece footsie pajamas in order to provide liberation for refugee turds and their accompanying odors.

Side Note: I wouldn't suggest ever plugging "pink footsie pajamas" into google's image search.

Stronger

Wanted to share a beautiful song written and performed by my gorgeous, super multi-talented, fellow aspie friend, Rudy Simone. In response to bullying (not just for those on the Autism spectrum, many others can relate), I so appreciate that it touches on this touchy subject that has and is affecting so many of us and our youth. It's nice to have an advocate that's been there. 

 

 

Epitaph for a Sentiment

The world would be a much kinder place if friends and family would simply consult one's Amazon.com wishlist prior to purchasing a gift.

An animated exclamation such as "I just knew you'd love this!" has the potential to be a truly intelligent sentiment or an epitaph to an otherwise perfectly acceptable trinket (for someone who enjoys genuine rabbit fur on fake kittens).

Eww. Sad.

*Steve Moutain

“Let’s play a game! Awe you weddy? Who’s undo my bed?” I yelled out as I jumped up and down on my “big-girl bed”, flailing my blue Beatrix Potter themed bed sheets, causing tiny cyclones amongst the coloring books and assorted messiness sprawled on the floor.

“Nobody.” Julie answers. Such a Julie answer, always years ahead of herself.

“Awe, come on, just twy an’ guess.”

Julie slowly knelt down, hesitantly peeked under my bed and replied with an expressionless freckled face, “A shoe.”

I’m now aggravated beyond belief. She’s not my friend anymore.  I’ll never talk to her again, ever, if she doesn’t try to guess. “Guess a name. Anybody’s name.”

“Your mom?”

“Nooooooooo! It’s Steve Moutain! Steve Moutain is undo my bed!”

I, of course, was referring to my future husband, at least in my dream world of a brain, who’s poster hung over the head of my bed. In his dapper white suit, black tie and handkerchief, and unforgettable green and yellow rubber trout slightly poking its head out of the lapel, he was cupping his hands together, mouth open, as if genuinely exclaiming, “There you are! I’m so happy to see you!” In fact, that is exactly what I imagined him to be saying every time I entered my octagonal shaped bedroom and looked at him hanging there on the wall, so comforting, so loyal, so safe.

“Who’s Steve Mountain?”

It wasn’t until second grade when I insisted on properly pronouncing the word “fart” that I’d begin to pronounce my “r’s” like a real-live human being from planet earth. I couldn’t fault her for mistaking “Martin” for “Mountain” (although, I believed the choice should have been quite obvious).

“It’s not Steve Mountain. It’s Steve Moutain. He’s behind me on the posto! I’m a Wiiiiild and Cwayzay Guy!” My earliest celebrity impersonation, performed unrestrained to no avail.

Julie, apparently, had never seen Saturday Night Live, which was not an optional viewing choice in our home. It was a requirement. I don’t know what kind of standards they were operating on in her home, but I certainly was not impressed. Steve had hosted SNL an unprecedented seven times by the time I turned five, just enough times for an obsessive child to become, well, pretty obsessed with him. He’d also had a cameo in Jim Henson’s The Muppet Movie (another obsession of mine), playing an insolent waiter. I sometimes wonder if I attached to Steve as I would have my real father, who disappeared when I was three.

This was my first time allowing anyone into my little “Steve Moutain” secret world, although thankfully, Julie was such a logical thinker, even at three, it seemed my strange choice in sleeping partner passed right over her sophisticated little head, never to be mentioned again. I blushed uncontrollably - a characteristic I, to this very day, have never gained control of. 

Being five years old, and having the idea that a thirty-seven year old man with white hair and a dashing sense of style and humor was under my bed is probably something I should discuss with my therapist, as most would find it a tad on the creepy side. (I can’t say I would have minded it in my older single days, although I can’t imagine him feeling all that comfortable hiding under there day after day at his age – he has things to do, after all. The man’s a genius.) What was he doing under my bed? Well, hiding, I suppose, until it was time to go to sleep. Then he would crawl up onto the bed, give me a warm squeeze, then fall asleep next to me, making “the dark” not such a scary locale after all. Steve Martin was my comforting, invisible friend.

Either we’re all born with a “type” or my pal Mr. Martin set a precedent for me that I’d take with me in to my adulthood. He had those eyes, the ones that hold a great intensity, as if they are so interested in what is before them that if not for the physiological build of the eyelids, they might jump out and explore, maybe even gobble you up. Jerry Lewis had those eyes, George Harrison, Ravi Shankar, Jim Carrey, Peter Sellers, and the boy I had a seven-year crush on through junior high and high school (although unlike the others his seemed to dim with age, possibly due to being deemed “Most Likely To Succeed” in the sixth grade yearbook – that’s a rough one to uphold). You can almost read their brains. Creators. It’s as if an entire library lies right beneath the surface of them and I want to dive in through the pupil, make myself comfortable and meditate on each and every word.  The sorrow, the joys, the crushing embarrassments, I want it all, and I can remember I was drawn to those eyes even as a little girl.

Julie had a yellow gingham blanket she affectionately named “Meemers”. Julie refused to sleep without Meemers. Meemers couldn’t play the banjo, tell jokes, nor juggle kittens (at least not with any prowess). Meemers was an acceptable security item for a three-year-old girl. My choice, an accomplished actor/musician/comedian . . . not so much. Though in secret, I was convinced I was the coolest kid on the block and I didn’t need that stupid nightlight anyway, thank you very much. 

  

Excerpt from chapter five | dear mr. fantasy | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

The Emphatical Electrical Ear Extravaganza!

Along with my Asperger’s diagnosis came the awareness of my sensory issues. Although others consider them “issues”, I like to refer to them as “super-powers”. :0)

Since my sense of hearing is what is mostly affected at this moment, I will focus on that.

OK, so music played by others is often too loud for my taste. In fact, at times, depending on the type of music, it can actually hurt my ears. But maybe that is because as I type, I can hear the electrical current running through my MacBook power cord. At the same time I can hear crickets outside, an owl in the tree across the road, my dog breathing as she sleeps, another dog barking in the distance (probably 2 blocks away), my own heart beat, two tiny gnats flying around the room (one just flew past my right ear and became very loud . . . until I smashed it - oopsie), the refrigerator recharging 2 rooms away, and the slight buzzing of the light bulbs in this room (living room) and the adjoining one. All at the same time. 

Morris Arboretum,Philadelphia

getting a real ear-full.

I had no idea other's auditory functioning was not as “super-powered” as mine until I began doing research on what this whole “Asperger’s thing” is. When I’m alone, it does indeed feel like a super-power of sorts. I can hear a car from a long ways away which helps when I’m out for a walk to get to the opposite side of the road. I can hear if a raccoon or squirrel is in the yard – a warning not to let my dogs out. I can hear the slightest sound when I’m walking so as not to step on a tiny frog or lizard (which there are a lot of where I live!). I can hear a spider crawling on the wall or bug crawling on the floor. I can tell by the slightest “off” sound that there is something wrong with my car and can easily locate where in the engine the sound is coming from.

Where this super-ninja ability (OK, OK . . . I just took it too far) becomes an issue is when others are around. I sometimes have difficulty hearing a person talk when there are a lot of other sounds happening at once and have to ask (sometimes several times, embarrassingly) for the person to repeat what he/she just said. This can be quite annoying for someone and because I am aware of that I sometimes won’t ask and miss the opportunity to really hear that person (and feel REALLY stupid when I’m caught in the act of faking it).

FADE IN:

INT RESTAURANT - MORNING

FRIEND

Blah, blah, blah blah blah. And then I found blaaah, blah.

Aspie Girl

Oh! That’s funny.

FRIEND

What’s funny? The Herpes or the Hepatitis C?

Aspie Girl

Oh . . . no . . . I meant . . .

Aspie Girl, red-facedly dying a slow, painful death of shame, attempts to redeem herself with terribly un-witty, improvised retort.

THE END

I can become frustrated when I hear something alarming, such as a slight sound in the garage (possibly a wild creature) and when I am with another human, they tend to step loudly, whisper, and touch things around them as they move, skewing my ability to precisely pinpoint the sound. My dogs on the other hand, will know exactly what I am doing and will actually tip toe and “slink” to hear it alongside me. When I am in the car alone, I enjoy listening to NPR or my favorite music as loud as I want, but dislike having anything playing in the car when another person is with me because then, if they speak, it is difficult for me to focus and really hear them. I dislike working on my computer when it becomes hot and the fan goes on because then I feel it is taking away from hearing the sounds I want to hear, such as the birds outside or my own thoughts. Distracting.

This “issue” has caused me to avoid people. There are certain people who are just loud—in their movements, in their voice, the way they eat—even their cars and pets are loud! You know the type—they yell "hello" from across the street and continue in the same volume when three feet away. I have a neighbor who every time he takes his classic car out, he spins it out in the drive way, screeching so loud I feel I need to duck for cover. Why?!!! What’s the point?! I’ve seen parents in stores allowing their kids to scream and yell and stomp and throw and they just push the cart by as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. In electronic stores, they will have every television on, blaring, with different channels AND someone is testing a car audio system not too far from there AND there is “ambient” music playing in the background. Why?!

Which is why I’ve made a vow to be kind to myself. I can’t control the noise around me but I can certainly control the noise inside by utilizing that most amazing, brilliant invention - earplugs. What a gift!!!

All in all, natural sounds are fantastic – the wings of tiny hummingbirds flapping at 53 beats per second, crickets discussing the latest gossip in the insect world, the powerful ocean waves hitting the shore, the slight rustling of leaves with a passing breeze, trickling water finding pathways in which to run - which is why I choose carefully where I live and spend my time. I will never be able to completely contain the bothersome and sometimes piercing sounds, but I can be kind to me by being prepared. I may not always hear what someone is saying, but I can be kind to them and me by just being honest.  

I’m not sure where my hearing abilities, super-powers if you will, could be used to save the world, but I know I’m armed and ready to fire! (Where’s that red cape? I know it’s in here somewhere . . .)

Oh ya, and by the way, that time you farted and thought I couldn't hear it because you covered it up so well with the clearing of your throat . . . you'd better guess again.

My definition of Asperger’s today: I can hear clearly now the rain is gone. ;0)