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Stormy Weather

From Jul 1, 2011

If I forgot how change affects my son, the transition to summer reminded me.

This spring, my son attended two preschools. One school (Reeds Ferry) provided Tyoma with services for autism while the other school (Mastricola) focused on typical kids.

His "typical" school had their goodbye party first. The modest social gathering opressed me. It was loud and chaotic. My heart went out to Tyoma, who has forty years less experience dealing with noisy gatherings.

Parents politely jostled for good video recording positions as the children lined up for awards and song-singing. I suddenly realized why Tyoma did not want to go to "typical" school this week. The award ceremony and five song show stressed him out. I captured jerky video of him staring into space and picking his nose. He was a trooper.

Afterward, I exchanged banal pleasantries with fellow moms, ate a polite cookie, and located Tyoma. I saw the "aaaaugh" behind his eyes. Two pleasantries later, we tiptoed out of the building 40 minutes early. The two of us went home and built a soft fort out of quilts and pillows.

The following week, my son's tears began. Tyoma realized that school with Ms. Jerri would end soon. His best buddy and greatest teacher of all time would no longer be there to guide him. Ms. Jerri has been with us since the first months of his diagnosis. Tyoma loves her deeply.

Tyoma processed his strain by asking odd, compulsive questions:

"If you have a level one tornado, what toys do you bring to the basement? And what toys do you bring if the tornado is level two?"

"If there is a power outage, can I leave my room? What if there is a power outage, and I have to go potty? What level of power outage means I can't go potty?"

"Why do people bring watermelons to parties? Watermelon is a negative level treat. That means you should go home."

Levels and concrete plans help Tyoma process information. Each layer of rules is a roadmap that we build together. We detailed plans for power outages, tornados, and excusing ourselves early from school parties.

Despite my careful interventions, simple tasks eventually turned into power struggles. Tyoma's socks and shoes fit screamingly tight. We had to re-learn the importance of staying buckled in the booster seat. I confiscated projectiles before any car ride.

Tyoma's unpredictability disorganized me. Part of the day, he would be being smilingly sweet and angelic. Then, a wrong word or sequence of events would unleash a fiendish slew of mischief-making. Objects plummeted down the toilet. Sinks overflowed and a whole bottle of Palmovie dish soap vanished.

I wish Tyoma would schedule his meltdowns, so we can get through them in an orderly fashion. I want to know the level of meltdown he plans to have. An email suggesting rational compromises would be nice. I'd also like text reminders, alerting me of the foolish things I do that make matters worse.

Alas. I am simply a grown-up version of my son, frustrated by change and a lack of predictability. Time for me to create my own lists of triggers, levels, and plans.

Forecast improving.

We Shaved The Kitty!

I've always been wary of cats. When my husband suggested we get one, I balked. Cats are fluffy. I hate fluffy. When we had a chow mix, I personally shaved her to the "needs sunscreen" level every three weeks. My aversion to wooly textures causes me much squirming and hand washing.

If cats came with reptile skin and ornate bumpy patterns, I'd own a fifteen acre kitty farm. But, they don't, so adding one to our houshold two years ago was a big deal. I took baby steps. I started with LOLcats. Fifty pages of cute captioned cats melted my heart. I began to look for the perfect companion.

I found her at the Petsmart Adpot-A-Pet Giardia Center. Pearl, aged five, was not the loveliest cat, but she had extra toes, snaggly teeth and a sweet disposition. When I met her for the first time, she shed clumps and handfuls of white fur. The Animal Rescue staff assured me it was due to stress. She'd been at the center for months. I loved her. Instantly. She purred and rubbed on me, and I shook off the hair without thinking.

So, the cat my husband wanted became the cat my husband complained about. Kitty Pearl does not excel at grooming. I brush her, but I cannot tackle the dense fur on her bottom or poochy tummy. Every morning, cottony clouds of kitty fur breeze across our wooden floor.  I prefer to groom Pearl professionally, but it is expensive. Saturday morning, a cup and a half of kitty hair clumps greeted us.

My husband and I bickered over what to do. We settled on a butt and belly shave. Pearl was sweet and compliant through the whole process. Egor held her as I shaved off two quarts of hair. We removed the bulk of her problem fur.  When she sat or laid down, you could not tell she's been trimmed. Otherwise, she looked as if she sported a scruffy tutu.

This morning, we woke up to find the same quantity of fur littering the floor. Perplexed, my husband speculated that she must have a plastic bag of fur she scatters just to vex us.

Sleeplessness

Every now and then, the nightmare factory sends my son a humdinger. Tuesday night, Tyoma woke us up shouting “I have a bad dream! I have a bad dream!” I slogged to his room to cuddle him back to sleep. With the hysteria only a four year old can muster, he proclaimed:

“You know what’s the worst nightmare? A frog with three colors—green, red and black. Red is the worst color, because it means stop. And I don’t want to stop!”

I expected monsters, farm animals, or even a birthday party to be the subject of his nightmare, not a colored frog. I reminded myself  that dreams don’t need to make sense to be horrifying. We banished his toy frog to the laundry room and I settled him down to sleep. In minutes, his breathing became regular. Yay!  Five minutes later, he rolled over. Five more minutes passed. Even with my eyes closed, I sensed him staring at me inquisitively. I opened my eyes. He informed me:

“You know, all frogs are not bad. Just the ones with red on them…”

I had many options. Being me, I did a statistical analysis of previous nightmare incidents. I included Tyoma’s distress, time of morning and my need for sleep as variables. I decided to give him five more minutes of cuddles and let him read himself to sleep. I miscalculated. An hour later, I hovered on the jerky borderland of sleep. The knocking began.

“It’s time to wake up, guys. It’s already light outside. It’s time to wake up!”

Our little rooster had spied the first glimmer of dawn at 4:30. I had to admit, despite the bad dreams and early hour, T was impeccably polite. Papa took him back to his room as I feigned sleep. At 5:30, Tyoma returned.

“Guys! It’s time to get up! Guys! It’s very light outside.”
*pause*
“Mama...Mama, I’ve read all the books in my room. It’s time to get up.”

Thus, our day started. I cooked French toast and Tyoma read science books. T remained angelic and sweet all morning, and to my surprise, after school as well. At 6:50 pm,  he conked out, snuggled next to me on the couch. His resilience and good humor surprised and pleased me. If only I could grasp that courage at will. I would have slept better that night.

I was too tired to sleep. Insomnia usually starts with my brain grinding in obsessive, doomed circles. Wednesday night, my body felt twitchy and restive. My blood prickled, as if it wanted to escape and whirl around in a margarita machine. Pacing did not help and even the Weather Channel did not soothe me. I considered Temple Grandin’s squeezing machine. Perhaps I could invent a spinning gadget to propel me into tranquility. I vividly imagined the device, but lamented my inability to make one quiet enough to use at home.

At last, I decided to visit Cute Overload. If your mind is filled with fuzzy goodness, eventually your body has to relax. Then I hit upon the ultimate relaxer:




I adore Simon’s Cat. The simple line drawings and kitty mischief are a balm to the soul. I made it back to bed around midnight and had monochrome kitty dreams.

A Touch of Anxiety

I woke up hyper and happy. My husband chased me out of the kitchen to eat breakfast in peace--I had been annoying him with songs about how wonderful his hair smelled. I bombarded him with dish towels at him from the TV room. Egor harumphed off when I did my recycled pepsi can dance, so I performed for the kitty instead. I need to remember that good moods do have a downside. An abnormal happy morning mood usually precedes abysmal afternoon anxiety.

I was excited and nervous over Tyoma's upcoming day at the beach with our  respite worker. At first, I balked at a beach outing, but I reconsidered. If Egor and I took him, we would be burned out by the end of the day. Ashley is a professional skilled at helping kids on the spectrum do new things. She has the skill and brain wiring to turn the day into a success.  

Nevertheless, twenty minutes after Tyoma and Miss Ashley left, anxiety set in. Images of car accidents and tragedy invaded my brain. Ugh. The thoughts stubbornly circled as I folded laundry and picked up toys. I zoomed around the house until it sparkled, hoping for distraction.  I only managed to conjure more elaborate images of catastrophe. At last, I told my husband about my worries. "Ashley is a better driver than both if us. Tyoma will be fine."  This satisfied me and I quit obsessing.

Mom Goes Home

I said goodbye to my mother at the airport this morning. Each visit she seems more frail. Today, her hands shook as she lowered herself into the airport wheel chair. I wondered if emotion gripped her, but age, and medication were more likely culprits. We hugged and kissed goodbye. I glanced into her eyes and presented an automatic smile that I did not feel. Every trip, sadness washes over me when she leaves.

Mom’s month long visit lacked our usual adventures and trips. We did not hunt for lighthouses in Maine or haul her scooter to remote beaches in Massachusetts. Mom, Tyoma and I stayed home, enduring sniffly colds and endless rain. I missed getting away and doing something different. A change of scenery is invigorating, since taking care of my family consumes me.

Mother came to help me recover from my recent Asperger’s diagnosis. My diagnosis is a happy occurrence, however, the stress and excitement of the process left me overwrought and exhausted. I welcomed her help and support. The smell of home cooked meals again wafted through the house. Tyoma gladly spent time with her, leaving me time to read, relax and fold laundry.

In the evenings, Mom had many questions. The process of answering them drained me. When my son was diagnosed with autism, we realized that my dad had autism too. Accepted quietly last fall, Dad’s diagnosis of Asperger’s was an obvious fit. Seeing the condition in me challenged my mother, not only because women on the spectrum present differently, but also because I am her daughter.

In the end, Mother educated herself through books and websites, embracing my diagnosis. Although I missed our seaside trips, we both needed this time to reflect on my life and future. Now, I want those trips back, with all the joy they bring. A diagnosis has not changed who I am, but it has given me insight into how I can handle my life with wisdom.

My Private Face

I have two faces. Looking at my profile picture, I am coifed and painted. This is assembled for doctor's visits, teacher's meetings, and the occasional dinner out. In reality, this is who types the blog:

Two months ago, I would have been embarrassed of my scruffiness and filed this picture away. Now, I'm proud of my slightly combed, definitely unwashed hair. My lack of make-up reflects a sensible woman, and even my discount watch is a statement of pragmatism.  Around the house, I wear my regulation comfy clothes and simple hairstyles. Out there, I fret over appearing appropriate and agonize over details of my attire.  I do want to look pretty, but I don't  need to be squeezed and painted into attractiveness.

Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg's slide show inspired me to share photographs. One person's bravery can give courage to many. Seeing her childhood photos sent me on a personal expedition. What would I find? Although I started out looking through childhood pictures, I ended up focusing on my adult snapshots. I learned more about myself than I expected.  After the jump, a few more pictures for you!

Awwww!

My sweet little guy! You can see eraser marks where T wrote "Love Mama," on the second page.  Tyoma wrote in his ornate made-up font "Love Mama" but they made him erase it. Sads!

And yes, I really do love Malt O'Meal! I don't mind eating the same thing for days on end. You can fix an absolute VAT of Malt O'Meal and it will last you for days. Right now, I'm eating the ultimate easy food, Kix cereal!

Fun With Saifun

I think the stomach bug that hit Sunrise Daycare finally ignited my poor sad GI tract.  Mom came down ill early yesterday afternoon and I crashed at dinnertime.  I am pleased to report I fixed not only dinner, but E's lunch for tomorrow as well. Yay me!

Let me tell you a little cooking secret. Saifun noodles are not the same as rice vermicelli:

Rice Vermicelli





Saifun



Saifun, or cellophane noodles, are made from mung beans. You find them in dishes from China and Southeast Asia.  Rice vermicelli is also from China and has a delightful, firm texture. I could eat a gallon of rice pasta in Chunky Prego sauce.

Wikipedia warns rice vermicelli "should not be confused with cellophane noodles."  This is because saifun are the slimiest noodles on earth. Incompetent cooking renders them unpalatable.

My dinner experiment follows:  I fixed my famous leftover tenderloin surprise by floating sliced pork in a bath of sizzling canola oil. After I finished making sauce, I tossed in the saifun.  The translucency of the noodles startled me. They looked wormy, like dangerous internal parasites.

As I stirred, the noodles undulated suggestively. I chased  a clump with my fork to inspect it further. The noodles evaded me in a faintly biological way. Brrr.  How to serve this to my husband?  I decided to use his mother's secret Russian cooking trick. I added more garlic and some red peppers. E loved it. Dinner success!

The Oatmeal

Created by Oatmeal

How long have I lived without knowing about this guy! ZOMG!

Flipping around on my usual sites, I came across a geek blog with a link to The Oatmeal's site. He's almost the Larson of the 21st century. After a day of agonizing fabric testing and seam searching (AKA clothes shopping for T) I was ready to be entertained by someone who knows the value of kitties and zombies. Yay!

Deathday

So how did my day start? I woke up early, bolted out of bed. My mind filled with things to do. I had lunches and breakfasts to fix, lists to make and toys to pick up.  Groggy from the massive dose of benadryl I took last night. I supplemented accordingly with tea.

I popped on the TV to watch the weather channel, since I start every day that way. News rattled on in the background, as I put together meals and tapped my fingers rhythmically.

Every morning, I have a special moment with the Local on the Eights.  In between Doppler radar segments,  news burbles in the background, ignored. Today, I noticed the words "Osama bin laden" and "killed." I truly did not think much about this as I fixed turkey sandwiches and cooked chicken broccoli pasta. A tiny "hmmm" registered but not much more.

Breakfast fixed and lunches packed, I plopped on the couch. Alabama is in crisis. Tornados devastate communities and kill over 300 people. I see the splintered homes that almost look like scenes from a disaster movie. I think, what is not right?—why this does not look real? I realize that hollywood movies have dramatic lighting, incomparable to the stark sun on raw shattered wood. Truth is ugly.

The Eights come and go. "Osama Bin Laden is dead, " they announced.  I cannot believe it. I remember 9/11. We were at AAA picking up our tickets for a trip to France. We watched with the staff as the second plane crashed into the towers. I was so shocked. I could not process the enormity of what had happened. I just asked about our tickets. I could not think of what else to do. In retrospect, it must have seemed incredibly selfish, but the truth was that it took me hours to process what had happened. When it hit me, my insides felt hollow and my skin tingled. I wept. I paced. I called my best friend and clung to her for the rest of the day.

Hearing of Osama's death was unexpected. As the details unfolded, I watched people celebrating in the streets. Maybe it's just me, but when I think about the loss of the twin towers and all those people, I don't want to celebrate. I want to sit and think and mourn.

Slideshow!

I need to post this before my scatter-brained self loses this!

I found the website Journeys with Autism a while ago and then lost it in the sea of new information I was taking in. I am pleased to report that I found it again via Nicole Nicholson.  I hope my brain will let me unleash something profound and moving in response, aside from, "The 70's were fantastic! Look at her cool clothes!"


ETA: Okay, I'm calmer now. Well, marginally. I am grateful to Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg. I feel less alone with my brain! Her school pictures and insightful commentary unleashed a flood of "OMG, that's ME!" She told my story, except for the details of her school system (blah New Mexico). I ordered her book "The Uncharted Path: My Journey with Late-Diagnosed Autism." It will take me a month to read it, because the subject matter is so volcanic I will reel off on spazzed out tangents every few pages. Bzzzz! Already getting excited!

Shopping, Ack!

Our local Walmart is reorganizing--again. I hate rolling in circles trying to find stuff.  The last time I braved the store, Tyoma melted down over the chaos in the toy aisles.  I can't blame him.  I could not find the qtips today. Roll, roll, roll. Are they with the beauty supplies? No. Bandaids? No. Wet Ones Wipes? No? Are they on a oveloaded cart abandoned by the dog food? Yes. @#$%&*!!!

Shopping at Walmart does more than save me money.  It saves my nerves, too.  Multiple shopping trips wear me out and few stores have the wide open aisles that Walmart does. Plus, in the early morning, it is very quiet.  Well, quiet except for the hand-clapping back-slapping go-Walmart-go team meetings. 

This morning, I listened in as a short, tubby middle-aged woman read the latest sales statistics to her team. Sock sales went up 20%! (Yay! replied the team members, clapping) Women's bras were up 8%! (Yay! more clapping). Children's shoes up 15% (Yay! clap-clap). I held back on shouting, "Whooo-hooo!"  Their meeting seemed so festive.

I hear the clapping and yaying when I shop early. Usually, the manager is half-embarrased over the process, mumbles through his rigamarole and sends everyone on their way.  Today's tiny manager seemed to revel in her meeting. Were those louder than usual "yays" a result of her increased enthusiasim  or induced fear ?

As I looked for fresh sugar snap peas, I quietly yayed along with the team members, drumming my fingers to the rhythm of clapping.  I wondered how the team members during this ridiculous process and searched their faces for boredom or mockery. 

I saw nothing. The whole scene was a process, automatic, like chewing. Yay. Clap. Swallow. It was surreal. The blank faces of the team members were frightening, especially in juxtaposition to the tiny animated manager. As she rattled on nonsensical figuers. I realized that only thing the manager was missing was a reference to the Malibar Front and a "double-plus good" exclaimation.

Corporate America, keeping stores efficient and shopper friendly since 1962.  Thank you team members, for enduring mindless drivel so I can shop quickly, cheaply and at one place. Sigh.

Day Care

One side of a hypothetical conversation...

*dials phone*

"Hello, Sunshine Daycare? Yes. This is Lori Dexyz. I'd like to drop off our son, Tyoma, for a half day of care today."

"What? Cholera's going around? Hmmm. I'm pretty sure we've had that."

"Mmmmm-hmmm. He catches everything. So, what time can we drop him off?"

"Uh, well, I could put a guaze mask on him..."

"Yeah, he probably would pull it off... But that's okay. I'll just sanitize his hands before he comes home."

"So, 9:00?"

Heh. Motherhood a bit much for you, Lori dear?


So they didn't really have cholera at Sunshine, just a stomach bug. I kept the little guy home for three days, but ultimately he will get anything circulating around New Hampshire. Nose picking must be nature's great plan for a healthy, well-immunized adult.

Anyway, it was great to have a break, so I could write in obsessive little circles. Every sentence came out the same, and all my ideas were stale. Blah.

Despite my desire to be alone and write, picking T up from daycare was my highlight. I watched him run around the playground, circulating with peers in his odd but endearing way. Before we left, he said, "Just a minute!" and dashed off to speak to a pretty blonde girl on a slide.

"Lillian. Lilli-an! I wanted you to know that I am leaving now, so I am saying good-bye to you. Good-bye." He announced this with his best Carl Sagan voice, making me smile.

"That was my friend Lillian," he gasped to me. "You spell her name like 'Lilli' but with an extra 'a-n'" He added, almost out of breath from running.

As I hustled him off to the car, and he abruptly asked, "What do you look like when you die?" Goodness. I thus began a nerdy and slightly technical interchange about biological death, that kept us entertained on the drive home.

Rage Comics and Social Rules

The plan for an easy Spring break was foiled by foul weather and an outbreak of a stomach virus at our favorite childcare place.  I realize that Tyoma will eventually get whatever bug is circulating in southern NH, but I just don’t want to spend our vacation week sick.

Sadly, I needed to start my day with a bit of shopping. I won't be  shopping at Market Basket again. People swarm there as early as 7:30, leaving me  feelingly squeezed and assaulted.   inadvertent experience, I learned that singing softly to myself and playing keyboard on the cart handles keeps a number of people at bay.

After a day of shopping and   my attention between mom and Tyoma, I feel beyond brain dead.  Crashed out on my bed (hubby and I do have separate beds). I  up my little brain to my computer looking for entertainment. Enter Failblog.

Once upon a time I purused the LOLcat directory--cute, but glurgy. Failblog is worth a chuckle, but mostly I show up for Ugliest Tattoos. I can’t think of a more profound way to reveal your character than to display something permanently on your person. Looking at a gallery of shocking and delightful tattoos gives me a secret thrill.   the same sweet little rush I get when I see blue nail polish or a dyed goth princess. So I chuckle and smile my way through the absurd winged genitalia, disturbingly placed for public consumption. However, after the third Technicolor armpit monstrosity, it does get a bit passé.

So I pop on over to Know Your Meme (KYM) ,  to see what Bear Grylls is up to today. I visit rarely, but when I do, I really dive in.  While I never visit the anarchy that is 4chan or tumblr, I do like the whole Mad Magazine feel of KYM. It’s a guilty sort of pleasure that should belong to young men of a certain age, but it absolutely transfixes me.

So meet Rage Comics. I’ve seen the drawings, so I dedicated an evening (Saturday night) to learning all about them.  Last night, I noticed that there is an actual section at FB devoted to the comics.  So I must have read 150 of them.  they vary in quality, certainly, but overall, I think I have a good deal in common with the young men that make them. it seems that we are equally confounded by the same world and take pride in the same things. Liberating.  A mid-fortyish woman with the mind of a 24 year old man with nothing better to do.

I like the Rage Comics for their unusual blend of humor,  brevity, and poignancy. I like short stories for similar reasons.Direct and generated with agreed upon symbols Rage Comics make me laugh over something I share with a stranger.

And thus, my second search.  I finally joined Wrong Planet.  True to form, I lurked endlessly, not contributing a word.  But I found the most awesome forum, xxx. I read about seven pages of posts, smiling and nodding.  It felt so right to be there, knowing that I am not alone in being awkward and clueless.  Between the excellent forum and Rage Comics, I felt connected and content.

Easter Sunday

Peeps! With sweet little button eyes!

Our Easter was mellow, punctuated by ten minutes of frenetic Easter egg hunting downstairs.  We skipped candy and settled for toys in plastic eggs, conspicuously placed for easy retrieval. E got most of the jumping and screaming on video, including a cameo by me and my oily locks. I noticed that my comfy house dress is fading. Sigh.

As I promised yesterday, Mom and I took Tyoma to Wasserman park.  When we arrived,   a purplish and heavy aura loomed, the kind of atmosphere that brings hard rain. I was pleased to see that we had the park to ourselves--I half expected the place to be populated by celebrants of an  Easter egg hunting jamboree. T ran off to rotate giant number logs, and I spent my time splitting my attention between him and mom.

After twenty minutes, we had company. A couple arrived with two kids and a fat, slobbery lab.  I do like dogs, but they should be leashed in a playground.  The mother hollered at me, “Is it okay to have our dog here?”  I felt like hollering back, “No! And could you and your family please leave because your presence freaks us Aspies out?”  but instead I walked over and said, “My son has autism and if your dog approaches him, he might become upset. I am okay with dogs and will work with my son.”

Heh.

Tyoma spent the next fifteen minutes loudly asking questions about the dog.  When the dog actually approached him, he crouched into a ball and begged me to save him from the dog.  The family finally put the dog on a leash, but Tyoma continued his harangue.  “I can’t go down the slide!  The dog is there!”  “The dog is on the steps! He’s going to get me!” and so on.  "The dog has a knife!"  I kid you not, he actually said this. Embarrassed and a bit irritated, the family left. Then Tyoma asked me, “Where did the dog go?”  “To the beach, buddy,” I replied. “Hm. I want to go to the beach and see the dog.  I liked that dog.”

Sigh.

I think in Tyoma’s mind the whole thing was a bit of a game. He was anxious about the dog, but curious, too.  I totally get that and wonder how to do things better next time.

Froggy!

Update!!!



:)

Okay, now that I have a few minutes, a bit of an explanation. My husband has an absolute horror of toads and frogs--a very sad fact for bufophile like me. When we first married and a toad-bringing rain fell, I lost my mind. I ran squealing down the street, collecting toads in plastic containers. Not only would he not come with me, but he wouldn't let me bring the toads in the apartment. I planned to set them free in the bathtub and scream at them.

I don't know why I love toads so much. I suppose that they are the closest things to dinosaurs that I could catch with my hands (lizards are too fast). The fact that they generally arrive when it rains (whooo! rain!) is a bonus. I love their bumpy, gnarled texture and placid slitted eyes. The hop-plop of a toad fries my little brain circuits in sweet delight. I never understood how girls could squee over hamsters. Unsavoury, smelly, foul mamals. Blech.

But TOADS! Joy. I don't think the most vigorous coke-snorting Hollywood starlet could touch my toad-watching high. Poor souls, attending empty parties with meaningless music, fashion, and talk, when all they need is a little toad action.

Anyway, sixteen years of marriage has not made my husband less squeamish about frogs and toads. When he came across this video from his favorite guitar tutor, he had to share. So I share now. And only with great restraint, do I not share the toad videos I watched on Y last night--but a play list might be coming soon!

Breakfast With Ashleigh

Well, I plan to make 2011 the year of the friend.  I made a promise to myself to keep in touch with the people I love most and to try to do something social at least once every six weeks. Whoo! Let's see if my lame self can do this consistently.

Today, I went to breakfast with Ashleigh, a mother on one of Tyoma's classmates.  Two weeks ago on our first breakfast, I spazzed out, not knowing what to talk about.  I have a terrible habit of bombarding people with questions in social situations.  I do this because I just don't know what to say. Specifically, I quiz people to find something entertaining to talk about. I'm pragmatic about conversations and particular about what I find interesting in a person. I interrogate people at parties to find a mutual link, so I can relax and chat authentically.

This strategy flatters some, especially folks who have a grand passion lurking.  I feed off the positive energy of an eager speaker, and if we like the same thing, nothing else matters. Unfortunately, many are put off my intensity, give me the "Bitch, please" look and edge away. At a recent Twilight party, a girl physically scooted her chair from me, as if she feared I would grab her by the shoulders and shake her, asking, "Do you like rocks? Plants? How about zombies? Everybody likes zombies!" I think she needed more wine.

I really don't do well with small talk, except for the memorized pleasantries I exchange with cashiers and people I'm stuck in line with.  I remain intentionally uninformed on politics and sports, probably because the topics intimidate me.  I prefer conversations about odd or specific hobbies.  I relish strange details and vivid discussions. When I go home after my 90 social minutes, I want to ponder curious pursuits and why people crave them.

I avoid well-liked fiction like Twilight and Harry Potter, perhaps out of reactive stubbornness to their popularity. Instead,  I  prefer morbid horror and literature dealing with death, anxiety and depression.  Since my own strange ruminations focused on these topics for years, it is a logical preference.  I do like other fictions- magical realism and writing that is odd and open to interpretation.  I seek out descriptive and atmospheric pieces that create an internal visual trip. I feel so alien in this world that visiting a tense, ambiguous world validates my experiences in this one..

Anyway, I had breakfast with Ashleigh, a Twilight  and TV fan. We met last year dropping off our autistic sons for preschool. She is instantly likeable, the sort of person who dresses for comfort and loves to read books. Her loving and genuine acceptance of her son, just as he is, wins my respect and affection. I've been to her Twilight parties and cracked inappropriate jokes during screenings and met other girls who dress comfortably and like to read.

So we had our first breakfast get together a few weeks ago.  I probably have made her uncomfortable with my spazzed out interrogation and overall twitchiness.  Today, I managed to find just the right questions to ask, and we had a pleasant conversation. I suspect that we both construct worlds in our heads--I went through my vampire phase in 1991 (thank you Francis Ford Coppola!).

An interesting note.  I had posted on Facebook that I had not read any Harry Potter books in response to a list of books Ashleigh had posted. For my birthday, she bought the first Harry Potter book for me. It was unthinkable to her that a civilized person had not read one. I was touched by her  sweet and thoughtful gesture. She also packed up her  collection of sequels for me to borrow, since I was sure to love Potter.  Awwww.

I was gracious, but already anxious. How on earth am I to read fantasy? I couldn't make it through one novel of Lord of the Rings, let alone seven volumes of popular fantasy. I will give it a try, maybe I will like it. After all, Allan Rickman was in those Potter movies, right?

@#$%&*!!!

spellcheck is down and my new laptop does not have word. Grrrrrr!

Family Visit From Hell

Last fall we had the Family Visit from Hell. I had trouble coping with E’s mother (Tanya) being here. She came right when Tyoma's school started and she stayed for two months. Sigh.