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.

Happy Birfday to me!

Hmmmm. Getting closer to my mid-forties than I'd like.


I woke up about 7:30ish this morning to Tyoma shouting, ""It's 8:00!!! Time for the birthday party!" over and over.  He was beyond jazzed. Yesterday his respite worker took him to the store to pick out a card and a little surprise for me. On the card, he'd written, "Wait until 8:00 breakfast surprise." So, 7:40 was as long as we could wait.


Anyway, my son has excellent taste. He bought me an organic mint chocolate bar. Dividing up a section for the three of us, Tyoma decided that it was his birthday too, and thus the largest chunk of chocolate belonged to him. Perhaps a teachable moment for some children, but not T. He was so hyper (and slobbery!) I decided that it was great to share the same birth date as my son.


The rest of the morning was me singing, hooting, and clapping (birfday!) while my husband gave me "take it down a notch!" hand signals.  I am not aware of how excited I can get at home. No wonder they called me "spaz" at school! I guess home is a safe place. Dammit. If only other people could mainline my joy! Nobody  would bitch or moan, just happy dances and whooo-hoos.


I took the killer baby out for brunch around 11:00. I really wanted to go to the Black Forest Bakery and gobble chocolate cake, but T did not.  I know that BFB is meltdown central--it's too cramped, crowded and hectic, so my birthday present to myself was no screaming meltdown.


The rest of our outing went pretty well. Nothing beats two totally jazzed people running around Toys R Us. Nevertheless,  I was completely drained when we came home at 2:30.  I'm looking forward to dinner tonight and some red wine.


ETA


Ahhh! Pinot Noir!  They were out of two bottles of the modest variety, so the birfday girl got a very nice bottle of pinot noir do enjoy with her meal. We ate at Giorgio's, a slightly fancier version of my L:as Cruces favorite, Lorenzo's. The loveliest part of the evening was the conversation with Egor.  We've been married 16 years and there is still much we don't know about each other.

Why Asperger's, Part One

It started in February, when I revived my Livejournal.

After Tyoma was diagnosed in 2009, I halfheartedly put in entries. Ultimately, writing in my journal seemed frivolous compared to my need to understand what was going on with my son. Instead of writing, I immersed myself into the study of sensory integration, Floortime, ABA, and RDI. I seemed unable to shift my attention away from reading, googling and getting the picture of what autism is. My internal resources were not spent on self reflection, which I considered a vanity.

Heh.

Babies!

see more WTF Pictures and WTF videos by Picture Is Unrelated

I must meet this person. Or at least the fellow who commented "Looks like someone has been huntin' " Heh.

I like odd little collections. The details make my retinas sing. I don't think I'd need a kid to buy those beautiful "I Spy" books. They make me want to search my boxes of little collections and compose pictures.

I like adore the "I Spy" books blend of novelty and repetition--picture theme is represented, say a city scene, and elements are composed from a mish-mash of materials. The cohesion of the piece is pulled together largely through color choice.

I'd love to rearrange Tyoma's toys by color palette-a box of primaries, split complements and analogous colors. Whooo!

Asperger's, I Got It

Too spazzed out to be coherent. Social history taken. Questioning. Weird repetetive fantasies divulged. Asperger Diagnosis confirmed. Holy @#$%.








OMG. I lost most of my twenties to my imagination. Sigh. Oh, my thirties, too.

Check this: Asperger Article