I had to get the NT cashier with the run-on mouth. She is the small talk master. All I wanted to do was pay for my stuff and get on outta there. But no, “How is your day going? You know it’s going to be sunny this afternoon? Do you have any plans? I’m doing BBQ with my husband tonight. I hope it isn’t windy or raining. Do you cook outside? We love it! Try to it every night during the summer. Are you married? You’re buying Milkbones! What kind of dog do you have? I love them all.”

chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter chatter

I’m not entirely sure if these are really questions or little canned statements so she can hear her own voice. Do they really require a response? “Yes” and “No” are not adequate because she wants conversation in the bloody check-out! I rarely go beyond 5 or 6 words in neatly contained 1 or 2 sentences; the total sum of my small talk repertoire. I don’t understand the NT compulsion to go beyond “Hey, how’s it going?” — a question that only requires a wave or a “Doing good.” Very short and, thank god, to the point.

Certain qualities of the human voice seem to send needles jamming up the back of my brain. Too high, squeaky, and/or nasal; children’s voices or laughing or screaming; people arguing; fast talking, they all serve as irritants. A person’s enunciation can do the same thing. I have a mental cadence, a rhythm that I think and write in. When people speak to me outside of the rhythm it grates on my nerves.

So how did I deal with the chatty cashier? I didn’t utter a single word. I smiled, paid, packed my grocery bags, and got my ass out. About as much nice as I could muster without having my frontal lobes explode.

Catch up time…

April 14, 2011:
Mom did her chemo and overall, came out of it tired, but with no adverse effects. She is now on the every-three-months testing plan. The results of the latest test will come this Monday.

Her damned stubborn surgical wound finally healed, sans what the doctor thought was a fistula. Turned out, all that tiny tunnel needed was a good sterile cleaning and it healed over in a few hours.

She’s walking on her own, no wheelchair or walker. But she has arthritis in one knee so can’t stay up on her feet for longer than a short trip to the grocery. I try to get her out on walks but it’s a fact I can’t force an 85 year old (tomorrow!) woman to get out there. She has more excuses than a kid skipping classes. Oh, and she’s given up her driver’s license. Her reflexes and reasoning powers are not like they were before her fall and cancer diagnosis. I do all the driving now. I did get a handicap sticker for the car.

She’s still doing sponge baths. Even with the grab bars installed, she does not have the moxy to take a shower.

From the hit on the head she received a year ago, her short-term memory is worse. I could attribute that to simple age, but considering her flawless memory on other things, I’m not convinced.

Her hearing has been terrible for years (the result of falling asleep with blaring headphones on). She finally got hearing aids. The TV or radio is now played at a volume that doesn’t penetrate solid walls and doors.

She requires my assistance on and off all day, otherwise she sits in her recliner, does her resistance-band exercises, watches TV, and/or reads. She does a few things: dusting, small loads of laundry, and simple cooking. 9 times out of 10 I have to finish what she’s started or clean up her prodigious kitchen messes. Even when I set up her mise en place, she will still forget the ingredient that’s sitting right in front of her. I do the more physical cleaning; vacuum, window washing, the larger laundry loads, plus all the household maintenance. It’s not 24/7 care but I have had to cut my business workload by more than half.

One year to the day.
Mom’s life has changed.
My life has changed.

Niko, the freak-a-zoid Aspie brother, has Power of Attorney — NOT the NT older brother.

deus ex machina

Expressions of support.
We advise.
We console.
We cheer on.
We worry.
We feel each other’s disappointments.
We feel each other’s victories.
We make each other happy.
We share Respect and
Admiration.

We find joy in each other’s words.
Love friend to friend.

To the Aspie girl I love.
A Love we will never know outside of the words we pass to one another.
Thousands of miles apart, our circumstances are such that we will never meet.
And what of our words?

Expressions of support.
We advise.
We console.
We cheer on.
We worry.
We feel each other’s disappointments.
We feel each other’s victories.
We make each other happy.
We share Respect and
Admiration.

We find joy in each other’s words.
Love Aspie to Aspie.

Day by day, words pass over the ocean.
Day by day, we grow mentally closer.
In our minds, we can feel the breath and
Heartbeat and
Warmth of the other.
Forever joined together by a Computer monitor and keyboard.
.
.

As ASDs we share assorted symptoms and quirks. What matters to our survival is to what degree our symptoms manifest themselves and how we cope with the results of those symptoms. I’ve always had the philosophy of “Adapt or Die.” For some of us with ASD that’s a difficult or impossible mind-set to maintain. I have always wondered why I couldn’t apply the axiom to my own life.

HEY. YOU. NICHOLAS!
ADAPT, DAMN IT!

When I was growing up, there was no definition of Asperger’s and I can’t speak to the process of autistic diagnoses back then. Growing up I’d felt I was not socially functioning on the same level as the kids around me. Science and applied arts were my grand achievements but I was poor in “citizenship” or getting on with my peers. As I got into my teen years, my only definition for how I interacted—or didn’t—began to take on the basics of what little I knew about autism: sensory defensiveness, poor communication skills, a sense of loneliness but not wanting to be with people, out-and-out isolating, and a host of other eccentricities.
—Eccentricities—
I could have easily said “oddities,” “peculiarities,“ “exotic behaviors,” “quirks.” I have an acquaintance who describes my party-hardy self as “charmingly inept.” NT folk define us in these terms, softening our behaviors to minimize our impact on society. Is it better than being labeled a “weirdo,” or “retard?” Those were the terms used back when I was a kid, AT me, both in my face and behind my back.
But, here I was, 13 – 14 years old, wondering if I was “a retard” on some level(s). That’s the age where much of my emotional development stopped. I’m a middle aged kid—I scoff at the concept of Emotional IQ.

Adapt or Die. So, what are the basics for survival? Water, Shelter, Fire, and Food? That’s what I need in the backcountry. It’s what I’m good at, surviving in remote areas for several days or weeks if necessary—ALONE.
But what about human society? Why do I need to survive in an environment that is foreign to me: toiling under a stranger’s thumb, relationships, life in a society.

How do NT’s cope with the juggling of these concepts? My real question is, as a person with ASD, how do I apply modern society’s motis operandi to my life? Mulling around on the Internet, speaking to other ASDs, how can some of us work around our more perverse symptoms to function and cope when I find many interactions stressful or impossible to conduct? Even when given the basics, how have I handled them?

Many ASDs go out to jobs. I tolerated years of meltdowns and unchecked Aspie Anger before burning out on facing people day after day. I do computer contract jobs at home and the thought of having to conduct face to face commerce is excruciating. I do all my business over emails and ftp sites.
Is this adapt or die? A little of both.

Many ASDs are happy! I can look back over my life, assess, and count on one hand the years of true happiness I’ve experienced. A day here, a week there, a month, a year or two. Those were the times I thought I was in love, making decent money, and/or isolating for days on a solo backpacking trip. I didn’t feel worried and stressed.
All the other years of my life, I’ve spent in varying degrees of meltdown, anger, or depression.
Adapt or die? Maybe 5% adapt. The other 95% well…

Many ASDs have relationships. They get married and have kids. My relationships have been very few and in retrospect—mostly meaningless. I crave isolation; I am naturally selfish with my time. If I could have a companion on my own terms … she would probably be as ASD as me. We would be comfortable “together” in different rooms.
I have never considered having children. N.E.V.E.R.
Is this adapt or die, well, D’oh, it’s DIE.

I must give credit to a very sweet woman who’s been tolerating my emails and IMs for the past three months. Due to our mutual ASD symptoms and our skittishness of relationships, I will never meet her face to face. I’ve never known anyone like her and it’s difficult for me to describe how I feel about her. We have gained a mutual, emotional understanding. A long distance, loving friend, who is very dear to my heart. That description is a start; I know there is more to it than that—yet, there can’t be more than that. Maybe my emotional IQ is higher than I thought.
Adapt or Die?
Without a doubt, I finally got it right. I adapted and won a life-long friend.   

To sum up, I tried to break the old patterns of try and fail—
I used my ASD to my advantage until the more perverse aspects slammed me between the eyes and/or circumstances beyond my control TOOK control of my life.
I inverted into a dive, augered into a remote field, and died.
Not once, but over and over again. The same old pattern but in a different key.
I feel like Wily E. Coyote: Forever trying to catch that Roadrunner but always failing.
Difference is, in cartoons, gravity is nebulous.
In reality, gravity will always behave as physics dictates.
The boulder will always squish me at the bottom of the canyon.
With the touch of a feather, the cliff will always fall from under my feet.

There is no Adapt OR Die. It is Adapt AND Die.

deus ex machina

There will be comfort in the words from a ghost.

A word of advice for anyone else building online archives. Do not store them in IPs that you pay out for. Once you’re dead and that bill goes unpaid your archive is in the bit bucket. The best you can hope for is a multi-function site that has a reasonable chance of living on.

I’m a frustrated Earth Scientist. Remember Gary Larson, the guy who drew The Far Side? Yea, like him—but totally Aspie.
I’m a trained observer, recorder, and sometime researcher.
Running, walking, or hiking along I play games in my head. This time it was “How many birds can I ID by sight or song?” On Sunday’s 22K walk, I IDd 54 species (list at the end of this post and sans invasive species). I would have had 1-2 more but I’m not good at recognizing some sparrow species by sight or by song.

My current observations:
The entire neighborhood is nature’s war zone! Danger lurks …
• All summer the Kestrels have been sky-hooking the robin hatchlings out of their nests.
• The invasive Ring-necked Doves (an escaped cage bird aka “Sky Rats”) are taking over the prime nesting spots and food resources. Outside of the city, it’s open season.
• With a sharp jab of his beak a huge male Red-shafted Flicker drew blood from a Ring-neck and the next day, probably the same Flicker, drew blood from a Starling. Woodpecker beaks make great foils.
• Blue Jays carry off Finch eggs one by one until the nests are empty.
• Hummingbirds, regardless of species, chase off ANY challenge to the feeders, water, or flowers. Even crows clear out.
• Everything that flies tries to chase away hawks, owls, vultures, ravens, foxes, and coyotes.

The fun of working in the yard:
• I was out pulling weeds in the flower garden when a Rufous Hummingbird buzzed me. I turned to look at it hovering just to my right and it rotated to my back left. I turned and it again rotated to a blind side. Visual Tag! We repeated this dance four more times before the bird zoomed off to toy with a new victim.
• Butterflies are highly territorial. The Tiger Swallowtail I see 3-4 times a day habitually takes the same path between houses and up the alley. Other Swallowtails are chased out of the yard.
• The Crows in the tree next door have fledged four screaming Crow-letts. They jump around on the neighbor’s roof. I whistle at them and they peek over the ridge at me, curious but cautious.
• You can call in Chickadee fledglings exactly twice. Then they learn you don’t look like an other Chickadee and ignore you.
• The perennial flock of English Sparrows—made up of mom, dad, two rounds of kids, aunts, uncles, and cousins—also play on the neighbor’s roof. The kids are very competitive no matter the prize. They’ll chase each other for possession of a leaf. Most of the day this little tribe pop in and out of my house gutters. Tromping up and down. They’re trying to give me a clue: I have yet to clean those gutters out.

Non-nature observations comparing 2009 and 2010:
• Over the winter, two of the dogs along my old tromping ground died; however, I gained three others.
• Several homes have or are being remodeled. Seems like a lot of over-building for the location. A very popular thing to add to a property is a detached two-car garage. Oh, how I’d love to have a large heated space to putz around in! One guy put in a 3 bay garage and an illegal apartment above. We’ll see if the city makes that come down. All the houses I regularly pass while running: 21 are STILL for sale; two have sold, both flips. Several home owners have put their homes up for sale, gave up, then tried again, and gave up again. Nine houses are empty now; seven are bank repos.
• City gardens and boulevards have turned into un-mown weeds or dirt, the trees of “Tree City, USA” are dying due to lack of water. No flowers; the city didn’t even provide plants for volunteers to plant—and there’s no water anyway. Several city parks have closed services including swimming pools, drinking fountains, and restrooms. The two popular city fountains were closed until donations helped keep them running. And although, PETA offered to install and empty trash cans in the parks, our dumb-ass city council nixed it; so there’s trash everywhere. Oops, I was going to steer clear of the political and tax issue nonsense. Besides, I touched on this a few blogs ago. Yes, I am going to pat myself on the back and say, twice I’ve donned gloves and a garbage bag and picked up trash along the jogging path.

July 25, 2010
1. Mountain Chickadee
2. Black-capped Chickadee
3. Red-breasted Nuthatch
4. White-breasted Nuthatch
5. Rufous-sided Towhee
6. Western Kingbird
7. Canyon Wren
8. Rock Wren
9. Brown Creeper
10. Lesser Goldfinch
11. American Goldfinch
12. Northern Oriole (Bullock’s)
13. Western Tanager
14. Scarlet Tanager (blown in on a storm)
15. Lazuli Bunting
16. Indigo Bunting
17. Dark-eyed Junco
18. Western Kingbird
19. Barn Swallow
20. Catbird
21. Redstart
22. Yellow Warbler
23. Yellow-rumped Warbler
24. Wilson’s Warbler
25. Black & White Warbler
26. Common Flicker (Red-shafted)
27. Hairy Woodpecker
28. Yellow-bellied Sapsucker
29. Blue Jay
30. Scrub Jay
31. Steller’s Jay
32. Morning Dove
33. Song Sparrow
34. Bell’s Vireo
35. House Finch
36. Black-headed Grosbeak
37. Evening Grosbeak
38. American Robin
39. Common Crow
40. Common Raven
41. Black-billed Magpie
42. Broad-tailed Hummingbird
43. Calliope Hummingbird
44. Rufous Hummingbird
45. Common Grackle
46. Brewer’s Blackbird
47. Canada Goose
48. American Widgeon
49. Mallard
50. Great Blue Heron
51. Cooper’s Hawk
52. Red-tailed Hawk
53. Sharp-shinned Hawk
54. American Kestrel

Some comic relief before I get into the next post that’s currently in the works.

Consider:
In order for Mom to get around with the walker, I had to remove her bedroom door and, right across the hall, a bathroom door. Mom now has an unimpeded view right across to the only bath in the house with a shower. The same one I have to use.

You know something? Old people have a philosophy of wanting everything they could ever need, want, or desire within reach. They don’t seem to understand that at a certain point everything that is supposed to be within reach is crowded out by all the other things that are also supposed to be within reach. As a result there is NO where to hang a robe; NO where to put a pair of TWs; NO where to put my towels. We are talking every surface taken up with something.

In the past, I’ve taken the risk to pad buck naked down the hallway, slip into the bath, and get out before she wakes up. But, she’s caught me a few times. I’m starting to shrug it off because the light is low, there’s a bit of distance, and she has cataracts, she’s not going to see much.

However,

I did laundry the other day.

This was my load of sheets, whites, and two very heavy, cotton t-shirts I’d acquired in an advertising trade. The washer had just started its first spin when it lost balance and started jumping around. My t-shirts had crowded to one side of the tub and this model of washer does not have an auto-off.

Mom was sitting not 7 feet away, deaf to all the noise, and, with her walker, she would not have been able to get over there to hit the stop dial. I was still in the shower, heard the banging about, and flew out to hit that dial. I stood there, swearing and trying to pry those soaked, soapy t-shirts out to rebalance the machine. Only then did Mom look up and pipe out,

“NAKED AS A JAY BIRD!”

Yep, there I was, in front of an 84 year old woman — soak ’n wet, dripping in shampoo and bath soap — And waaay out in the open!

Sure, you could make the argument that I don’t have anything she hasn’t seen before. But GEEZ! I happen to be very conservative on how much skin I expose—and to whom!

I turned a couple shades of red and did a hasty duck and run.

After dressing and settling at the breakfast table. Mom looked up at me and had one thing to say,

“You don’t have a hairy chest like your father did.”

Aw, Shit!

Am I a willing participant?
I fear confrontation with that question.

Do I do the right thing and again shut the fuck up. My entire life has been this holding pattern; all my puny life, I’ve ALWAYS been the one whom everyone believes can stop and answer a call for help.
OR
Do I spill my guts on my own fears of permanently loosing the life I was attempting to build beyond my ASD.

If I’m brutally honest, how many lashings of the whip will I give myself; how many of YOU will cleave the meat from my bones? What will it take for me not to feel constant guilt in this conundrum? Will there come a time I won’t care?

Here, I can’t say it; I can’t even be honest with myself, in my own words. I typed it and deleted it.
The cogitation is too broad, too harsh.

I’ll put you to work filling-in the blanks. I have but one word to give you a start: prisoner.

When will I come first? When is it my turn to cull my own space?
When is it my turn to be happy and not emotionally emaciated?

All is lost.

I have to stop. Meltdown mode. May write more, later.