One Whipped Mother

5:00 a.m., April 28,2008

For my mother, Suzanne Marie.

The suffering has ended.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 7:14 PM 14 comments

It's Bad

My mother has been going downhill -- rapidly -- since she began receiving "comfort" care a little under a month ago.

It has been unbelievably hard for me to see her this way. Most days, I do not want to visit her. The cancer is obviously in her brain now. Sometimes, she speaks like a six-year-old. Sometimes she calls out for her mommy.

And there are other things too awful to mention.

We finally found a good hospice house that will take her in, and I'm supposed to meet with them next Tuesday, but I feel in my bones she won't be leaving the hospital.

You know, I've witnessed loved ones go through the dying process before, but I've never, ever seen the agony my mother is going through.

I thought that was the stuff of fiction.

I swear to god, never saw anything like it...

posted by Ms. Lori @ 3:13 AM 11 comments

Chemtrails Are Pretty!

These pictures were taken in my backyard at approximately 10:30 a.m. Thursday morning.

These criss-crosses, which were observed by me, my kids, and my brother, were also seen in the skies while driving to see my mom in the hospital around 11:00 a.m. The otherwise clear, blue skies were covered in these patterns.

When we returned, those trails were still visible, though dispersed and "fattened," at approximately 12:30 p.m.

Although I've noticed this phenomenon for a couple of years now, it has been occurring more frequently in the last year or so.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 1:54 AM 1 comments

I Now Know Who My Favorite Candidate Is

Eh, I've been posting little content and many videos lately, but due to my visiting Mom at the hospital almost every day -- lengthy visits at that -- I haven't the time to think and write clearly enough for neither intelligent commentary nor pithy anecdotal shlimjollipers, yet I still feel the need to communicate what lurks within my addled brain...

Mom'll soon be moved to a lovely "comfort home," which will be most excellent. Where they have her now (palliative care unit) is so craptastic, it defies explanation. No private bathroom (there's a darling little potty that pulls out from the wall, though -- how grand), and no real walls to separate patients (particle board partitions). I mean, really, you can hear the old guy next door when he farts, for god's sake.

Used to be a neonatal intensive care unit, see, but they jerry-rigged it into some semblance of a hospice facility. This will not do.

We're just waiting for an opening at the comfort house right now.

Anyway, I enjoyed the below video immensely.



Go Hill!

I'll bet my last Blue Light that Hill could drink that skinny ol' Barack under the table any day.

Strong constitution equals strong leadership. Well, in my book, at least...

FYI: Her favorite beer is Blue Moon with orange slices.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:25 AM 6 comments

My Girlhood Crushes

I totally wanted to marry Peter Frampton, Jackson Browne, Spock, and...


(Apologies for the Nipple Dude...Yes, he's sickening, but what can you do? It was the seventies, after all...)

Watching their performance with Fergie on Idol Gives Back, however, just made me really, really mad. I hate Fergie with such a passion, I have visions of maiming her with a jar of mayonnaise.

So, what? They had to put froggy-face in there to jump and flounder about in her tight leather for the low-brained twats out there in American TV Land that must have some not-fat eye-candy? Is that what the deal is?

I no longer watch American Idol. I'd been growing bored of that flumpy flappydoodle of a show for a while now, but this last shulpcramp is the straw that broke this camel's back.

***sigh***

Think I'll watch the above Heart video once again, and dream of when they were mine...

posted by Ms. Lori @ 9:18 PM 3 comments

Don't Bother With This...

If you don't have an intelligence quotient above that of a chimpanzee's.

Been concerned about certain...Things. Been worried, a tad afraid...Been that way for some years now.

I've avoided posting about my concerns, because I don't want to be seen as some "conspiracy nut," but my concerns are being validated more and more each day.

Unfortunately.

Your world is not what you think it is.

Investigate, learn, think, open your eyes...



I plan on posting more about my concerns in the future, with verifiable references, other videos, and my completely awesome and always creepy-good insight.

The world, she is a-changin'. What a shame that most of us will not see it until it's too late.

ADDENDUM: That last sentence is a bit dramatic, isn't it? Sorry. I don't believe the world is ending soon or anything like that, nor do I see it as suddenly spiraling out of control and causing its occupants to suffer mondo vertigo. I don't think we're in the "end times," as my personal beliefs side with the "bullshit and poppycock" folks, but...Something's in the air -- literally and figuratively. Major shifts involving socioeconomic/political/religious climes will occur during our lifetimes, as to the point where they are unavoidably noticeable (changes have been underway for a very, very long time, but many of us just haven't paid attention), and possibly, to some of us, detrimental to our overall well-being.

The best way to tolerate extreme change is to prepare for it. Knowledge lends preparedness and, preparedness lends peace of mind.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 1:19 PM 10 comments

The Woman Who Fell to Earth

I have, in the recent past, written about my Asperger's syndrome here, but have since deleted much of it. I've an unfortunate compulsion to delete things I write, be it on here, message boards, or on others' blogs. I can't help myself. It takes me a ridiculous amount of time just to write a simple three sentence paragraph, wherein I will edit and edit (and edit), read and reread (and reread), then fret over whether to post it or not. If I do post whatever it is I fretted over, I will usually hate every single carefully selected word. That is why I will never, ever enter the nightmare realm of chat rooms or use instant message. Heavens to Betsy, the horror.

The reasons behind my decision to delete certain entries may not make much sense to you. May, in fact, have pissed off a few people. There were quite a few kind readers -- some with AS -- who'd written to me privately commending my "outing," my public revelations that basically consisted of "HEY, I'M WEIRD, AND THAT'S OKAY!"

There were folks who believed I would take them along with me on my daily struggles, present my reality in unflinching detail, be a voice of some sort, an advocate. The sad truth of the matter is that I cannot. I lack the cojones, am reluctant to partake in a continuous diatribe revolving around things I barely understand myself, let alone trying to make others understand.

Thing is, there’ve been some serious issues poking their pointy little heads into my life lately, and…Oh, I don’t know…

I’m tired.

I want this post to be an explanation, an apology, maybe, to those who feel they deserve one.

I've lived my whole life attempting to understand the world around me -- filmy nuances skim the top of my head, the boldfaced obvious confounds me…But you can bet I’ll see something you don‘t, notice little things, tiny details that fly past your radar.

I have trouble distinguishing between this emotion and that, I fail to recognize what others, with the exception of my children (I take pride in my “sixth sense“ regarding my kids), are feeling, and why. I verbalize, in a most inefficient manner, only a fraction of what is really swirling in my head, my heart. I do not know how to articulate pictures of thoughts, colors of emotion, the mélange of sights, sounds, smells that assault me daily.

I am dumbfounded as to the whys and hows of me, am in awe of you, envious of your effortless ability to socialize, be a part of community, drive a car, dance the two-step, beat around bushes, smile wide, stand at a podium, shake hands with a stranger, comfortably look into an acquaintance's eyes, participate in clubs, be gainfully employed, see the big picture, fit in, be accepted...

And how does one emote empathy in a way that does not come across as insincere? How do other people do it? Why is it that others find it easy to convey sympathy, just open their mouths and let it spill -- convincingly -- yet my attempts are inadequate displays of perceived indifference? How is it that you easily fall into warm, cozy friendships, and mesh with your fellow man, whereas I, despite wanting that connection, that strange, mysterious oneness, can only imagine.

How do I get past this glass wall that separates us?

Why do I cry while watching the news, toss and turn at night while replaying, in detail, tragic scenarios over and over again, feel to my core the anguish of victims and their loved ones, yet remain stoic throughout the tragedies, illnesses and subsequent deaths of my loved ones?

I did not cry during my father's funeral, even. And I was only seventeen.

Oh, but I do feel pain. I experience empathy just as much, if not more than the average person. In my case, however, it reveals itself to the outside world only as a whisper, a blank-eyed expression, an exaggerated frown, an awkward hug, an inappropriate giggle, nervous babbling, nothing at all, the opposite of what I mean to say.

It appears as if I don't care, but nothing could be further from the truth.

This disability of mine has, many times, hampered my own cause. Because I was not able to advocate for myself, justice escaped me. Terrible deeds done to me went unpunished, issues unresolved. Situations and events have been successfully twisted against my favor, made me appear the liar. Despite glaring wrongs perpetrated by some in my life, my lack of verbal skills and emotional connectivity made me appear nonchalant, robotic, goofy, not genuine.

I am, unfortunately, not alone in that respect, as I’ve discovered during the past few years of researching A.S., communicating with other people whose lives parallel mine. Folks like me are far more likely to fall through the cracks of not only the educational system, but the criminal justice system, be ignored, misunderstood, falsely accused, or flat-out not believed.

All because we cannot grasp your “language,” behave as society thinks we should. Meet your eyes to prove our sincerity, smile at the appropriate time, delicately frown when it’s proper, cry, be animated, act the victim the way a victim is supposed to act, demonstrate our innocence the way an innocent would, or our needs the way only the truly needy would. Words escape us.

Would you believe that I once failed a lie detector test, one that was required for a job I’d applied to years ago, despite my telling the whole truth and nothing but? Well, it is true, and I lost out on the job because of it. Even my physiology betrays my true inner self.

My emotional responses are like puzzles missing their last piece -- the picture is recognizable, but without the remaining piece, it is not truly finished. Oftentimes, I know what I should be feeling, yet I can't produce the correct physical reaction. The sensation is almost there, teasingly, like a word on the tip of my tongue.

I was shocked and overwhelmed by my intense physical reaction to my best friend Nic’s death this past October -- I wept throughout the entire funeral, could barely get through the short eulogy I read aloud. However, during the whole two years of her illness, no matter how sad I felt, I never outwardly cried for her, never once held her hand or put my head on her shoulder and cried along with her. The one close exception was during one of my last visits with her, when she’d said to me something like, “Lor, it’s weird, you know? The closer I get to death, the less frightened I become,” and my eyes welled up a bit. Then I lightly punched her arm and told her to shut up.

Punched her arm.

Told her to shut up.

As if the woman had just asked me to pull her finger.

Christ all freaking mighty.

But Nic was one of precious few who really knew me, accepted me, and didn’t hold my toolish actions against me. She loved me for who I am, illogical behaviors and all.

I am devastated beyond words that there’s hardly anyone left in my world now who does. I wish that weren’t so. I wish more than anything that I could make everyone see me as I am inside…But how? How can I explain what I experience when the phone rings, the doorbell chimes, or when opening a party invitation? How do I get across the physical pain of attending school conferences, weddings, neighborhood functions? The dread that travels from the top of my head to the tip of my toes as I prepare for company? The exhaustion I feel post-socializing, the intense need for solitude?

Sure, everyone needs alone-time, but how many of us have meltdown when we don’t receive it? Like, shaking, weeping meltdowns, or mind-going-blank meltdowns, the kind where even the simplest task is impossible to accomplish due to the brain turning off, like an overloaded circuit-breaker?

How would I competently express the sick, violent confusion brought about by florescent lighting, direct sun, or the thunderbolt-like jolt of a passing motorcycle, the searing hell of the unexpected? The trance-like numbness induced by busy streets and unfamiliar surroundings, or the otherworldly dreaminess and crushing anxiety bought about by too many people talking at once, too many noises, interviewing for a job?

Numbers make me swoon, and not in a good way.

How can I make others see what I see when I watch tree branches shift in the wind, sunlight bouncing from crystal vases, a pond rippling, a robin hunting, your hair moving against the collar of your shirt? Why do I fixate on such minor occurrences, find them beautiful and important? How would I express the comforting appeal of symmetry, triangular objects, the soothing rush of rightness I get when everything is positioned just so, the sense of chaos if the chair is moved a quarter inch off, or the apples are not stacked correctly in the fruit bowl -- without sounding insane?

What words can I use that would make you see how hard I try each and every day? How well I present some semblance of “normalcy,” even on “confusing” days, keep an immaculate home, be a good wife, an even better mom, a loyal friend, though distant. How I try my best, how happy I am, how much I love my life, yet would love it even more if I didn’t have to deal with the embarrassment of others’ stage whispers, their judgments, their disappointments and misunderstandings that inevitably cause me anger and self-doubt…?

How do I finally, once and for all, present myself in a way that will make you slap your forehead and say, “Oh! Now I get it!”

I can’t. Impossible. Would be equivalent to pulling an alpaca from my ass, throwing a saddle on it (also pulled from my ass), and climbing the Andes. With a giant sculpture of the Pieta strapped to my back.

FACT: I can easily handle, with confidence, multiple, rapid-succession punches to the gut delivered by life (as late 2007 to the present has proven), and take one day at a time, go about my business as usual, proceed, proceed, proceed. Yet I will crumble into a million pieces of candy-ass if my cake turns out lopsided at precisely the same moment the doorbell rings and the cat pukes on the rug. Oh, hell yeah.

FACT: It has taken me almost thirty years to somewhat overcome certain outward physical oddities, such as forcing eye contact, walking without bouncing/bending my knees, making small talk, smiling and reacting warmly toward acquaintances and strangers, using appropriate body language, and zipping my lip when I sense I may be over-reacting, unzipping if under-reacting.

FACT: I only feel truly at ease and “safe” while alone or in the presence of my husband and children, or two of my brothers. That’s it. No exceptions. Ever.

I don’t care if I’ve known you twenty years, if you’re my aunt, my grandmother’s podiatrist, my second cousin from Salt Lake City, my internist, or my doppelganger -- if you are not my children, husband or brothers, I will be in a constant state of fight or flight, will avoid your eyes as much as possible without being too obvious, and will often behave in one of two ways (depending on whether I've indulged in my darling, sweet friend, beer, who can be quite helpful at times):

1) If I know you well, I may talk too loudly, laugh too loudly, jump from topic to topic, or become very excited about one specific topic and enthusiastically state my opinions or theories on said topic (while talking too loudly, and laughing too loudly -- usually at my own quips). If you do not share my enthusiasm on any given topic, you will bore me, and I will knock back a frosty beer or look into the distance.

I may move around quite a bit, sometimes to the point of rudeness, e.g., getting up from my chair in the middle of our conversation to straighten a crooked picture, wipe up some crumbs, wash a dish, go outside for a smoke, or just to gaze at the sky. I may even appear as if I’m not listening to you speak as I openly appreciate my cat’s face, but I am. Sort of.

Speaking of my cat, I may alarm you by suddenly blurting out nonsense words or singsong rhymes in an odd voice at her. She loves it, but you probably won’t.

2) Sometimes I might feel relaxed, and will just lean back and listen to you talk, will not interject much, and may not do “conversational body language,” as in nodding my head or putting on whatever face most of you deem a natural part of social intercourse. Doesn’t mean I’m not listening or not interested, and doesn’t mean there’s something bothering me.

FACT: I was born without the inclination to smile or use a lot of facial expression, and unless I really feel the need to smile, laugh, or otherwise pull a face, I simply won’t. When I was a child, my mother took offense to my non-smiling face, would constantly harangue me about it, and even doled out physical punishment on days she felt extra insulted by my blank expression. I now believe she was trying to help me, make me approachable, able to make friends, be normal, but it only made me less smiley.

You can probably imagine how wildly popular I was in high school, what with my perky down-turned mouth and all…

If I had a dime for every time someone’s said to me “What’s wrong, Lori?” or “Smile! Things can’t be that bad!” I would presently own an island in the South Pacific that is inhabited by magical elves.

Smiling, according to some anthropologists, is what human beings do to show other human beings that they are not carrying weapons between their teeth. Well then, I must appear very dangerous indeed.

Strangely enough, I've been known to positively beam at someone I'm attracted to, and will stare intently at him. Unfortunately for Shawn Alves, a gorgeous hunk of ninth grader who lived across the street from me when I was a kid, or Jim Jelfo, a beautiful Asian boy in my eighth grade class, my propensity for beaming and staring was, undoubtedly, a creepy thing to behold.

FACT: It’s exhausting to constantly put on an act for the sake of making others, mostly those I don’t know well, feel at ease, so if I’m not particularly animated at any given time, take it as a compliment -- I’m somewhat relaxed and not feeling too stressed-out by your company. If I genuinely laugh at something you say, consider yourself a deity.

Which brings me to jokes. I don’t get them, never have. Jokes are not funny. Whoever invented the knock-knock or the “a blonde goes into a bar” joke should be slapped repeatedly about the head with a large mackerel. Now that’s funny!

So, if I seem to be fake-laughing at your joke, I am. It’d be a miracle in and of itself if I even give you that fake laugh at the appropriate time -- I’m always the last to get the joke, and will often take cues from others as to when it’s finished. God help the joke-teller if I am his sole audience.

FACT: If I don’t know you well, I will stare at your nose, the space between your eyebrows, your mouth, anyplace but your eyes. When I do meet your eyes, it will be a brief, unfocused tickle that will not linger. Prolonged eye contact (more than a few seconds), for me, feels as if someone is about to poke me in the eyeballs with a rusty fork shellacked in petrified pork byproducts. ***shudder***

FACT: I have trouble recognizing faces. If you are my neighbor, or you’re my Great Uncle Norton, rarely seen outside of family reunions and funerals, or you’re my kid’s teacher, I will walk past you in the grocery store, even if you‘re staring expectantly at me with a big ol‘ “hello“ grin on that indistinguishable face of yours. I’m not meaning to be an asshole, it’s just that I really do not know who you are. I sometimes have difficulty following movies if the actors resemble one another too much.

One reason (of many) that I like being married is that my husband intercepts many awkward moments, and has saved me from potential social embarrassment by introducing himself to folks I should know, but don’t (family members or acquaintances of mine that he‘s not met before), and whispering in my ear who a certain somebody is before they approach.

FACT: I occasionally take things literally. This was more of a problem in my younger days, though. Example: one time, when I was around ten or so, my mother, a talented artist, showed me a charcoal sketch she’d done the night before, one she'd told me was titled “The Boxer.” Granted, I was still sleepy, being that it was seven in the morning, and I was rushing to get ready for school, but I totally looked at the sketch, and totally did not see a boxer. Totally. I saw two men with their dukes up, but no boxer. I told my mother, somewhat fearfully, that I saw no boxer, and despite repeated jabbings of her finger at the sketch (there -- right there, Lori!), I still did not see a boxer. Totally.

I was looking for a boxer -- the dog breed kind of boxer, like our dogs Cindy and Baron, not the pugilistic kind. Mom thought I was being disrespectful, and mayhem ensued. Totally.

For those of you who dread aging, I pity you. Age has been kind to me, as the passing years have allowed wonderful growth and clarity -- my literal interpretations now occur much less frequently, and whenever I do go into “space cadet” mode, I quickly catch on to my mistake instead of staring all doe-eyed and clueless at the bemused person before me. Well, not always. Admittedly, the one bad thing about aging is loss of cuteness, and my husband, I fear, is so over my no longer adorable space-cadetness.

FACT: If I do not know you well (and even if I do), small talk will make my throat close up as if I’m being poisoned. I must force myself to chit-chat, and most certainly will make a dick of myself. I will either be awkward and stilting, saying very little, or I will say whatever comes across my mind, whether it makes a ton of sense or not, and may reveal personal things about myself that shouldn't be revealed, or unwittingly say something that is not appropriate. Example: A few years ago, a neighbor came over for a short visit while her child played in my kids’ pool. The woman brought up the topic of thank you notes, and how she felt badly about not sending hers out sooner (for her kid’s birthday presents, or something). Now, I’m of the mind that thank you notes are silly if one has already thanked the gift-giver in person. What’s the damn point, already? If I thanked you with my own two lips, then that should be sufficient. And that’s exactly what I said to this neighbor in response to her worrying. I was like, “Pffft. Stupid thank you notes. I never send them. Waste of postage. People just throw them out the minute they open them. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to frame them or anything…”

The neighbor’s mouth became very tight and small, and then she hastily gathered her kid and left.

As is usual, she has not become a close friend.

FACT:Phones scare me, and I‘m terrible at keeping in touch. If I do not call you, please don’t be insulted. I don’t even call my own grandmother until it finally hits me that it’s been way too long between calls, and should show her I care. If I don’t accept your invitation to dinner, or to your Tupperware party, it’s nothing against you…Well, maybe. But probably not. 95% of the time, it’s me, not you. Some days I just can’t deal with socialization, especially if I haven’t had the chance to plan for such activity.

Spur of the moment invites or drop-ins, for me, represent evilness in its purest form.

FACT: I repeat dialogue or jingles from commercials, ad nauseam. And when I say “ad nauseam,“ I ain’t whistling Dixie. Don’t believe me? Ask my kids or Lar about “Head On, apply directly to the forehead!” and “A dollop! Of Daisy!”

Occasionally, I will incorporate a product name into everyday exclamations, such as “Oh, Mylanta!“ (Instead of “Oh, my God!”)

I also yell out words or phrases that I find interesting. Could be “Arapahoe,” might be “Bisquick!” or even “cockwhore motherfucking canker sore muckraking fuckhead.”

It relaxes me.

Too, I yell to myself about, oh, anything that’s stuck in my craw at any given time. All my frustrations, anger and hurt is released via words, to myself, or to inanimate objects, which can be unpleasant for those within earshot. Sometimes the listener may misconstrue those solo rants as talking about them or to them, but that is not the case. I am talking or yelling to ME, usually about me or circumstances that have little or nothing to do with the listener. I am my own therapist, you see. Since I rarely discuss my problems or emotions with anyone (seriously, who on gawd’s green earth would understand, anyway?), I release pent-up confusion, angst, and sadness to the air, to MYSELF, and baby, it’s all good. Better me than you, yeah?

FACT: You might like me now, but you won’t later. I guarantee.

Rest assured, I will eventually say, do, write something that makes you feel uneasy, angers you,, or throws your brain in a tizzy. For that, I am sorry. There are times (too many) when I scratch my head and wonder what the heck I said or did to cause a potential friendship, real-time or Internet, to fizzle, and though I might get an inkling, it never fully materializes into the big A-ha! Moment. If you don’t tell me directly what the problem is, then I have absolutely no idea how to remedy it. Thus, you will cease liking me, and I will not understand the reasoning behind your sudden dislike.

FACT: I am the quintessential airhead. Only, not really.

FACT: When I was a child, inanimate objects had personalities, were beings worthy of disdain, respect, love. Junky cars elicited pity from me (I remember my glasses fogging up with hot tears if I spotted a beat-up vehicle on the road, especially if the headlights were broken -- broken-eyed, like me), stuffed animals had to be cared for, spoken to, set just so on my pillow, made comfortable -- accidentally dropping them would be cause for apology. Dolls were pretty to look at, wonderful to arrange all in rows on my dresser, but their faces did not inspire pretend play. I oftentimes acted out scenes in my life with them, drew on them with Magic Marker, cut their hair, but never played Mommy with them. The washing machine was a frightening beast to be avoided at all costs. Bumping into the refrigerator would be followed by “Oh, pardon me.”

I needed sparkly things around me at all times, colored glass, costume jewelry, crystal, Christmas tree ornaments -- anything that reflects light, anything with prisms. And ceramic owls or cats.

Between you and me, I still feel the same way, but not as intensely. Certain objects affect me more than others, and I still say the occasional "Oh, pardon me" if I bump into an appliance. Also, my inadequate, overpriced, piece of shit vacuum cleaner and I have an interesting relationship, as some of you already know. That dirty whore.

FACT: Although I enjoy wordplay, inventive word choices, made-up words and such, I love and respect the English language, and act the Grammar Bitch if I spot incorrect grammar or syntax. I will point out errors to whomever -- doesn’t matter if it’s a well known author, a teacher, or acquaintance. I am compelled to correct, and see no reason why this should be insulting to anyone. If I make a mistake, I want to know about it! It’s the only way to learn.

FACT: But criticism, if not constructive, to-the-point, and reasonable, doesn’t set well with me. Oh, lordy, I still haven’t gotten over one or two not-so-nice reviews I received for a couple of my published pieces…I wished death upon the swillmongers, and still do.

Just kidding.

Not.

FACT: Speaking of writing, my odd “Theory of Mind” is painfully apparent when I write in third person. In other words, I suck when it comes to imagination. That is, imagining what others are imagining, whether they are paper people or flesh. First person narrative is comfortable because I am able to become the protagonist, put faces of those I know in life to secondary characters, like I’m acting in a play; third person requires the author to put herself in another’s shoes, anticipate motives, both of which stump me, and in turn, stagnates the story. I have written some third person stories that I am proud of, but man, it didn’t come easy.

I am not currently writing for publication, nor for myself. Outside of some poetry and this blog, I haven’t written a durned thing, and have no immediate plans to do so.

I have my reasons, and though not thrilled with my current unproductiveness, the screwed-up opportunities, and sense of “loss-of-self,” I am hopeful that I will resume when the time is right. So stop with the questions, or the “just sit on your ass and type” crap, okay? Thanks!

FACT: I taste words. This is a real phenomenon, and it is called lexical-gustatory synesthesia. I like playing the “Taste Game” with those close to me, wherein they will throw a word or name at me, and I will tell them what it tastes like. The word/taste correlations remain the same throughout my life -- for example, “day” tasted like a Russell Stovers vanilla crème when I was five, and it still does. “So” tasted like buttered toast when I was four, and still does. And so on. (“On” has a distinctly dry, nutty taste, walnuty with a hint of maple.)

FACT: I swear. I like the F-bomb, which tastes like overcooked brisket. I like to make up my own horrendous epithets and curses, and I like to say them loud, especially when mad (I get over it quickly, though), or when I accidentally hurt myself (which is often -- guaranteed stubbed toes, smashed forehead, knocked elbows, at least twenty times a week), or, just for the hell of it.

I swear, and I like it. So get over it, you prissy, goody-two-shoed, pious, labia-faced hominids.

FACT: I am a nice person -- truly, for real, no fakery involved here. I try to be respectful of everyone, and am extremely polite, but if I don’t like you, you’ll probably know it. I am interested in the world around me, which includes you, despite my outwardly aloof appearance, and I am deeply concerned about the state of the world, politics, the environment, and injustice. Violence toward women and children makes me go ballistic.

I have no ulterior motives, cannot grasp the reasoning behind them, do not do the whole catty, backhanded compliments thing, and am honest. To a fault. But, as I wrote earlier, I might say, write or do something that offends you. More often than not, this is unintentional on my part.

I never cease to be amazed by the need in others to sneakily obtain information from, or otherwise trick another, and probably will, to my dying day, continue to be shocked by such behavior. If you behave in this manner toward me, it might take me a while to get it, but once it hits me that you did not mean your words, or were being shifty, callous, cruel, I will be very hurt. No matter how old I become, I will forever believe that what’s in my mind is in your mind, despite my understanding that that is not always the case. I tend to believe people, and take them at their word, because that is how I am. When I’ve misjudged someone, it is upsetting to me. Very.

FACT: If you and I were close once -- even if that friendship existed thirty years ago, and we haven’t had contact since -- I have not forgotten you, nor will I ever. I see you as forever ten, forever twenty, or whatever age it was that I last saw you, and still feel affection for you, still miss you. I can recall, verbatim, snippets of conversations we had, the color of the shirt you were wearing when we had this or that conversation (not all, but some), and I can’t believe that you don’t feel the same. To me, it’s as if only a year or two has passed instead of decades. But I realize, intellectually, that your indifference or inability to recollect is what is considered “normal.” My tracking down your mother in an attempt to find your current phone number, after three decades of not knowing one another, is not.

Ironically, the couple of times I have made contact with long lost friends, I haven’t kept up with the relationship. The yearly talk on the phone or biannual dinner is sufficient for me. I’m just glad that they’re “in” my life again, am comforted by that knowledge, if that makes any sense.

FACT: I am highly disturbed by injustice of any kind, be it judicial, political, or personal. If you complain to me about someone doing you wrong, I will feel anger enough for the both of us. If I know the person you're complaining about, and don't particularly like the bitch myself, I can be vicious with my words. I will point out physical imperfections, character flaws, anything to show you my disgust with the offender, my loyalty toward you. So, if you don't want Ms. Lori to refer to your back-stabbing, knob-gobbling pig of an erstwhile friend as a "cellulite-ridden mass of stupid," if you don't want to hear the truth about what a goat-humping, lying, cheating, shitty friend she is, then please, keep your complaints to yourself.

FACT: I am human, only different.

FACT: I have to take a shower right now, and the phone is ringing. I am running behind schedule due to writing this blog post, and must hurriedly finish certain tasks before my boy’s bus gets here, because if I don’t do those certain tasks, giant dirt-dwelling eels will rise up from the earth and destroy mankind.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best go answer my phone call, which will likely be an unsettling experience for whomever is on the other end, as I will most assuredly be brusque, and will hang up as soon as is possible, hopefully without doing psychological harm to the poor soul. And then I will shower, make the boy’s snack, kick my whore of a vacuum cleaner and scream obscenities at her, Windex stuff, straighten crooked things, drink one glass of water with precisely two ice cubes…

FACT: It took me two days to compose this entry, so the above fact actually happened yesterday.

FACT: I wrote much of this post around five months ago, had published it, deleted it, let it sit on my hard drive, reedited it, and now, republished it Apparently.

Tomorrow, it may yet again vanish into the ether.

And so it goes.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 4:02 PM 13 comments