Happy New Year (May the Road Rise Up to Meet You)

It's New Year's Eve and when I got up this morning, I decided to start the new year off right by collecting my trash can from the curb. (It had been there for four nights because every time I remembered it, I was too exhausted to make the trek down the driveway.) It's unseasonably warm at the moment--actually it was quite balmy as I made my way down the drive with my hair a fright and in my green fuzzy robe, looking very much like Maxine sans the bunny slippers. From the evidence at hand, it was apparent that it rained in the night. I know this because the asphalt was two-toned, and my municipality-approved garbage can had about an inch of rainwater in it. Thank goodness for the unseasonable warmth otherwise I might have awoke to a foot of snow.

Be Ye Gracious

Tomorrow, Christmas day, marks the 30th anniversary of when my family and I got the opportunity to experience something that most people I've known get to experience nearly every Christmas: Christmas morning with a relative. We lived on the East Coast of the US, and my father's half brother and half sister and their children lived in Kansas, and my mother's family were in Northern Ireland and Scotland. Then, when I was 26, my Aunt Belle, who had no children of her own and whose husband Joe had died more than five years before, travelled from Scotland to spend the Christmas holiday with us.

Except for the predictable bump created by my mother's tussle with Christmas tree lights and her stressing over the holiday meal, the Christmas season at our house was a truly joyous time. My friends liked gathering there for that reason. My parents were more often than not gracious toward my friends, treating them as real people, deserving of the sort of attention many of my friends parents only reserved for other adults. They also seemed to understand the balance between engagement and leaving us to ourselves where so many parents made me and my other friends feel like we were underfoot, or as tweens or teens, not worthy of consideration.

Actually, my parents delighted in other people who entered our home. (You see, my Dad worked nights most of my life, and so for many years, my parents did not have much of a social life together outside of our home. And so having anyone in was treated as an occasion to be celebratory.) And my parents were often paid back in kind for their delight in others. For many years, after I'd left home and my home state, Diane Clarke, a high school chum of mine, delivered a Christmas carrot cake to my father. Making someone feel wanted and appreciated is apparently a secret recipe for causing some (those of us who know what it means to be grateful) to start a tradition that takes on a life of its own.

Having my Aunt Belle with us for the Christmas of '81 made for additional joy.

M.I.C.K.E.Y. M.O.U.S.E.

Holiday shopping brings back memories, though this particular memory springs from a summer time shopping trip to Marlowe Heights, Hecht's specifically. (Rest assured this story makes its way back around to this holiday season.) As far as I was concerned, as a kid, Hecht's was better than the Sears Roebuck Dream Book. Three stories high, Hecht's had several gift shops, a card section, clothing for various budgets and tastes on multiple levels, kids coats, adult coats, a baby section, a jewelry section, a toy shop, furniture, and even a small lunch counter. Hecht's was our local Macy's.

My mother didn't drive when I was a kid, raised as she was in Belfast, Northern Ireland where transportation was a a step away onto a bus or tram. And when my father, a sailor, was sent off to sea on the U.S.S. Independence to document a long mission, Joyce Donaldson--a neighbor and a good friend of my mother's--gave mom driving lessons. Money was tight and mom needed a job to help make ends meet--that is to say, put food on the table--, and given where we lived (Suitland, Maryland just outside of D.C.), the lack of public transportation, and the unused family car (a beautiful, turquoise-colored 1961 Plymouth of some sort) sitting outside our apartment building, Joyce was a godsend. Heck, Joyce was a godsend in many ways in our lives back then.

The Sleep I'm Not Getting

Sleep disruption is a common symptom for many illnesses. Lately, my sleep patterns had been improving only to cycle back into a pattern that is leaving me tired on top of ME/CFS fatigued. Take last night, I had approximately 2.5 hours of interrupted sleep, and when I finally felt ready to pass out again at 11 am, I settled into this delicious feeling of soon to be sleep and then, I fell awake. I am now dreadfully sleepy and unable to sleep.

I write this so you know why I have not been publishing a weekly essay. My brain is too tired to settle on a topic to write about or a story to tell. Summer stories keep popping into my head and I keep batting them back with the promise of "next summer." If something of value floats to the top--that is, if something manages to survive the haze and I have the energy to write about it--, you'll be the first to know.

Sweet dreams, Claire

Kindness--Its Own Reward

Today, November 13, is World Kindness Day as decreed by the World Kindness Movement, which had it's first conference in 1998. News must travel slowly or I obviously out of the news loop, but I did not hear of World Kindness Day until last week. According to the World Kindness Movement website, "[t]he purpose of World Kindness Day is to look beyond ourselves, beyond the boundaries of our country, beyond our culture, our race, our religion; and realize we are citizens of the world. As world citizens we have a commonality, and must realize that if progress is to be made in human relations and endeavors, if we are to achieve the goal of peaceful coexistence, we must focus on what we have in common...."

However, World Kindness Day is not just about being open to understanding other cultures while being kind. It's also about everyday kindness... making a habit of kindness and ending the warring we do with others in all aspects of our lives. Today's essay on the World Kindness Movement's website poses the question: "Is what I am involved in at this moment promoting joining or separation?"

I have posed a similar question to myself in close relationships for years: "Is my behavior helping bring us closer together or further apart?" And I continually asked this about my behavior because of my commitment to understanding and closeness in relationship. I'd like to think that none of us enters into relationship hoping for its destruction; one of the things I've learned, however, is that people do what they do sometimes despite our efforts for reasons that we can hardly fathom. All we can do is give our best effort and let the chips fall where they may.

As someone with ME/CFS I've also learned that our best effort is affected by our health. Sometimes that's understood and taken into consideration by the people in our lives. Sometimes. And when it is not, sometimes the kindest thing we can do is move on, leaving people to their warring, their projections and delusions or perhaps seemingly brilliant insights into ours.

I'm Dreaming of a White...

Halloween.

This time last week, two days before Halloween, my housemate and I were out in the front yard with a ladder and broom knocking four inches of snow off of my small 30 foot sugar maple, which was still in full fall-colored leaf, before another two inches of the heavy white stuff could land. The whole eastern coast of the US, from the mid-Atlantic north, was covered in wet snow. When I opened the front door last Saturday morning, the maple's branches were trailing the ground and the snow showed no signs of letting up. My gut told me that the tree was big enough to sustain damage, and so I hastily threw a pair of sweats on under my night gown, yanked on my Uggs, tugged on my wool cap, zipped into my heavy winter coat, and slipped on my gloves. Unable to reach the top branches, we crossed our fingers that they were small enough and resilient enough to survive the snowfall yet to come. (Maple pictured right after our excursion, limbs still in partial droop.) It's likely our efforts were rewarded because all around town, maples of a similar size were later seen with one or more limbs helplessly dangling from their trunks.

Men in Tights

"He's someone you could imagine capturing a bear with a butterfly net while having a refrigerator strapped to his back." THAT was a description a good male friend of mine once gave of my ex-husband, which is a vague way of saying that my ex was very powerfully built, and it serves as an introduction to what I'm about to say next. My ex-Y was a catcher in baseball. (That, and both a center and linebacker in football.) He played little league and high school ball. If not for bursitis in his right elbow, something that hit in his last year of high school, I'm certain he had enough talent for the major leagues. That is to say, I never saw another catcher like him except in the majors.

Tabatha's Cat-O'lantern

What does this have to do with Halloween? Well, I'm getting there.

The Only Way Out Is Through

Yesterday on Facebook one of my Facebook friends--a fellow ME/CFS sufferer--announced that she is no longer going to have hope that a cure for what ails us will be found. Tired of dashed hopes she was committing from that day forward to live in the present moment while appreciating every minute that she is able. I concurred with her sentiment. After a lifetime of illness, it is difficult to put faith in hope. For me at least, it is better to be happy in the moment and be open to what life brings.

Homecoming

One night last week, here where I live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, the nighttime temperature dropped quickly, dipping to 37 degrees overnight. Although barely fall, I could feel winter in the air. I happen to love the winter months--that is, when I am not totally homebound as a result of a heavy snow. (I am unable to shovel the snow from my driveway because I am disabled with ME/CFS.)  I know it's a little early to be talking about snow, but I blame the quick change in weather.

I love snow. I miss making snow angels, snow sculptures, and walking at night while watching the snow falling by moon or streetlight. My orientation toward playing in the snow did not change as I aged, although my willingness to spend hours on end in the snow did. As I dragged my trashcan up my steep driveway in the cold, thoughts of snow reminded me of a time when I could spend hours on end sledding with friends. Next thing I knew, I was traveling down memory lane.

T.H.I.N.K.

::NOTE about this week's extra essay:: Today marks the day when some are responding to the call of M.E./CFS Blogger Nation to blog about M.E. Specifically, the theme for today is "What is ME/CFS doing to you, How are you affected day to day, and What are your hopes for the future?" This essay is a response to that call. If you're not in the mood for serious or don't want to hear the answer to the questions posed, please skip this essay.

Many of us in the ME community experience friend and family flight when we become disabled with M.E. Let’s face it: ME is difficult to understand. We struggle to comprehend what is going on with our bodies and to cope with the cognitive losses. Even the people who live with us and see its impact on a daily basis have a difficult time understanding the often-varying nature of the illness. And so perhaps it is unreasonable of us to expect people who do not live with us to take the time to learn about our diagnosis. (Heck, our partners themselves may not care enough to take the time to learn about our illness of possible treatment options.)

It would be nice, however, if people we care about had the common courtesy to ask us how having M.E. affects us before making pronouncements about why we are sick or whether we are truly as sick as we say we are. I’ve asked around and so far only one person with M.E. that I've spoken with has had anyone ask her about the impact of M.E. We’ve been reassured, however, many times over by people who, having learned of our illness, say, “Oh, I get tired too.” (Right, and you recover, but not because you are morally superior and we are morally inferior or psychologically crippled.) We have also received all sorts of unsolicited advice, most of which probably stems from a cursory glance at an article about some piece of crap research on M.E. (Meaning, research with serious flaws in sample selection and/or experimental design.) 

What Am I Practicing?

Sometimes when I am going through a difficult time, I find the need to write down what I know about whatever to stay clear about my intentions. When my ex and I were going through our break up, "What am I practicing?" was written as a guide for my behavior through that difficult time. I posted the guide in my bedroom, on my bathroom mirror, and on my refrigerator. I may have also carried a copy around with me in my purse (um, I'm pretty sure I did).

I can't say I always practiced what I preached to myself. Indeed, there are things that I would undo if I could even if what I did, I did out of my highest truth. Our breakup was traumatic for me because I was very ill with ME/CFS--very much in need of my partner's love and support. Suffice it to say, it became painfully evident over a short period of time that I was wrong in believing that I was as deeply loved by my partner as she was by me. I can say, however, that despite feeling traumatized, I gave my best given, what was for me, head-spinning circumstances.

Lamb-Faced Women

The smell of a coal fire or a diesel engine in the rain along with a nip in the air will transport me to somewhere in Northern Ireland or Scotland where my extended family has lived quicker than just about any other trigger. In fact, I chose to live in the Shenandoah Valley (western Virginia) because its topography reminds me of Scotland. The Shenandoah Valley feels like home to me--that is, to the extent that any place other than Northern Ireland and Scotland can feel like home.

There's No Place Like Home

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the kings horses and all the kings men couldn't put Humpty together again."

Danger Will Robinson

The Christmas after I turned seventeen, my ex-Y began courting me. He showed up at my house unexpectedly with his best friend. While we had become friendly in school and he was a good friend of my closest high school friend Denise, I found his showing up at my house on Christmas day odd, particularly with his best friend in tow. Eventually we started hanging out like the friends we were becoming; mostly because he had this uncanny knack of showing up wherever I was. And I think Denise had something to do with that. Long before we ever held hands, Y and I were already considered an item to others in our social circle.

Months after we started holding hands I was invited to his home for dinner. His was a family that sat down together every evening for a full course meal followed by a homemade dessert. They epitomized normal to me. And I needed normal. My father worked nights most of my life and we sat down to eat as a family one night a week, and I missed that family time the rest of the week. Before long, I became a weekly fixture at my boyfriend's dinner table. Mostly I felt welcome, and that was a good thing because I was drawn to that dining table like bees to honey because my ex-MIL is a fine southern cook.

Though it was 10 years after the last show aired, as far as I was concerned, I'd entered the land of Leave it to Beaver (a warm-hearted television sitcom that ran from 1957 to 1963), where a stable Mom and Pop, the big brother Wally (my boyfriend) and a younger brother, nicknamed The Beaver, lived in almost perfect harmony. The Beave, who was 12, took an instant liking to me. The liking was mutual.

What Women Want

::NOTE:: Aspergian is term used to describe someone who's brain is not wired like a neurotypical (NT) person. Neurotypical is a term used to describe people not on the autism spectrum. Sometimes Aspergians refer to themselves as Aspies and others say they have Asperger's Syndrome (AS). Personally, I don't have Asperger's; Asperger's has me. It is a part of who I am.  

As Aspergian who is also a lesbian, I think I am uniquely qualified to speak to straight men about what women want. Ahem, do I have your attention?

My Narrow Escape

::Blog Notice:: There's a Japanese saying, "Fall down seven times, get up eight." I have fallen down and I've decided to get back up. Given the state of my health, I've come to realize that publishing two essays a week is TOO MUCH for me at this time even though I have plenty of essay ideas. So I am switching to a once a week schedule beginning today. Starting next week, I plan to publish on every Thursday when I am able. 

This essay is about rock climbing and a few vocabulary words might be needed to understand the essay.  (All of the following definitions were lifted off of Wikipedia a few years back. See pictures of rock climbing equipment.)

Top-rope climbing "(or Top-roping) is a style in [rock] climbing in which a rope, used for the climber's safety, runs from a belayer at the foot of a route through one or more carabiners connected to an anchor system at the top of the route and back down to the climber, usually attaching to the climber by means of a harness." 
 


Lead climbing "involves a lead climber attaching themselves to a length of dynamic (stretchy) climbing rope and ascending a route whilst periodically attaching protection to the face of the route and "clipping in" to it. The lead climber must have another person acting as a belayer." 

Free climbing involves climbing without a rope and harness.

Belay/Belayer:  "The belayer has multiple roles: holding the rope in the event of a fall, and paying out or taking up rope as the climber moves." 

Rappeling “is the controlled descent down a rock face using a rope.” 

One summer morning before beginning a climb at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia, my climbing partner (my ex-Y) and I selected a lead climbing route (a mapped out route on the rock face) that we thought was well suited to our skill level. Meaning, it was a climbing route that we would feel comfortable doing without a top rope. (Ropes in top-rope climbing are often tied off--that is, secured--to a tree or around a rock; something that will be able to bear the climbers weight if they fall.) In top-rope climbing you can take many more chances on the rock to improve your skill level and increase your confidence because you can more easily afford to fall off the rock face when tied off from above. Whereas in lead climbing, the lead climber places nuts into cracks and it is those nuts strategically wedged into cracks in the rock that hopefully hold the climber, and his or her belayer, if the climber falls. I suppose climbers take just as many chances in lead climbing once they develop a certain amount of confidence in their equipment, their knowledge about the type of rock they are climbing, and their ability. But for this novice lead climber, I had a ways to go before developing that level of confidence. 

Of course my ex-Y and I chose to climb a rock face that juts 900 feet above the ground our first time out lead climbing. The actual "climb" up the rock face, after a rigorous hike up the steep Seneca Rocks outcropping, is only about 300 feet. That's right, prior to lead climbing Seneca Rocks, we had only done top-rope climbing together at places like Raven's Roost, which is located on the Blue Ridge Parkway and has cliffs that are 50 to 80 feet tall. You may recall from reading Knowing How to Fall and Knowing How to Fall - Part 2 that I have had this tendency to quickly escalate the difficulty level of anything I've just learned.

The point is, in retrospect, we had no business being up on that rock together lead climbing for my first time. Well, perhaps I should speak for myself because my ex-Y was a little more experienced than I was in that he had completed other climbs, including ice climbs in New Hampshire. While he was ice climbing, I was skiing and pretending that he wasn't risking his life on the ice. I had no business being up on that rock in a lead climb, as I had only been top-rope climbing a couple of times. Granted, I had been free climbing the sides of small waterfalls and the like for years and some of them would have probably been rated in the 5.0 to 5.5+ range for stretches, and while they were relatively small in comparison, a fall could have easily led to my death. (Please do not climb without climbing gear unless you are willing to accept the possible consequences. Note that there are many waterfall-related deaths because of yahoos like me who enjoyed scrambling up rocks.) 

They're Back

Charlottesville, August 1982.  The month two friends and I plotted and carried out a crime against the City of Charlottesville.  I suppose with the passage of time, it's safe to reveal this episode from my past.  Though if pressed, I will refuse to reveal my partners in crime unless they choose to identify themselves in the comment section below.  (Well, I refuse to reveal their last names, and I doubt given their positions they'll reveal themselves.)

Mountain Cows, Cow Pies & Asperger's

::Blog Warning:: This is a light-hearted essay. You might not think so at first, but it is. So keep reading. Trust me. 

I had such fun at my counselor's office today. My counselor had me in stitches. You read that right, and if you think that's odd, well, then, you don't know my counselor. He's a very funny guy. (For the record he's a brilliant neuro-psychologist, but counselor is easier to say and type.)

Don't Marry an Axe Murderer

The other day I was in a parking lot after picking up my mother's prescriptions and I was getting ready to buckle up and leave. As I clicked the buckle into place, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young man and a young woman--probably in their early twenties--saying goodbye in between rows in the middle of the lot. They looked very much in puppy love. Like early stages "I like/love you, hope you really like/love me too" infatuation. Smitten. Of course, I was riveted. You would have been too; the whole exchange was very sweet.

After their goodbyes, they both turned to walk in opposite directions toward their cars. Almost immediately, the young woman stopped and turned back, gazing at the young man, seeming to will him to turn around and look back at her. No such luck; he sauntered on. As he reached his car, she turned and headed toward hers, appearing a wee bit deflated. At that moment, the young man stopped and turned and gazed at her, looking as if he hoped that she too would turn and connect for a long-distance, across the lot, goodbye. The young woman didn't look back; she simply got in her car.

Neither of them knew that the other had looked back, and both, with their unrequited wistful gazing, might have left wondering if the other was as equally besotted. A stranger got to see what the two of them were hoping and looking for in the other. It was bittersweet to witness this near-miss exchange. I left the lot hoping that the two of them would figure out sooner rather than later that they are deep in smit together.

My Dad Wore Glasses

My father was born during the dog days of summer and so what would be a better way to celebrate the season of his birth than to recount the three worst experiences of my life with my father, yes? No? o.O

Well, if you've been reading my essays, then you already know in passing (actually from reading What's in a Name?) that I thought of my father as unconditionally loving. However, his life was not without negative impact. (Show me a person whose life is not.) Yah, yah, we love to focus on the positive and deny our shadows. There's this fear that if we even look at the negative shadow within that we'll be consumed by it, that the devil himself will ride up and spirit us away. Blarney.

Besides, when we deny our shadows and those of our significant others, we lose tremendous opportunities for learning, healing, and personal growth. The very things that help us become the people we were meant to be and contribute to our ability to have positive impact. I mean, if you can't have compassion for your family members shortfalls, how are you going to have compassion for anyone else's, including your own?

Trust me, I have no idea where this essay is going, but I will tell you this: Like most people, my childhood was not perfect, and with that said, you will not read a recounting of the worst of it here nor will I eviscerate anyone from my past for anyone's reading enjoyment. So relax.

Mom Knows Best (Don't Get Her Irish Up)

:: Language Warning :: This blog contains some colorful language, which we all know is a euphemism for cuss words. Trust me, it's not my fault. The language is essential to the story. Blame my mother.

You'll better understand the language warning when I tell you that my mother grew up on the streets of Belfast, Northern Ireland. No? Then perhaps I ought to tell you that my relatives have an entirely different relationship with the English language, including the use of profanity, than most of us growing up in the U.S. are accustomed. In Britain, the culture at large has a far greater tolerance for swearing than in the U.S. (When I say the streets of Belfast, I meant that the front entryway of the homes that my mother grew up in often butted against the city sidewalk, which was and may still be common for row houses in the city centre.)

Ach, even within Norn Ireland, the Belfast vernacular is quite distinct. (If you'd like to hear not only the Belfast accent but common colloquialisms, take a wee listen to this actor's Belfast monologue: Anthony Murphy. Murphy could be any one of my male relatives.) The difference between the Irish accent that we Americans are most familiar and the Belfast accent is like the difference between listening to someone from upper New York state and Brooklyn.  Well, my mother had the vernacular and found her city's twang harsh enough that she grew up doing her best to speak with a country lilt. (Perhaps the Northern Irish accent, or Belfast accent in particular, can best be described as a blend of Glaswegian and Irish, given that many Scots settled in the North of Ireland. By Glaswegian, I actually mean influences from a variety of Scots accents... I just like to say the word Glaswegian.)

What's In a Name?

I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire is my legal name. Um, no that's not it. I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire was not my birth name. No, that's not it either. I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire was not the name on my birth certificate. I'd tell you that name but since I no longer use it, I no longer use it. To be sure, my mother still uses the name found on my birth certificate when she's talking to me. In all other circumstances, however, my mother uses "Claire" (yes, quotation marks implied).

It's interesting how people adjust to name changes. My brother squared himself with my name change by purchasing me two itsy bitsy tiny coffee mugs (each about the size of two erasers found on the end of a no. 2 pencil)--my old name embossed on one and Claire on the other--and wiring them together as a Christmas ornament. I hang that on my tree every year in memory of him and his effort to cope with life's changes and let me know he'd accept just about any fool thing I decided to do with my life.

Making Do

Four of the six years that we lived in Charlottesville while my ex-Y was in graduate school, we lived in a grand (for me) home that had been converted into 5 apartments. In our first year (our third in town), we rented a two-bedroom, upstairs apartment, and in years two through four, we rented the first-floor apartment directly beneath that. (See right half of the home via a link to the Charlottesville Then and Now blog.) We moved downstairs because the seemingly well to do owners sold out to a business that owned and operated apartments around Charlottesville.

The original owners were often absentee landlords who got very testy, long distance from some corner of the world in their travels, when we had to have people in to take care of necessary plumbing or heating repairs, a common occurrence because the home was in serious disrepair. Many of our friends were in similar circumstances: In graduate school and too poor to afford rent from reputable apartment management companies. And so we sometimes found ourselves renting from upper-crusty, cranky inattentive landlords who let their one or two investment properties fall into disrepair because they thought their only responsibility should be to collect rents, unaccustomed as they were to the inconveniences of real life. (Hey, I've been a landlord since then and had my share of tenants who abused my patience as well as my properties, and so I don't say that lightly.)

Going With the Flow

Dedication: for Michael and Sandra with love.

I had an essay for this title and as I was doing a little clean up, I accidentally highlighted the entire essay and the text was somehow deleted.  Within a split second, blogger.com in its infinite wisdom, saved the now empty post on it's own without my having a second's chance to hit undelete.  It's this neat little, save as you go, feature.  Only tonight, it wasn't so neat.  Just two days ago, I had deleted the original essay from my Facebook notes, figuring I no longer needed to keep it. It was a darn good essay.

Given that this is an essay about going with the flow, when faced with the choice to delete this title or write a new essay, I chose to write a new essay rather than keep the irony to myself.  Only not right at the moment.  I think I'll go have a glass of wine and get back to you.  Just kidding.  I'm tired--I was just moments away from breaking for the night--and so I will pick up with a new day and a new attitude and see if I can write you an even better one. (Read on.)

Punk Rocker

Minnie Kate (Mays) Massie.  If Minnie Kate's name is found nowhere else on the World Wide Web, then at least her name may be found in an Internet search as long as this essay about a hot day in July remains online.

I'd known Minnie Kate many years before I found out that she carried a once very popular southern name of Minnie. What I knew her by was Grandma, Mom, and Miss Kate. Grandma was my ex-Y's grandmother. And mine too.

The Queen of Sheba

It's dog days of summer so I thought that perhaps I ought to focus on writing about summer topics. Forget stories about adventures in skiing and ice skating. (Wrote that just to cool you off.)

Worms. There's a summer topic for you. Though hardly the point of today's essay.

I spent the first 11 years of my life first in Naval housing and then in project-like apartment complexes. And what most of those places had in common in the 50's and 60's were kids. Lots of them.

While I cannot pin point when I realized I was an odd child out (okay, I can but that's a story for another time), it became super clear sometime after I moved into Parkway Terrace at age five, a brick-faced set of apartments that were probably 1940s era. One of the things I discovered after a while (attending school also helped in this discovery) is that children can be mean, particularly in a group. And though they can definitely be mean to each other, they seem to take extra delight in hurting things that are new to or different from them. And in their hive mind mentality they can be fascinated by difference and open to the suggestion to squash it. (Yes, indeed, The Lord of the Flies reflected my internal experience of children in groups.)

The Dozen Drama Rules (or How to be a Drama Queen)

Watching the Australian drama series "McLeod's Daughters," I have come to better understand the rules of drama. Little did I know, until I starting watching this series, that dramas hold valuable lessons about life... my life.

When I was a kid, I'd watch dramas, though I admit that I found them annoyingly frustrating and didn't quite understand their appeal. Unless, of course, the viewer actually enjoyed feeling as wretched as the characters. After becoming a certifiable Pollyanna in my early twenties, dramas lost their appeal altogether, and I only had time for feel-good movies and comedies. And true to the maxim of life imitating art, I kept trying to cast myself into a feel-good life, or at least a comedy (which I may have very well succeeded).

Asperger's Face

"If you’ve met one person with autism,

you’ve met one person with autism." - Stephen Shore

Asperger's is on the autism spectrum*, and so if you've met one person with Asperger's you've met one person with Asperger's. Meaning, that people on just about any spectrum that defines any difference from the norm are as mixed a group as people in general. As a result, over generalizing and thinking you know what to expect when interacting with a person with Asperger's (AS) would be a prescription for misunderstanding.  Perhaps much more so than over generalizing and expecting that you know what to expect from most people in general. Though becoming educated about Asperger's, might make our worlds a little nicer and our ability to communicate with you a little better. That is, if you can keep yourself from believing that all Asperger's generalizations apply to all individuals with Asperger's, leaping to conclusions about our behavior, and turning your assumptions about us into facts when you are interacting with us.

As I may have mentioned previously (and may mention again), I received the Asperger's diagnosis later in life, which is typical of women (for possibly a variety of reasons that I won't go into here).  It's been strangely empowering to finally be making sense of so much of my history, and oddly frightening now that I have some vague idea of how people may experience me beyond what's been obvious to me.  Not to mention aspects about myself that I thought had to do with personality when they have more to do with my brain's wiring.  (I had a similar experience when I received an ADD diagnosis and learned the ins and outs of how ADD can affect behavior, but not quite so profound.)

Today's blog is about Asperger's Face in particular.  Something that many of us with AS may contend with to varying degrees. Search for that phrase and you probably will not find it, though it is acceptably descriptive for this essay. About as easy to wrap up a concept as, say, the word neurotypical.  (Neurotypical or NT is the term used to describe people who are not on the autism spectrum.)

I Draw the Line at Fire Bombing

Sometimes I think my patience is legion.  I know.  Not long ago in Getting Back Up On the Horse That Threw You, I wrote about my impatience so it's likely I'm wrong in my word usage.  Perhaps it's my complacency that is legion.  Not the smug kind of satisfaction, but the uncritical kind, a "my life is so busy with other stuff to notice that I ought not be satisfied" sort of satisfaction, which may not be the sort of uncritical satisfaction the writers of that definition had in mind... or at least at 4:27 in the morning I'm thinking it's not.

:: Claire laughing at her sometimes totally wrong conception of word usage that could, if said to the wrong person get her in serious trouble as she never knew that complacent could mean smug satisfaction. Luckily, it's not a word she's bandied about. ::

Patience, Smatience

:: Blog Warning: Conditions Heavy, Proceed With Caution ::   This blog is not light.  It's a follow up to the light blog before it.  I'd appreciate your hanging in, as you never know when hanging in could save the life of someone you love, including yourself.  (Thursday's blog will find us back in the land of the light hearted.  Promise.)

In my previous blog Getting Back Up On the Horse That Threw You, I shared a bit of my struggle with developing patience when it comes to using my paw-like hands while wondering why patience can be such a variable commodity.  My friend Omrum helped me see that once I "accept things as they are, patience is already there.  Impatience has to do with having expectations--from others or from the self."

When looking up definitions for patience and deciding on one to use for that blog--"a good-natured tolerance of delay or incompetence" (www.audioenglish.net)--, a few other definitions captured my attention.

Getting Back Up On the Horse That Threw You

Note (for friends who read the bulk of this essay on Facebook in February): I've made a few adjustments, including a new ending.

We've all heard the saying, "patience is a virtue."  But what is patience and why is it such a variable commodity in most of our lives?  

One definition (www.audioenglish.net/dictionary/patience.htm) describes patience as "a good-natured tolerance of delay or incompetence."

Despite the occasional upset or gripe about pain or the ongoing challenge of having to repeat myself when I don't have the energy to spare, I believe I have had great patience coping with a chronic debilitating illness (reference ME/CFS, et al).  Mostly because what finally disabled me has been with me most of my life and impatience with it (or how other people responded to the inconvenience of accommodating my needs) would only have added to my suffering.  Taking a detached view, I see the human body as a variably gifted vessel. My patience with illness comes in part by my being thankful to my body for working so diligently on my behalf.

This has been a pretty huge lesson in patience.

Why then do I still struggle so much with impatience when it comes to certain areas of my life?

Strangers in Cars

Years ago, while in my mid 20s and working a commissioned sales job (a story for another time), it was late and a relatively warm fall in Charlottesville, and I was recovering from a chemical exposure, feeling generally flu-like and weak though having to present as totally put together and healthy.  It was raining, and I had been driving through one of my favorite neighborhood streets in C'ville (as it is affectionately known).  Favorite streets are not hard to come by in Charlottesville, a place of rolling hills, which come alive in blooms in the spring time, and interesting Southern architecture.

This road was a favorite because at a certain bend, where I was stranded, there were large tree and azalea covered yards that gave the area a park-like feeling.  So there I am, standing under my umbrella dressed in my cotton and silk blend business suit and ostrich leather, taupe, strappy open-toed shoes, wet from head to toe, and wondering if I had the energy to walk around the neighborhood searching for a phone.  My car's tire was flat, and I simply did not have the strength to remove lugs nuts.  I tried; that's why I was wet.

Falling on My Mind

:: Blog Warning: Conditions Heavy, Proceed With Caution ::  This is the fourth in a series of blogs about falling--two light and two not light.  (Knowing How to Fall, Knowing How to Fall - Part II, Falling Down the Rabbit Hole).  With the next blog, after two blogs that forage around the underworld, the shadow side of human nature, we return to light fare.

My recent falls involve not just my falling and getting back up, my falling into total disability, and my fallen dreams for the future (heck, I haven't even written about that because, well, I still dream), but also involve my falling expectations for my cognitive abilities and people.  Buddha would be proud.

Falling Down the Rabbit Hole

:: Blog Warning: Conditions Heavy, Proceed With Caution ::  Today's topic is, well, not light.  If you're not in the mood for not light, skip today's offering.

Today's essay is along the line of "Help! I've fallen and I can't get up."  For real.  And to set the stage and let you know how serious I am, I share this from Dr. Marc Loveless, an infectious disease specialist in his Congressional Testimony for CFS Awareness Day, May 12, 1995:  "I have treated more than 2,000 AIDS and CFS patients in my career.  And the CFS patients are MORE sick and MORE disabled every single day than my AIDS patients are, except for the last two months of life!"  One person with ME/CFS has described it like this:

"I may look OK, but I feel like I've fallen down a flight of stairs, rolled into the newly paved (boiling hot tar and sand) road, then hooked behind a truck and dragged a mile. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.  That's how I used to describe my FMS (fibromyalgia). The ME is far worse."

Like many with ME/CFS, I worked myself to the point of near death to assure that (1) I had a roof over my head and food on the table, and (2) my health claims had a snow ball's chance in hell of being taken seriously.

Knowing How to Fall - Part 2

Picking up where I left off in Knowing How to Fall, my gift of knowing how to fall has proved handy at protecting my head in falls (knock on wood, the substance my skull is made of).

It also made me a good skier, not a great skier mind you, but a good one, though I fantasized at one point in my life what would have happened if someone had put me on a pair of skis when I was 3 or 4.  Of course, that would have been someone else's monied life and not the one I'd been born into.  But fantasies are free and so I did indulge however briefly.

Knowing How to Fall

"You need a bubble suit" an ex-partner exclaimed as we approached the end of a year together.  I was tempted.  Of course, I usually fantasized a suit made of colorful balloons.  (From here on out why don't we agree to refer to my ex-husband as my ex-Y, my first ex-partner as my ex-X and my last partner as my ex-X2.  It will make our lives together simpler and writing this blog less cumbersome.)

My ex-X2 was not the first to suggest I surround my body with protective padding.

The Definition of Crazy

Today the topic is birds, or perhaps one particular bird.  I'm not really certain if it was one or more birds, as I never got a chance to view the bird(s) in action.

Now, I could have ascertained the type and exact number of bird(s) if perhaps if I were someone else.  It would have been possible, as I have reflective film on my front storm door and I could have sat, with the inside door open, and viewed the bird(s) without his/her/their knowledge to answer that question.  That is, I could have sat if I could have drug my recliner from the living room and if it would fit in the hallway next to the small secretary.

What Size is the Sky?

This must be brief.  It's already 3:29 p.m. and I'm due at my mother's sometime between 6 and 7:30.  Okay, it's a long way off, but you should see how long it takes me to do anything.  Oh yeah, if you've been reading my blog--re ME/CFS and my general brain dysfunction (i.e., the ability to get very lost in thought)--, then you probably have some idea.

Today, I thought, among other things, that I'd write "the story for another time" from my blog entitled Life's Amazing (the glass is half full/empty).

Flying Into The Mouths of Dogs

For a brief period between Labor Day of 1988 and 1993, I was blessed with the presence of the most amazing dog, a mutt named Doogie.  (The television show Doogie Howser did not hit TV until the following year.)  We, my ex and I, guessed that he was part Harrier because as a pup he looked just like a beagle and grew into a much larger dun-colored specimen that, well, resembled a Harrier in stature more than he did a Fox hound.  All that to say, he was a hound dog, a hunter by nature.

Life's Amazing (the glass is half full/empty)

Today, driving in the car with the Teen (a young woman who has lived in my home for the last year and will be moving back in with her mother a week from today), I recounted the most amazing thing that happened to me on Monday morning.  While I rarely take pictures and never a movie, THIS was one of those times when I wished I had a camera.

Directly in my line of sight, a large black crow was making haste across the sky pursued by a small brown house finch or sparrow.  I thought to myself (because I'm not an ornithologist and have no real knowledge of bird behavior), "This can't be!  It must be coincidental" even though the finch looked to be no further than a foot from the crow's tail feathers while matching its speed, mili-second by mili-second.  As the birds disappeared into the trees, I realized I'd never get confirmation that what I thought I saw was, in fact, what I saw, a chase.

Love Life Back

Like most things in life, I arrived at Life Is Good, Love Life Back as my life's motto via a circuitous route.  Like your life, there's a lot of life back story, but have no fear, I have no plans to share that here in this brief post (brief for me).  


The phrase itself had its origins in a life lesson I had learned in my late 20s.