Is it weird that I’m starting to know all the paint counter employees at Lowe’s-es and Home Depots in a ten-mile radius? Today I got my least fave. I brought in actual paint chips (chips of paint I scraped off our peeling baseboards) and asked them to please match. This dude (the manager) calls me to look at their computer monitor while his underling stands slack-jawed and listens to this conversation:

Him: We can’t create a perfect match. It’s .56 off.

Me: Point five six? How off is that?

Him: [Very obviously refraining from rolling his eyes at my stupidity] It’s point five six. So there’s point one, point two, point three, point four, and then point five six.

(Also, he has extreme halitosis. This is how I remember I’ve had unsatisfactory dealings with him before–I remember not his face, but the smell of his breath at three feet away.)

Me: [Considering the fact that, in his mind, these fractions represent something–something he can see in his mind very clearly. And he’s the kind of person who thinks, because he can clearly see the thing that was beaten into his brain during Lowe’s Paint Manager training, I should be able to see it, too. But I can’t, because I’m stupid, and probably because I’m a woman. This is all sort of interesting to me, but not uncommon and not surprising and not worth getting into right now, so I’m not going to say “You’re just telling me numbers. I understand that point five is bigger than point one,” etc., etc.]
So… Is point five six like half a shade, or a whole shade? Is it visible to the naked eye?

Him: Oh, yeah. Are you trying to match something? People will be able to see the difference.

Me: And that’s the best you can do? You can’t make a match at all?

Him: No. UNLESS….

Me: ?

Him: Unless you want to go [waves at paint chips all around us] look at these paint chips and try to find one that matches.

Me: You’re saying you can’t match it from this sample, but if I find a paint chip that matches the sample, you can match that?

Him: [Obviously satisfied he’s finally gotten through to my stupid brain] Yes.

It takes me five seconds to look at the various Glidden whites and see that mine is a violet white. It takes me five more seconds to decide between the closest two violet whites. It takes me ten seconds to walk around with a bit of the sample on top of the paint chip, checking it in various lights afforded by Lowe’s and imagining the paint chip in semi-gloss form. I like doing this. I love colors and paint chips and matching and imagining. I think about the guy who worked at the Home Depot near my old house, who is the only person I’ve ever met who’s more obsessed with paint colors than me. He seemed like he had Asperger’s, the one time I worked with him. I couldn’t tell if he got pleasure from deciding on colors or not. But I had the impression he respected me. I wonder how he’s doing. I miss him.

I take my selected paint chip (“Pegasus”) to the counter and Halitosis Point Five says, “Did you find one?” in a supercilious tone that indicates he knows I picked the wrong color. It occurs to me that it’s probably a liability issue for him. He doesn’t want to make me a color and have me come back later, bitching and wanting to return the custom-made and therefore un-name-able and therefore probably un-re-sell-able paint. Maybe that’s happened to him a few times in the past and he’s learned it’s easier to force the customer to pick a paint chip. He’s probably not a bad person. He has no way of knowing I’m not a bad person, who would ask for custom paint and then return it and try to get him in trouble. I guess I can’t blame him.

As I’m waiting for my quart of semi-gloss Pegasus, another customer walks up and asks the Paint Underling, “If I bring in a paint chip, can y’all match it?”

She says, “Uh huh. We can match anything.”

I refrain from commenting. I focus on the poster board this paint department has prepared with handwritten labels. It’s the four exact colors of the Texans’ logo. (Or is it? Within how many tenths of a mystery unit are these reds and blue a match?)

I receive my paint can and walk to the cash registers, happy I had an excuse to look at paint chips today.

Duality of Dog Ownership

I am either the best dog owner, because I walk my dog three times a day, or I’m the worst dog owner, because I can’t train him to go to the bathroom in our backyard, and I yell at him about it.

I’m either a responsible dog owner, because I carefully monitor my dog during our walks, baggie in pocket, to ensure he only pees/poops on mailbox stems and plants no one would touch with their hands… or I’m an abusive dog owner, because when my tiny but wiry and willful terrier pulls very hard on his leash, I sometimes tug the leash hard enough to yank him off balance, making him flip in the grass. And then I sigh angrily and move on (now that I know for certain the flipping in the grass doesn’t hurt him). (Because it’s happened often enough, horribly.)

Likewise, I worry about him running, half blind and half deaf, into the street and getting hit by a car. I worry about it so much, it makes me angry when he tries to do so, and I spank him. And he can tell, the few times he still tries to dart into the street, that I’m about to spank him for it, and he throws himself on the ground and makes a sad, abused, beseeching face that shows me what a monster I am. And I feel ashamed of it. But I spank him, usually, anyway.

I know a lot of people who think pets are like children. Once you get a pet, they say, you’ve made a commitment for life. Only evil, horrible assholes get tired of pets or give pets away or euthanize pets for biting their children.

I know a lot of people (who came here from other countries, usually) who believe animals are either food or employees/slaves. It’s almost immoral and certainly ridiculous to keep animals in one’s home for the purpose of decoration or affection, buying them food and getting nothing useful in return.

Between these two perspectives, I have a reasonably clear (?) vision of myself as a middle-class American woman who’s lucky enough to have time and money for indoor, full-time, named/registered/immunized pets. I’m very lucky to have the luxury, emotionally, to angst over my relationship with these pets and their emotions. “If that’s the worst thing you have to worry about…” my dad would say.

I grew up making pets out of strays and feeding them table scraps. Watching them give birth to litters on piles of dirty clothing in my closet.

I’ve lived in houses whose owners didn’t allow animals inside, from whose back doors I’d venture, out into fields, with bones in my hands, to buy a little wordless companionship.

I’m a good person because I sleep with my dog curled against me all night.

I’m a bad person because I typed a blog entry trying to excuse my sins. Used my writing skills not to make money, but to persuade you certain parts of me outweigh the others.
…
…
…

Guess where I’ve been. Give up? I’ve been home working on my next novel, or at a coffee shop working on my next novel, or at my friend Ashley’s house, working on my next novel while she paints her next painting.

Or, more likely than that, I’ve been procrastinating and making excuses for not working on my next novel. Other than that — including that, actually — life is pretty great here. Hope yours is, too.

Come see me at the Inprint reading in Houston, at the Alley Theater on May 3, if you want to see me. They let you submit questions, so someone submit a hilarious one. Don’t submit something like, “How did you become a writer?” or “What advice do you have for people who want to be writers?” because someone else already submitted those. Also, don’t submit, “How are you Hispanic if you look white to me and I don’t know you or anything about you and I’ve never read your writing but you look white to me so is that your husband’s last name and why are there Hispanic people around you saying they’re your dad and your cousins, I mean you look white to me so why are people saying that you’re Hispanic?” because someone will undoubtedly stand up and ask that at the reading without submitting it beforehand. It’s pre-ordained.

(My answer is always, “Meet me outside after the reading for a Taco-Off and we’ll find out who’s Hispanic, then, motherfucker.” Then, after the reading, I just leave. But I do usually have a couple of tacos at Taqueria Laredo on Washington Avenue the following morning. They make the best picadillo — reminds me of my Aunt Sylvia’s.)

Pop Culture Obsessions

I was going to ask y’all if you knew of a DJ/electronica/hip-hop person named Dabrye, and if you liked him as much as I’m starting to, but then I refrained because I’m starting to realize that i have sort of unusual taste in music.

I used to think that I had excellent taste in music and that most other people didn’t, but now I’m just accepting the fact that there are different kinds of tastes in music and everyone has whatever works best with the active nerves in their brain. See, I’m reading Oliver Sacks’ Musicophilia right now, and all the stuff he’s saying fits in with my newly hatched theory that the brain of any given human who likes music must like it in a certain range of frequencies. A lot of people enjoy a higher frequency range than my brain enjoys. Like Passion Pit, Fleet Foxes, the Raveonettes, the Whatever-Os, and the Whosits… all those people sound too high and tooth-grindy to me. I like stuff that I can only describe as lower, but which my husband might describe as too minimal, too repetitive, too subtle, too depressing, or just too. Just too not-Passion-Pit, he means.

And that’s okay. Our brains are different. Why would you want to be married to the same kind of brain as your own? Wouldn’t that be boring?

We had this raging argument about taste in music the other day — it’s one of the few things we really argue loudly about — and it lasted us all the way home and ended up concluding in front of the kids. But we took little breaks to add footnotes for the kids’ edification, and each of our footnotes had the same gist, which was that we’d rather argue about who has better taste in music than live with someone who doesn’t care about music at all.

Oliver Sacks says that people whose brains keep them from loving music have “amusia.” The very idea makes me feel sad and sick — it’d be like losing my peripheral vision or something.

Not to be an asshole. I’m just saying. Well, and maybe saying that makes me an asshole, anyway. But I can’t help it — I’m just telling y’all that it freaks me out when people say they don’t care about music, and I can’t even imagine.

Um… I subtitled this part “Pop Culture Obsessions” and not “Raging Music and Neuro-Type Snobbery” because I wanted to also ask who else out there is watching RuPaul’s Drag Race and letting it eat their insides apart, like I am. Anybody? Anyone? Crickets in the back? No? Well, whatever.

Oliver Sacks instructs Dallas and me.

I hardly get to see my son Dallas anymore, because as long-time readers know, he lives with his dad while his two brothers live with me. And all three of them are teenagers now, so they have weekend stuff going on all the time, just like little adults, and we’re all at the post-divorce phase, thank-God-fully, where we can be flexible and miss a weekend visitation here or there for the sake of the kids’ scholastic and social obligations.

But, so, the other day…

[I’m about to say something to do with Dallas having Aspergers, and you might wonder why I’m saying it here and not on my ChronMomBlog, and I will tell you that it’s because the Chronicle now has two mom blogs about moms with kids with autism, so I feel like talking about my kid’s autism there would, at this point, look like horning in on other writers’ territory.]

So Dallas was here the other day, and I was reading him little bits from Oliver Sacks, because Dallas has synesthesia and absolute pitch (which I used to refer to, incorrectly, as perfect pitch) and Mr. Sacks talks about each of those.

Synesthesia is when someone mixes the senses a little bit. In Dallas’s case, he sees a different color for each note on the musical scale. Some people might see different colors for each letter of the alphabet, or different shapes for each number, but Dallas has the color/music variety, which we’re interested in because he’s a musician.

So I’m reading aloud to him that, “Composer John Doe sees D minor as a bright yellow.”

And Dallas interjects, “Well, he’s wrong.”

I say, “Hold on, baby,” and read that John Doe, furthermore, sees D major as blue.

“That guy’s totally wrong,” says Dallas.

I read from the next paragraph: “When I told this to composer Joe Blow, he said, ‘That seems all wrong to me.'”

“Yeah. Because it is,” says Dallas. “What colors does that guy see?”

“He says D minor is light green.”

Dallas snorts. “At first I thought that guy might have some sense, but now I see he doesn’t, either.”

It cracks me up, his confidence. His arrogance, you can go ahead and call it. It took me forever to convince Dallas that not everyone can see what he does, and not everyone can tell what note a rubber band makes when it snaps against a wrist. He would not believe me — he couldn’t imagine a mind that didn’t work like his. But eventually I managed to convince him, and he finally said, “That explains a lot, actually.” It explains the infuriating confusion caused by certain band teachers, apparently. He wondered if they were lying or purposely tuning the instruments wrong, maybe because they didn’t like him and wanted an excuse to give him bad conduct grades when he argued or covered his ears in annoyance.

I read in Mr. Sacks book that synesthesia occurs in one of every 2,000 people and absolute pitch (the ability to identify a note on its own) is more like one in 10,000. That surprised Dallas and me.

Mr. Sacks said that having very fine absolute pitch can be a nuisance for some people — that hearing very slightly off-tune notes can irritate them while the rest of us can’t even tell the difference.

“Does it ever bother you when I sing a tiny bit flat?” I asked Dallas. Because I know that he knows that I sometimes do. Not flat enough to lower my score on Rock Band, but flat enough that he’ll very honestly tell me if I ask.

“My pitch isn’t that good,” he says.

And I see that he’s learned, finally, how to tell white lies to spare feelings. And I’m glad that I’m one of the people for whom he’ll commit that sin — number one on the list of Asperger commandments: “Thou shalt not lie,” followed by “Thou shalt not not make sense.”

But I see, also, that I’ll never understand the way he sees the world, or how much it bothers him to put up with the rest of us. No matter how hard I listen. No matter how much I love him and want to understand.

What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? That’s what I have to tell myself, to keep from crying when he gets on the bus to go back home.

Project Runway‘s Jay is super candid, and that’s why I love him.

If you don’t know who Julia Allison is, it’ll be hard for me to explain this, but I’ll try. She’s a Star editor and supposed dating columnist, yeah, and a person Jakob Lodowick dated, and someone they can’t stop ridiculing on Gawker. But mainly she’s a woman who blogs about herself constantly (with photos). So… someone brilliant wrote a blog about her blog.

Dr. Bukkake gives facials. As far as we can tell, this is not a joke. If you don’t get the joke, that’s probably for the best. (What can I say? I’m not very ladylike.)

This woman does pretty things.

subcategorized linkelodeon, with tangents, form of: Asperger’s Syndrome!

As mentioned before, every time I see a fictional character who I suspect suffers from Aspergers (whether the person portraying that character realizes it or not), I google [character’s name] + “aspergers” to see if anyone else thought so, too.

Last week we watched the best-of-Chris-Farley ep of SNL, and it occurred to me that Chris’s talk show interviewer character has AS. Here’s a transcript of one of those skits. So, I thought maybe Chris was unwittingly imitating someone with Aspergers when he played that popular character. So I googled.

Instead, I found out that Dan Ackroyd was diagnosed with AS as a teenager.

“People Speculated to Have Been Autistic.” Is this my Asperger’s obsession? No. My boyfriend says mine is pulling dandelions, because it takes effort for me to pass one without removing it from the ground, preferably with root intact. I say, “That’s not Asperger’s — that’s a valuable service to the community.” *

My Aspie son’s current obsession: found numbers. Meaning numbers he “finds” on digital clocks and license plates. He talks to me about that for a good fifteen minutes per week. I just listen, and sometimes ask wry questions, but I don’t try to discourage him. I don’t think there’s any wrong with an obsession that hurts no one.

Shirley Dent says “Don’t diagnose fictional characters.” Oops. Sorry, Shirley. No, wait — apology retracted. I’ll diagnose whichever characters I want. I’ll look for stories in which people (autistics, lesbians, latinos, bulimics, cutters, Kinsey Temperament Sorter Margaret Thatchers, crochet enthusiasts, inverted narcissists, and even people just like me) might exist as whatever I need them to be. Including the protagonists, the heroes, and the most empathetic characters in the story.

Let a person pay his $15 for a book and then diagnose (empathize, mis-identify, fantasize) away. Because people are compelled to do this whether they’ve studied revisionist literary criticism or not. Readers need to be able to identify with mainstream fictional characters. Isn’t that one of the basic reasons that art exists?(Personally, I don’t see Austen’s Darcy as an Aspie. But, hey, wouldn’t it be nice if someone wrote a really awesome book in which my son was the romantic hero of the century? Of course.)

Aspergers and Xena, Warrior Princess and Albert Einstein and Jar Jar Binks. And sex.

* I was gonna put in a disclaimer, clarifying for new readers that this was a joke because I’ve never been diagnosed with AS, but that my son has. FYI. But then I thought, “Why?”

There are two fictional characters I suspect of having Asperger’s Syndrome, whether or not the actors were consciously portraying them that way:

1. Napoleon Dynamite.

2. Bill Haverchuck of Freaks and Geeks.

Or maybe I’m just projecting that onto them because I like those characters, and one of my sons has Aspergers, and I want to imagine my son living a life with a happy ending. Every week.

And now that I’m searching for links, I see that I’m not the first person to have expressed those thoughts:

• Napoleon Dynamite: Asperger’s Disorder or Geek NOS?
• an amateur review in which some guy bashes Jared Hess for mocking “stupid, disgusting, socially retarded” characters, and the last commenter sets him straight
• Napoleon discussion on Aspies for Freedom
• In a review of the Freaks and Geeks DVD set, someone calls Bill Haverchuck the poster boy for Aspergers.

So, once again, know that you can count on Gwenworld.com for all your years-after-the-fact pop culture commentary! Here’s some more:
I saw Shallow Hal last night, and it wasn’t as bad as I’d assumed it would be, way back when it first came out in 2001. I guess I was just looking for an excuse to dislike Gwyneth Paltrow. That was before she wore that too-big-in-the-bust pink dress to the Oscars, and I began to feel bad for her, instead.

yays

I was in the dentist’s office for about four minutes this morning, and now I’m good to go. (Tiny bump on my new temp bridge was throwing off my bite, wreaking havoc. Now it’s gone.) Thank gosh. It wasn’t until it was over that I realized how much I’d been dreading that visit. Oh, also, dreading things makes me grind my teeth. Which makes them hurt more. Duh. Vicious cycle ahoy!

I’m going to start a museum

in which I archive lame attempts at flirting by self-important Corporate American men.

Not because they flirt with me, but because I’ve been in a position to overhear the flirting, over and over and over again. Because they do it right in front of me, because I’m not pretty enough to be visible to them. Plenty of women can say the same thing, I’m sure — that they overhear crass come-ons on a regular basis, that they feel disrespected by the men who do such things in professional settings… But would other women obsessively analyze and catalog the phenomemon, like I unwillingly find myself doing every week day? Probably not. Upon hearing any random failed come-on, I immediately, telepathically comprehend the would-be pick-up artist’s secret fears, skeevy desires, and pathetic fetishes. I don’t want to know, but I can’t help it.

And that’s why hearing that crap tortures me. No, not because I’m an old, fat, jealous shrew. Not because I’m a jealous lesbian. But because it’s pretty depressing, hearing the silently screamed longings of men I can’t admire.

Five Pound Allowance

Speaking of being a fat, jealous, lesbian shrew… I can’t wait until Christmas Eve. Why? Because I’m going to eat baked goods on that day. Baked goods of my own making.

I’ve decided to allow myself to gain as much as five pounds, between Christmas and New Year’s. Because isn’t that, like, the legally ordained amount of weight that we gain that week in America? So I’m ready.

And then, by May, I plan to lose 20 pounds net. And then I will be done. Wish me luck.

And merry December 24th to y’all, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, and whether you eat baked goods or not. Have fun.

But I know other people like it because of TV. New shows! New seasons! A couple of my coworkers have been very happy in the past few weeks, plotting out schedules of what they’ll watch.

I caught the fever. I found a few shows. I set my DVR to record Bionic Woman and that show about the Geico cavemen.

The pilot for Bionic Woman sucked. But I set my TV to record the second episode, because sometimes the pilot isn’t representative of the show as a whole.

The second episode sucked. Predictable plot, hackneyed cliches, unrealistic story arc timing, lame dialogue. It was like the producers said, “You know, we’ve already spent money on hot actresses and special effects. That should be enough. Go with the budget writers.”

“Let’s never watch this again,” I told my boyfriend. But, actually, we’ll probably watch it again. Why? Because one of the actresses is Katee “Starbuck” Sackhoff, who we like. And, guess what? Starbuck is sleeping with an Asian man in this one. “It’s about time I get to see an Asian brother get laid on TV,” said my boyfriend, who happens to be Asian. I was like, meh. I can get that at home. But, okay, we’ll watch one more episode.

Meanwhile… I’d been hoping that Cavemen would be good. But how could it, right? We’re talking about TV here, where bad writing and hackneyed cliches abound. So, no matter how funny the commercials were, there was no way the show could be good. The producers would be certain to ruin it, just like they ruin everything else.

And then, we watched it, and it was so, so funny. We were cracking the hell up. Not only was it funny, but it addressed some interesting culture issues, such as interracial dating and sexual stereotypes. But in a funny way. Oh, and bonus: One of the guest stars is Super Terry, from Reno 911.

So, yeah. We loved it. Therefore, I predict that it’ll be cancelled before the end of the season. You know how good shows always get canceled.

Guess what, I just discovered a musician who everyone else on Earth is already listening to!

I just got the MIA album called Kala. MIA is fronted by a Sri Lankan woman named Maya. I thought I was discovering something completely underground, because I heard her on KPFT‘s Thursday morning World Beats program. (I listen to that every week on the way to work. Then, on the way home every Thursday, I turn KPFT back on and listen to GenerAsian. Those are my two fave radio programs.)

So, I turned on the radio halfway through this song, a song so exciting that I knew, instantly, that buying the album for it would change my life. So I called the DJ (and won Greek Festival tickets — yay!) and he told me, “That’s MIA, and the song is ‘Boyz.'”

And then I told all my friends, and they were like, “Oh, yeah, MIA. That’s good stuff. You know she’s from Sri Lanka, right?”

So I got the album, and I love it. And I looked at the reviews on Amazon, and they’re full of people saying, “I’m too old to like this, but…” And then, of course, there are all the reviews complaining that MIA was good when it was underground, but now it sucks. Then, there are those by male reviewers who want to give poor little Maya their advice on how to be a better musician. Hilarious. But seriously, go buy the album.

Children can be like animals.

Y’all know that, because you’ve read Lord of the Flies.

Children like to conform with the pack, and when they sense difference in one of their own — especially difference coupled with weakness — some children are prone to attack. Especially, I’m imagining, children of animal-like parents who value conformity.

I already knew this, not just from reading Lord of the Flies, but also from personal experience. Not just mine, but that of my son. His Asperger’s seems to be an asshole magnet. Once certain kids realize he’s different, that he doesn’t have the same instinctively ingrained compulsion to conform as the rest of them, they start the bullying.

Usually, when my son comes home and tells me about it, all he can do is report the facts of what happened, without understanding why. (“They called me a faggot, but I’m not gay. I told them I’m not gay, but I guess they couldn’t hear me or they didn’t believe me. They kept calling me faggot, and then I guess I made them mad, because then they started hitting me.”)

I understand why. Children are animals. Some more than others. Especially the ones who were bred from animals. Animal children grow up and mate and breed new animals. New assholes, new bullies. It’s a cycle as old as evolution, way older than your middle school or mine. What can you do about it? I don’t know. Don’t breed with animals. Don’t raise animals. Is that enough? No. They don’t need you. They’ll keep breeding on their own, spawning and eating and rolling in mass-produced pap, hitting their kids when they don’t conform. It doesn’t matter what you do, I don’t think. It’s simply the way of our world. “Can’t we just kill them?” you say. I don’t think so. There’s not enough time, energy, legal precedent. Plus, I don’t want to kill anyone. I’m not enough of an animal.

My boyfriend always says it’s lucky that my son is big for his age, because that probably keeps him from being physically attacked as much he might be, otherwise.
This kid wasn’t so lucky: Attack On Autistic Boy, 11, Videotaped.

Sorry for the downer.

But it had to be said, I felt. Let’s try to end on a good note now.

It’s almost Halloween. I’m going to be a fairy. We went to the costume shop to consider the alternatives, but all it did was inspire me to move forward with my fairy-being plans. We went to the local big-box store, then, and got materials to put on the $2.32 thrift store full slip that will form the base of my costume.

What are you going to be for Halloween? What are you going to do? Did you see Martha Stewarts’ double-sided “Good Things/Bad Things” October magazine issue? Normally I’m not into her too much, but this Halloween issue is beautiful. Go see it.

Did you go to the Greek festival, here in Houston? Did you see me there? Did you eat baklava and drink lots of wine? I did.

Are you ready for fall? Are you ready for Christmas? We’ll talk more about that later. Until then…

You guys, I’m selling some crafty products on eBay, meaning products I crafted myself, as well as a few other things. Feel free to look at them or to ignore them, as you please. Either way, it won’t hurt my feelings. I just have to sell things periodically so I can continue to write off my craft supply purchases on my taxes. It’s a sickness, I know.

For sale:
bracelet with dangling pastel beads
carnelian and red agate necklace #1
carnelian and red agate necklace #2
rhodonite and rose quartz necklace
bronze and pink freshwater pearl necklace
pink and gray dangly pearl necklace
pale jade necklace
green wood bead necklace
amber earrings
silver ring
amber ring
garnet ring
silver cuff bracelet
vintage cross pendant
that painting I did a while back, of the woman

There you go. Happy browsing.

Get Rich Quick Scheme

The other day I saw a People magazine, and its cover gave me an idea. So I turned to my son who has Asperger’s, and I said, “Hey, Dallas, how would you like it if Mommy wrote a book all about your Asperger’s and how tragic it is and how dramatic it’s made Mommy’s life? And then Mommy could go on book tour and make a lot of money?”

My son said, “More money than you make writing fiction?”

I said, “Way, way more.”

He said, “Would you tell heart-rending personal stories about your strength, your struggle, and your survival that would embarrass me, later, when I’m old enough to understand them fully?”

I said, “Maybe. Then again, maybe not, since you do have Asperger’s. Maybe you’ll never fully understand, or else it simply won’t hurt your feelings. We can always hope, but either way, we’ll make money. Don’t forget the money.”

He said, “Will you use the money to buy me a PS3, an XBox 360, and a bigger TV?”

I said, “Of course I will, honey.”

He said, “Then sell our story, Mommy. Sell it away!”

Just kidding. That conversation never took place.

[Edited to clarify: Hey, everybody. This segment of the entry is referring to Jenny McCarthy, as featured on the latest cover of People magazine, promoting her book about her personal struggles with her kid’s autism, and the power of Jim Carrey’s penis helping her through it.

This segment of the entry is not about my long-time fellow blogger and author Rob Rummel-Hudson. For the record, although I’ve been catty in my time, I’m not catty/lame/rondo enough to hate on Rob on my blog, while linking to him and Facebook-friending him at the same time. If I thought Rob was selling out his kid for money, I wouldn’t link him or Facebook friend him. C’mon, people. Y’all should know better than that.]

Inspirational

On the way to work, I pass a company that performs a very specialized service for other companies. It’s not a service that I’ll ever need, but I always stare at the company and remember its name, because it has an inspirational marquee. Know what I mean? They have one of those LED signs on which the owner has chosen to put a different motivational saying each day.

Weirdly, although I normally ignore crap like that, this marquee frequently inspires me. Like, one day, a while back, it said something like “If you knew you wouldn’t fail, what would you attempt?” Something like that — poorly worded, but it got the point across. What would I try to do if I knew for certain that I wouldn’t fail? I thought about it until the end of my commute.

Usually, I end up thinking about the owner of this company and what his motivation is for providing these thoughts. He could use the marquee for advertisements, but instead, he tries to inspire us all. Why? What kind of person does something like that?

It’s something to think about on a long, long drive.

Dazed and Confused and Swollen

If none of this makes sense, it’s because I’m on drugs, because I recently had surgery, because my teeth are sad and lame, and yet strong and stubborn and constantly having to be messed with by surgical means. I had this jacked-up tooth remnant, under an old crown, and it turned bad, so my dentist (who is the best dentist in the world, fyi) tried to remove it with pliers and such, but it wouldn’t come out because the rotten tooth was holding on with all its might to my jawbone, as all my teeth like to do, apparently…

… and so my dentist was forced to give up, sweatily and reluctantly, and he sent me to his friend, the best oral surgeon in the world, and she removed my tooth (and I told y’all before how she looks sort of like Mimi Rogers, but I never told y’all that she studied dance at the same school, at the same time, as Madonna!), and it went as well as possible, but now I’m kind of achy and drugged up. Bleh.

Oh, well, that’s life, though. My super power is fast healing. My kryptonite is cavity-prone teeth. If teeth being fused to jawbones were a super power of any use, I’d be bragging that I had that, too. But it hasn’t done anything for me yet. We’ll see what happens, though. Maybe one day my stubborn teeth will save the world.

All I want, as far as “autism advocacy” goes, is awareness.

I don’t want to sue the people who vaccinated my kids. I don’t want the government to give me lots of money (unless they just have their hearts set on it), because there are autistic kids who need the money more than we do. I don’t want people to treat my son more specially than they treat other kids. I just want awareness.

Have you ever heard anyone say, “Ew — that kid has Mongoloid features and unusual speech patterns, and he isn’t as intellectually developed as his peers. What’s WRONG with him? He’s freaking me out! He’s a weirdo! His parents must have totally messed him up somehow! He’s creeping me out!”

No, you haven’t, unless it was a thirteen-year-old bully, or a really lame stand-up comedian trying to be edgy. And you know why? Because most adults in America know what Down Syndrome is, and they know that people with Down Syndrome can’t help having it, so there’s no use making fun of them, unless you want to come off like a complete asshole.

Do you ever hear adults in America say “Ew — that kid acts weird. He’s socially stunted. He talks funny, and he’s strangely good at math. Do his parents homeschool him or something? I bet he gets beat up in school all the time. I bet he’s never gonna have a girlfriend, ever. He’s creeping me out. What the hell’s wrong with him? He’s a freak. His parents must have messed him up somehow”?

Unfortunately, yes, you do. I recently saw it happen on a site that I frequent, in comments regarding a YouTube clip of a young spelling-bee winner who pretty obviously, in my opinion, had Aspergers or autism. And I’m not going to link to those comments here, because the young urbanites making them were obviously trying to be “edgy” by expressing fear/loathing of alternate cultures (i.e., homeschooling Midwesterners), and had no idea how to identify Pervasive Developmental Disorders. I want to believe that these people, had they realized it was a condition the child and his parents couldn’t help, would have refrained from commenting on it. Because only a rude dumb ass makes fun of something like that, and some day a real rain will come and wash away all the rude dumb asses. (Right? Hope so.)

When adults meet my Aspergers-having son for the first time, they tend to react to him in one of two ways. Either they completely ignore him, because he inadvertently gives off social cues that discourage them from asking him the same questions they ask my other two kids (“So, how old are you now?” “So, how do you like school?”)…
or else, way more rarely, they feel compelled to draw him out. And that’s usually because he reminds them of themselves, or of someone else they knew who was quiet, but ultimately intelligent and rewarding to hear.

In either case, I find myself telling everyone I know that Dallas has Aspergers, if/whenever they express curiosity about his behavior. (They say, “Dallas… likes to keep to himself, huh?” or “Dallas is kind of… intense, huh?” or “Dallas reminds me of my uncle, who also preferred drawing complex machines to hanging out at family barbecues.”) Why do I tell them, instead of keeping it private?

Not because I’m trying to excuse his behavior, and not because I’m looking for pity. It’s because I want to help create awareness. I know that none of my friends would make fun of someone for acting a little different. But maybe, if they come across someone else who would, they can pass on what they know. They can say, “Dude, don’t make fun of that guy. He was probably born with Aspergers. Don’t be lame.”

(Social shaming: the fabric of polite society. )

So, yeah. If you know me in real life, and I start giving you an informal presentation on Aspergers, autism, and PDD — I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, I promise. I’m just trying to do my part. Until we get a popular actor who outs him/herself as having Aspergers, this awareness thing is strictly viral marketing. Grass roots. Underground. Help me out, okay? Spread the word.

My youngest son and I enjoy driving down to the nearest big-box pet stores each weekend and seeing the caged animals up for adoption. Particularly, we like the kittens.

Every time we go, my son asks if we can get a cat. I ask how much the adoption fee is, and it’s invariably $85 or more.

This past weekend, they wanted $85, and the kittens had mucus-y eyes and visible fleas on their kitten-stomachs. Give me a break. The county shelter is selling cats two-for-$55 right now. I know what’s up with these little non-profits showing up at Petco and PetsMart. They’re just old women who like cats, and they’re running 501c3s that will let them write off the cat food while “fostering” any old flea-ridden, stanky, meow-box they can find. The cats cost so much because these cat ladies don’t want to get rid of them.

And I don’t blame them. When I get older and my kids have all moved away, I’m totally opening a “no-kill shelter” called Miss Kitty’s Pitter Paws Sanctuary Haven, and that’ll be my excuse to pet mangy cats all day long. (Because I like cats. Get it? I’m being sarcastic, but not really.)

Can’t we all just get along? While flapping our hands?

(Some of you may remember that one of my children was recently, formally diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, which is a form of autism.)

So I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, trying to hook up with the “autism community” online. No, wait — I do know. I was thinking, “Oh, hey, maybe I can meet local parents of kids with Asperger’s, and my son Dallas can meet another 12-year-old Aspergers kid who also likes video games, Roombas, and energy-efficient vehicles. And they can hang out on weekends without anyone telling them they act weird or talk weird. Yay!”

But I was completely delusional on that front, because that’s not what the online autism community is about. Nope. It’s not really a community at all, but a bunch of splintered factions, each of which pursues its own cause. Here are the separate causes, as far as I’ve been able to gather:

1. The curebies. Curebies are people who believe that autism has some environmental cause, often one (such as vaccinations or the mercury in our tuna) that might lead to a huge, class-action lawsuit. They get online and talk about all the stuff they’re spending money on to cure their kids, and how they’re getting other people to pay for it.

2. The anti-curebies hate the curebies, and they’re very vigilant about it. Like, if you go on their forum and say, “Oh, hi, you guys. Y’all seem cool. I’m looking for a playmate for my son, who is really good at math and likes Roombas,” they might say something like, “Oh my god! How dare you insinuate that non-savant ASD kids aren’t as GOOD as your kid, and need to be chelated into what passes for normalcy among you stupid, rude, hypocritical NTs!!!!! Leave our forum immediately, curebie! We’re trying to talk about American Idol!”

3. Embittered adults with autism. These are the people who make me want to say, “Dude, I’m sorry that your parents were ashamed of you and made you undergo chelation and biofeedback… but could you please not call me a stupid, rude, hypocritical NT? At least not where I can read you saying it? You don’t even know me. I’m here trying to get help for my kid.” The worst is when they’re abusive to NTs, then say they can’t help it because they have autism. Hello — if I can teach my son not to call people names, I think your mom should’ve taught you, too.

4. There are the “autism parents,” who wage daily battles to force everyone in the world to treat their children with respect. Or, if not actual respect, then with special consideration born of fear of lawsuits, maybe. Some of these autism parents have kids with more than just autism, though. “Hi. My name’s AspieMommy, and I’m mommy to Darren, 14, who is ASD, OCD, BpD, and Tourettes; Shelly, 8, who is PDD, OCD, OPP, and GGG; and little Wendell, 1 and a half, ASD, PCP, TNT, and EGBDF!” A lot of times, I notice people identifying themselves this way and then asking forum strangers for help. “Can I get a ride to the support group? Anyone want to form a playgroup and/or babysit? Can I bum a cigarrette?” I have to wonder if some of them are real. What’s the acronym for Munchausen?

A subset of the autism parents are the autism parents who also have autism, themselves. I can’t compete with that, I guess. I mean, they make that fact pretty clear.

5. The biggest factions of all? The political ones. The “movement” people. Every autism organization in America, it seems, hates every other autism organization in America. Every member of Factions 1 through 4 above seems invested in a giant competition for the leadership of “the movement.” For instance, the adults with autism think they should run their own movement. Which makes sense to me… until they start hating on the parents of kids with autism, saying those parents can’t really advocate for their own children, since they themselves don’t have autism. They all have blogs, and they all complain about what’s fair, and which blog should be the leader, and how unworthy blogs shouldn’t have as many readers, and blah blah blah popularity contest disguised as real discourse.

6. Then we have the celebrity autism parents, and then the celebrities who’ve played autistic characters, and they’re throwing in their two cents for this organization or the other. And then the celebrites who don’t want to admit their kids have autism, because Scientology thinks that’s a sin…

And, oh my God. Can I please just meet someone whose autistic kid might want to play with mine, without all the bullshit?

No, apparently not. What was I expecting from the freaking Internets, huh? Okay, fine. We’ll be at home, playing video games and reading articles about the High Wire, the car of the future, which my son happens to know all about, if anybody out there is interested.

Good Books I Wish You Would Read

First of all, please, please read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Thom Haddon. If you’ve already read it, press it on others. Not only will it help you to understand what some autistic peeps go through on a daily basis, it’s also a damned good book. Seriously. It made me cry, it was so awesome. And it’s on a lot of high-school reading lists, so get your kids to read it, too.

The other book I recently read and enjoyed was Things You Should Know, a story collection by A.M. Homes. Yes, I know that I’ve told some of you that A.M. Homes scares me, and I’ll never read stuff by her again. But this one’s safe. It contains almost nothing about child abuse. You can read it at night without worrying about monsters coming to kill you. And the price of the book is worth it for the very last story alone. Teaser: It’s about Nancy Reagan, and you will both laugh and cry.

That’s all for this section. Besides those two, I’ve been reading a lot of non-fiction, which isn’t worth linking to unless you, like me, are weirdly obsessed with bead crocheting or Christmas crafts. Also, I tried to read a novel that was highly recommended by a lot of book-bloggers, but I couldn’t get past the first two chapters. I won’t name it, because there’s no need to be mean. I’ll just say that, by the end of Chapter 2, I was like, “I get it! You’re drunk, and you like to drink, and you black out all the time because you drink so much! I don’t care!” ‘Cause, seriously, I didn’t.

Someone turned us on to a local gelato place.

And my life will never be the same.

An All-New Way Not to Care What Others Think

Back to the Asperger’s thing. I think I mentioned in an earlier post that my son is experiencing an intensifying of his symptoms, now that he’s embarked on the magical journey that is puberty. One of his more noticeable symptoms is the tic’ing. (Ticking? Ticcing? He has tics.)

When he was very tiny, he flapped his hands, which is a very common tic for autistic peoples. He flapped for years, until people in his family made enough jokes about it to persuade him to stop.

Then, he started clearing his throat, instead. And, I wish to God I could go back in a time machine and realize that the throat-clearing was an actualy tic, and not just a bad habit, like boys spitting out the windows of their cars. Because I have to say that I’m probably the one that made him stop the throat-clearing, with my constant nagging, because hearing it was driving me crazy.

So, now, he doesn’t flap or clear his throat. He does something silent, but very noticeable, involving his head, his face, and his hands. Sometimes his arms in their entirety. I’ve been struggling really hard with the compulsion to control his tic. Other people tell me, “Dallas is doing that thing again. It’s getting worse.” And I whisper, “Shh. Just let him.” But it kills me. I admit it – sometimes I really want to say, “Dallas, could you maybe flap your hands, instead?” No… let’s be very honest, here. I have said that to him. But he can’t flap his hands instead, and he can’t go back to clearing his throat. The tics are involuntary. He can’t not do them. And, it’s not like they bother me, on their own. But I imagine him doing it at school, or out in public, and that people will stare or even make fun of him. And it kills me. I worry for him. I can’t help it.

And that’s not all… Lately, he seems to get upset more easily, and therefore he prefers to spend more and more time alone. That’s not always possible, though. Social obligations do oblige us all sometimes. For instance, over the weekend, we went to a family dinner at a local restaurant. It was a belated Father’s Day celebration, with my dad and my youngest brother and his family. Normally Dallas passes on family dinners, but this time he had no choice.

As always, I prepped all three of my kids ahead of time. I explained what we’d do, with whom, and how they’d be expected to act at each stage of the game. Dallas was worried about the restaurant we’d chosen, because he’s a little particular about his food. My boyfriend Tad and I assured him that this restaurant had the pasta and pasta sauce he preferred. He nodded his head. He was ready to roll then, ready to do as duty required.

When we got to the restaurant, all my preparations came undone. There was no preferred pasta. Instead of the regular menu, they had brunch. All different foods, nothing like we’d described. Dallas stared at the menu and became visibly upset.

It’s not that he’s so spoiled that he can’t eat something new. It’s that he has a hard time with unexpected change, and with plans being derailed. (My boyfriend would argue that’s probably a trait that he inherited from me, not a symptom of autism at all.) Add to that the stress of forced social interaction in a crowded, noisy, public place, and maybe some of you easily imagine how upset Dallas became.

I invited him to take a walk with me outside. He accepted. Away from the restaurant’s windows, he said, “I don’t want to cry, but I can’t stop myself.”

“That’s okay. Cry,” I said. “Sometimes I have to cry, too. Go on ahead.”

He cried until he was done. Then we stood under a tree and talked about the menu options, Italian restaurants in general, and the custom of Sunday brunch with bottomless belinis. As we walked back to rejoin the family, Dallas thought of something new to worry about.

“Everyone in the restaurant is going to wonder what we were doing. They’re going to look at us and know that I was crying.”

“No, they won’t,” I said. “Everyone in there is dressed up nice, and they’re drinking. All the women are worried about how they look, and all the men are worried about hooking up with the women. All people think about themselves more than anything else. They won’t even notice us.”

And they didn’t. And Dallas ordered the pizza, and the rest of the brunch/lunch went off without a hitch.

And, afterwards, I realized that most people are too self-involved to worry about my son’s tics. If they see him tic’ing and want to know why, we can tell them why. But, hopefully, most people will probably be too polite to ask or to stare. If they want to go home and talk about Dallas’s tics behind our backs, there’s nothing I can do about it, so screw them. It doesn’t matter. Our lives are filled with family, family lunches, good times, video games, gelato. Movies, school work, work-work, housework. Internets and books and flea-ridden-kitten sightings.

I realize, then, that I really don’t have time to worry about what people think, about anything at all. And the best “cure” I can give Dallas? Is to teach him to fill his life with good stuff and not worry, either.

When stressful things occur in my life, I like to take a week or month or year to process them before discussing them with anyone else. I think it’s a superstitious thing — I can’t risk having things “jinxed” while they’re still freshly occurring. Or else maybe they’re like paint — not safe to touch when freshly applied.

Hence, I’m just now telling y’all about stuff that’s been on my mind for months now. I think it’s a good sign that I can talk about these things on the blog now. It means I have them a little more under control. That said, I’m gonna talk briefly about one of my kids now, and what’s been going on with us.

My middle son, now 12, was recently diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, which basically means “touch of autism.” This didn’t come as a big surprise to me, because I noticed shortly after his birth that he had some autistic-esque symptoms. I’d never bothered to have him formally diagnosed, however, because he’s very bright and had managed to get along well enough through his younger years.

Until now. Now, in middle school, he’s been having a lot of problems. Or, maybe I should say that people around him have been having problems with his behavior. At first I defensively blamed our new school district, branding their staff as intolerant, but it was bound to happen, I suppose. In elementary school, everyone was used to Dallas’s slightly un-typical ways. No matter what middle school he went to, I suppose it was inevitable that people would notice and react to his differences in a bigger way.

So, we started the formal diagnosis process back in November or December. I was really, really reluctant to have my child labeled, but by then, it had become the lesser of two evils. My son’s behavior was being misconstrued in a way that affected his grades.

Common Misconceptions Surrounding People with Aspergers

1. People with Aspergers often find it uncomfortable to make or maintain eye contact. That discomfort can be misconstrued as disinterest or disrespect.

2. People with Aspergers often cope best with situations in which the rules and expectations are logical and clearly explained. Questions about rules can be misconstrued as disrespect for authority.

3. People with Aspergers, although often extremely intelligent, sometimes cope with stress by doing things that “typical” people don’t. Like verbal tics. Or repetitive movement (rocking, hand flapping). Or focusing on inanimate objects. Or seemingly disengaging mentally.

Add to that the fact that people with Aspergers are frustrated by things that don’t necessarily frustrate neurotypical people. Like certain noises, or prolonged eye contact, or seemingly illogical occurrences, or flickering lights, or being touched on the head, or being touched at all. So… someone reacting atypically to something a neurotypical teacher would not find stressful can be misconstrued as willfull misbehavior. Or horseplay. Or constant lollygagging. Or disrespect. Or mental retardation. Or Tourette’s. Or a condition that, although unidentified, would surely be improved by a little Ritalin. Or stupidity. Or simply something “weird,” that needs no investigation or empathy, but only for this weird kid to be removed from your class. From your sight. From your mind.

4. People with Aspergers don’t learn social skills in the same way that neurotypical people do. Whereas most people make eye contact with their mothers and caregivers instinctively, from birth, people with Aspergers might not make eye contact unless they are explicit told to do so on a regular basis. And, even then, they might not make it “correctly.” Whereas you or I might grow up with a general instinct about eye contact — when it’s appropriate and when it’s creepy — a person with Aspergers might need to have every detail of that knowledge explained.

And how do you explain knowledge you were born with, or knowledge you picked up on instinctively? If a person can’t make sense of the rules of eye contact, the first building block of social interaction, on his own, how will he make sense of the intricacies of small talk, or making friends, or finding romance? Will he be able to detect dishonesty, insincerity, or malice? If people are threatening him, bullying him, taking advantage of him?

(The answer to that last: Maybe he will learn these things if he concentrates very, very hard on understanding them. Like Mr. Spock struggling to understand Captain Kirk and Dr. Bones. Or maybe he will learn these things if he’s taught them by very patient, very empathetic people.)

Back to my story… the story of an overly stoic mom…

So, like I said, I feared having my son formally labeled. Why bother, I thought, when he gets along just fine at school? And when there’s no cure for Aspergers or autism, anyway? What’s the point? Why go through the hassle? Let him keep passing as a neurotypical person.

I wasn’t in denial, exactly, but I do admit that the idea of identifying my child as “disabled” had some strong conotations for me, personally. For instance: I was raised to believe that going to the doctor is only for emergencies. That asking for help is only for emergencies. That highlighting one’s own differences is at best a cry for attention and, at worst, a cry for pity.

I would take care of it by myself, I decided. I researched and read everything I could. I coached Dallas on my own. I talked to his teachers frequently and diplomatically and smoothed over the few incidents that occurred. (It helped that his teachers, on the whole, were very empathetic people. For that I thank God.)

Y’all might remember that I was very disappointed last year when Dallas didn’t get into any of the middle schools that we applied for. I’d had my heart set on staying in Houston’s Inner Loop, but it seemed apparent that the Inner Loop had its heart set on ejecting us and replacing us with someone richer.

Y’all might remember that I was equal parts happy and apprehensive about buying a house in the suburbs. Although people have been thriving in the suburbs since caveman times, almost, it was new and alien to me, and I feared massive culture clash and change.

So now we live in the neighborhood that I will call Farfield, and my kids go to school in Farfield ISD. And, as I mentioned above, people at Dallas’s new school noticed right off the bat that he was not typical. And, so, it came to pass that diagnosing his atypical-ness was what I had to do, if I wanted it construed as what it was, and not as disrespect, retardation, stupidity, or a disability requiring medication.

And now that that’s all been done, I’m glad. Farfield ISD turns out to have some extremely awesome, competent educational professionals. And they have what promises to be an awesome program to help kids with Aspergers learn the things that they can’t learn instinctively.

So, in a hokey, superstitious way, I’ve come to believe that the circumstances that led us there did not take place by chance. Inner Loop gentrification and housing inflation, Dallas’s bad middle school application luck, our apartment’s sudden rat infestation — it all led to Dallas traveling to a place where he’d get help.

Which is good, because people need all the help they can get, I realize. Even me.

This is going up unedited now. More on this later. Much more, way later. Thanks for reading, y’all.