I've wanted to write a few times in the last couple of days, due to having loads to say and because I've not written in quite a while. However, I've just not had enough time to flesh out the topics that I really want to talk about. That paper from Hell, I finally finished it, and I wasn't that happy with it. It earned me a B-, barely. One point away from a C. C!!!!! I've never gotten that close to a C before. I'm not much of a happy camper about it. It ensures that I must get a perfect score on four more forum postings and my final essay exam in order to keep an A in that class, thus keeping my 4.0 GPA.
Speaking of the 4.0 and why I need it. This is one of the most difficult things about my Asperger syndrome. Finding/keeping a job. The interview does me in. I want to go to grad school. A GOOD grad school. Good grad schools require good GPAs and excellent GRE scores. They also generally require a personal interview for admittance. Fail. I will do horribly at any and all interviews. It's inevitable. Therefore, I am extremely picky about my scores on my GRE and my GPA. They have to carry me through my poor interviewing skills.
When I was in my social training, we worked hard on interviewing skills. I never realized that I had a problem interviewing. I'd never been denied a job that I interviewed for....until I tried to get a job that wasn't fast food, pizza delivery, retail, etc. Jobs that the interview doesn't really matter beyond, "Can you be here when we need you?" I began interviewing last year for professional administrative jobs at law firms and schools, trying to get out of my transcription job that I hated and into something to get my foot in the door at a law firm or a university for when I get my degree. I failed miserably at each and every one of them. I can't read what the interviewer wants from me. Facial expressions and body language are a complete mystery. Every interview is different, so even though I studied what I was supposed to say, inevitably the template in my head was all wrong for the interview I was doing. It is nearly impossible to have a successful interview when you can't read the nonverbal cues that the interviewer is giving you, believe you me.
Hence the anxiety that I will have spent 50 grand on my education only to not be able to get a job past the interview process. Not only that, dudes, I can't KEEP a job! I have been in the workforce for 16 years, since my first job at a dry cleaner at age 14. In those 16 years, I have worked at over 60 different establishments, by my last count. SIXTY! I tend to work 2 or 3 jobs at the same time, 2 when I'm in school, 3 when I'm not. I like working, and I'm a good worker. I always show up and hardly ever call out, and I do the job to the best of my ability. I work all holidays, and I come in whenever called. Generally, I'm good at what I do. Only two of my over 60 jobs lasted longer than a few months. Both of these jobs were transcription, working from home, where I never saw a single coworker and never interacted with anyone. Coincidentally, the interviews for those two jobs were either e-mail interviews or telephone interviews. I never met my boss, except on one occasion for my first transcription job, and I was fired a few weeks later with no explanation. The reasons I am fired so often make no sense to me. A lot of them have been bull. Excuses because the real reason is that I just plain can't get along with my coworkers. I'm odd, and they don't like me, so they don't want to work with me anymore. I've been accused of stealing from several employers. SEVERAL. I have never stolen anything in my life. I'm a diligent rule keeper, and I have supreme respect for the law. Furthermore, I have a very, very strong work ethic. I would never steal from anyone, let alone from an employer. At one job in Philly, we weren't allowed to keep our tips during our training period, but one girl let me have $10 of her tips anyway because I had helped her out so much during her shift, and she didn't need to do much training of me. She then told the boss that I'd stolen the 10 from her, and I was fired. After one week on the job. I worked housekeeping at a hotel once, and a woman told my boss that I'd tried to start a fight with her partner. I wasn't even allowed to deny the claim before I was sent packing. "She's worked here longer than you, so I'll believe anything she says over anything you say. Get out." In reality, I'd gone down to apologize and make peace with her partner, because her partner and I had gotten into an argument at school. My first dry cleaning job, when I was 14 years old, I was fired because I couldn't come in on my day off. I didn't have a ride.
I'm accused of things that I don't do all of the time, both big and small, and a lot of times I lose my job over it. I have no idea why I'm such an easy target for this. Half of the time, it doesn't even make sense logically for me to have done what they accuse me of doing. Once I wasn't even in the state, yet somehow I had come back from California, stolen from a coworker, and then gotten back out to California in a span of 8 hours to cover up my "crime". In all instances, I was fired. Small errors that I didn't make were pinned on me all of the time because I was the coworker that everyone liked least, so to blame it on me didn't make anyone feel bad. Even errors made on shifts I didn't work were somehow my fault. The mushrooms are bad? Oh, Karen must have left them out of the walk-in two days ago when she worked last.
All of this is because I don't fit in, and I never will, unfortunately. It's such a damn struggle all of the time, trying to fit in, and then I always do something to screw it up. Honesty isn't something that is valued in the workplace. I nearly lost my last transcription job a few times for being honest in a phone conference. At one point, my honesty even warranted a telephone call from the CEO to tell me to shut my mouth. I was fine as long as no one had to interact with me. As soon as we started having phone meetings, I was on thin ice. However, I have the hardest time knowing when it is okay to speak my mind and when it isn't.
The training was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and keeping it in check on a daily basis is extremely difficult. Every time I mess up, I want to say "screw it. If they hate me, they hate me. I'm not changing for anyone." Then I remember that if I don't change, I can't keep a job, and then my whole family suffers. I'm destined to fail, though. It's exhausting to keep the "fake" me forward for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for the rest of my life.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Poor Milo
The little dudes have been obsessed with pets for the last two days. Big Man asked for a hamster, after watching Bolt several times over the course of a week. Contemplating when he is 7. If he can take care of Milo, the cat, by himself for a while to prove responsibility.
Big Man usually feeds Milo in the morning. This morning, it was a fight. Little Man wanted to feed him. The dudes yelled at one another. I was loading the car while Eric handled the scuffle, so I don't know the outcome. Halfway to preschool, Little Man says, "Karen, I don't know why really, but it smells like cat food back here." There's cat food all over the floor of my car. Wonder how THAT happened?
As it is, 9 hours later, Milo is meowing at me as if he's hungry, so I decided to check to see that at least one of the dudes fed him this morning.
His bowl was full of Chex Mix.
Big Man usually feeds Milo in the morning. This morning, it was a fight. Little Man wanted to feed him. The dudes yelled at one another. I was loading the car while Eric handled the scuffle, so I don't know the outcome. Halfway to preschool, Little Man says, "Karen, I don't know why really, but it smells like cat food back here." There's cat food all over the floor of my car. Wonder how THAT happened?
As it is, 9 hours later, Milo is meowing at me as if he's hungry, so I decided to check to see that at least one of the dudes fed him this morning.
His bowl was full of Chex Mix.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Random Thoughts
Tid-bits, as it were. I figured out my wedding hair. This is it:
My mom is going to make my veil. I like the flower on top, but I think I'm going to try to find something sparkly instead. The veil will likely be one that tucks under the updo and comes down. I know I don't want a tiara or anything. I'm not really the princess type. (Stop laughing).
As I do tons of wedding prep today, and as Little Man vacuums four rooms of the house, even moving furniture, of his own accord!, I am reminded how lucky I am to be marrying Eric and how lucky I am to be in the stepparenting role I'm in. I love these kids, and they love me back. I met my little dudes when they were 1 and 3, so young enough to learn to trust me through their high developing phases. This family is the whole package, though. You marry your in-laws, and I really love my in-laws. Eric's sisters, their respective husbands (heck, even one of them's ex-husband) and all 7 of Eric's nieces and nephews are wonderful people. I'm proud to be changing my name and becoming a part of the family. Don't get me wrong, I'll miss my old name. Baum is a pretty rad name, as where Kachelmeyer is....uh.....not Baum. Seriously, who NEEDS so many damn letters?! Anyway, at least I'm not taking a last name of a family I'm not proud to be a part of. I'm lucky.
It's time to enroll in classes for school! YAY! Also, what a hassle. I need five classes next semester since I can't take two over the summer, as there's this little thing about a wedding next summer. I got my first four just fine, Intro to Human Geography, Psychology as a Biological Science, Intro to International Relations and Middle Eastern Politics. This fifth class is giving me HEADACHES. I had signed up for The Bible, and then read more about it, and it's not a good fit for me. It's a 100 level course with apparently several subjective papers, and every review on the professor is not good, and not just a couple of reviews, either, two dozen. All saying she grades harshly on papers, and that the papers have nothing to do with the material, blah blah, so I ruled that one out. I need another online class, due to the little dudes' school schedules. I can only go to campus two days a week, and as it is, I'll be in my International Relations class Tues and Thurs from 10:30 to 11:45 while Little Man is at preschool, so those days, I'll drive 45 minutes to Greenwood to drop him off, and then have to get downtown for class, and then back to Greenwood to pick him up and then back home, and on Thursdays, I'll have another class on campus at 6 p.m., so get home, get Big Man off the bus, get his homework done and a snack, get the kitchen cleaned up and head to school right as Eric gets home. Busy. So, online are my only options. I tried three different math classes and had trouble enrolling in all of them. Didn't have the prerequisites or the prereqs for the prereqs. Some stupid thing where I picked the wrong Algebra class FIRST semester of my freshman year. *sigh* I resigned myself to only having four classes and then having to wait an extra semester to graduate. Then, yesterday, a bunch of new online self-study classes added, and one of them works for me. So, I went to enroll and was told I need permission from so-and-so. I emailed for permission, and he just emailed me back that I need permission from my advisor, too, and I better hurry because there are only 4 spots left in the class. GAH! For serious?
Also, the wedding is going to be AWESOOOOOME. I'm putting together a flash mob for it. Flippin sweet, I tell you. Flash mobs make me happy. I could YouTube them all day, but then I'd be put in jail for neglect, as who knows what Little Man would be up to while I'm doing that.
My mom is going to make my veil. I like the flower on top, but I think I'm going to try to find something sparkly instead. The veil will likely be one that tucks under the updo and comes down. I know I don't want a tiara or anything. I'm not really the princess type. (Stop laughing).
As I do tons of wedding prep today, and as Little Man vacuums four rooms of the house, even moving furniture, of his own accord!, I am reminded how lucky I am to be marrying Eric and how lucky I am to be in the stepparenting role I'm in. I love these kids, and they love me back. I met my little dudes when they were 1 and 3, so young enough to learn to trust me through their high developing phases. This family is the whole package, though. You marry your in-laws, and I really love my in-laws. Eric's sisters, their respective husbands (heck, even one of them's ex-husband) and all 7 of Eric's nieces and nephews are wonderful people. I'm proud to be changing my name and becoming a part of the family. Don't get me wrong, I'll miss my old name. Baum is a pretty rad name, as where Kachelmeyer is....uh.....not Baum. Seriously, who NEEDS so many damn letters?! Anyway, at least I'm not taking a last name of a family I'm not proud to be a part of. I'm lucky.
It's time to enroll in classes for school! YAY! Also, what a hassle. I need five classes next semester since I can't take two over the summer, as there's this little thing about a wedding next summer. I got my first four just fine, Intro to Human Geography, Psychology as a Biological Science, Intro to International Relations and Middle Eastern Politics. This fifth class is giving me HEADACHES. I had signed up for The Bible, and then read more about it, and it's not a good fit for me. It's a 100 level course with apparently several subjective papers, and every review on the professor is not good, and not just a couple of reviews, either, two dozen. All saying she grades harshly on papers, and that the papers have nothing to do with the material, blah blah, so I ruled that one out. I need another online class, due to the little dudes' school schedules. I can only go to campus two days a week, and as it is, I'll be in my International Relations class Tues and Thurs from 10:30 to 11:45 while Little Man is at preschool, so those days, I'll drive 45 minutes to Greenwood to drop him off, and then have to get downtown for class, and then back to Greenwood to pick him up and then back home, and on Thursdays, I'll have another class on campus at 6 p.m., so get home, get Big Man off the bus, get his homework done and a snack, get the kitchen cleaned up and head to school right as Eric gets home. Busy. So, online are my only options. I tried three different math classes and had trouble enrolling in all of them. Didn't have the prerequisites or the prereqs for the prereqs. Some stupid thing where I picked the wrong Algebra class FIRST semester of my freshman year. *sigh* I resigned myself to only having four classes and then having to wait an extra semester to graduate. Then, yesterday, a bunch of new online self-study classes added, and one of them works for me. So, I went to enroll and was told I need permission from so-and-so. I emailed for permission, and he just emailed me back that I need permission from my advisor, too, and I better hurry because there are only 4 spots left in the class. GAH! For serious?
Also, the wedding is going to be AWESOOOOOME. I'm putting together a flash mob for it. Flippin sweet, I tell you. Flash mobs make me happy. I could YouTube them all day, but then I'd be put in jail for neglect, as who knows what Little Man would be up to while I'm doing that.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Do these pants make my butt look big?
No. They don't. It's my butt that makes my butt look big. I'm gaining weight. Rapidly. I've upped two jeans sizes in the last two months, and today, my bigger jeans were hard to button. I've gotta muffin top all around them, and they aren't even low-rise jeans. *sigh*
Here's the thing about my eating habits. They're bad, but they're not THAT bad. There are things that I eat a LOT, though. Macaroni and cheese, Kraft brand, powdered cheese only, no funny shapes. I eat this about twice a week, but dudes! I no longer eat the WHOLE box now that I have to share with two little dudes! Also, I eat a lot of A1 sauce. I don't know what that has to do with anything. I eat those Lipton butter noodles and then dump A1 sauce in them. I can't eat them any other way without developing a major 'tude. Eric tried to put some corn in there once to make it semi-healthy, and let me tell you, having one of the adults at the table crying through dinner is a real mood killer. I had to pick out every little piece of corn first before I could enjoy my noodles. It was a disastah!
Also, I will never say "disaster" properly again, now that I know how Beyonce says it. "Disastah". She is so cool.
As it is, I work out, and I do eat smaller portions than I used to, so why in the effin eff am I GAINING weight? Girlfriend rides ten miles on a bike two or three times a week! I have killer calves, though. They are not a disastah. But my poor butt and stomach. All I gotta say is that I'm glad Eric likes cottage cheese. I think this has something to do with aging. I really have changed my eating and exercise habits for the BETTER, not the worse, so I have no clue what is going on.
/Blog
Here's the thing about my eating habits. They're bad, but they're not THAT bad. There are things that I eat a LOT, though. Macaroni and cheese, Kraft brand, powdered cheese only, no funny shapes. I eat this about twice a week, but dudes! I no longer eat the WHOLE box now that I have to share with two little dudes! Also, I eat a lot of A1 sauce. I don't know what that has to do with anything. I eat those Lipton butter noodles and then dump A1 sauce in them. I can't eat them any other way without developing a major 'tude. Eric tried to put some corn in there once to make it semi-healthy, and let me tell you, having one of the adults at the table crying through dinner is a real mood killer. I had to pick out every little piece of corn first before I could enjoy my noodles. It was a disastah!
Also, I will never say "disaster" properly again, now that I know how Beyonce says it. "Disastah". She is so cool.
As it is, I work out, and I do eat smaller portions than I used to, so why in the effin eff am I GAINING weight? Girlfriend rides ten miles on a bike two or three times a week! I have killer calves, though. They are not a disastah. But my poor butt and stomach. All I gotta say is that I'm glad Eric likes cottage cheese. I think this has something to do with aging. I really have changed my eating and exercise habits for the BETTER, not the worse, so I have no clue what is going on.
/Blog
Thursday, November 11, 2010
The Paper from Hades
On Sunday, my Children's Literature instructor posted the directions for our second paper of the semester. Sounds simple, yes? Here's the original question.
Compare how another version of a book we have read could lead the reader to interpret the story differently. For example: How does the book version of The Wizard of Oz differ from the movie version, and how would a reader interpret the story differently?
This seems like a simple enough question. I then proceeded to make it much harder than it should be. The rest of my class is writing about the above Wizard of Oz book/movie comparison. I chose, instead, to compare the political implications of The Wizard of Oz with the political implications of Wicked.
It's not going well. I'm supposed to be focusing on a small set of differences that leads to a different interpretation. However, what I chose IS the different interpretation, NOT a version of the same story. There are so many differences that I am overwhelmed.
Yesterday, I had my required chat with three of my classmates to discuss our working theses and help one another out. I was having trouble with writing my initial thesis and decided to wait to see what my classmates had to say about it and if their insights could help me. I explained my thesis to this response. "We've never read Wicked." GAH! No help at all. I sat in silence for hours, finally writing something that I thought was brilliant. I posted it in my forums for my classmates to review. They gave me rave reviews on my interesting thesis and thoughts that they couldn't wait to read the paper. I started writing and got about halfway done with the paper.
My teacher graded my working thesis and told me it sucked. Start over. I'm on the wrong track. *sigh* Back to square one. I may go insane.
Compare how another version of a book we have read could lead the reader to interpret the story differently. For example: How does the book version of The Wizard of Oz differ from the movie version, and how would a reader interpret the story differently?
This seems like a simple enough question. I then proceeded to make it much harder than it should be. The rest of my class is writing about the above Wizard of Oz book/movie comparison. I chose, instead, to compare the political implications of The Wizard of Oz with the political implications of Wicked.
It's not going well. I'm supposed to be focusing on a small set of differences that leads to a different interpretation. However, what I chose IS the different interpretation, NOT a version of the same story. There are so many differences that I am overwhelmed.
Yesterday, I had my required chat with three of my classmates to discuss our working theses and help one another out. I was having trouble with writing my initial thesis and decided to wait to see what my classmates had to say about it and if their insights could help me. I explained my thesis to this response. "We've never read Wicked." GAH! No help at all. I sat in silence for hours, finally writing something that I thought was brilliant. I posted it in my forums for my classmates to review. They gave me rave reviews on my interesting thesis and thoughts that they couldn't wait to read the paper. I started writing and got about halfway done with the paper.
My teacher graded my working thesis and told me it sucked. Start over. I'm on the wrong track. *sigh* Back to square one. I may go insane.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Nebraska
They have this law in Nebraska, where you can take any child up to age 18 and just drop them off at a hospital or fire station and just drive away, no questions asked. I nearly took advantage of this law today, but I wouldn't have been able to stand the Little Man for that long of a drive.
There are days, like today, where I feel that I wasn't cut out for this. I'm inhumane, a monster, for the way I feel and the mean things I say in my head to this defenseless (HA!), innocent (HA! HA!) 4-year-old child. How a simple thing like "Please change your shirt, Little Man" can turn into a 3-1/2 hour ordeal that has him screaming, biting, pinching, scratching, punching, spitting and, yes, throwing shoes at my head while driving. "Please change your shirt" was uttered, by me, the supposed adult, at 7:50 this morning. LM was due at school at 9. He didn't make it. He was still shirtless and shoeless by the time I carried him like a sack of potatoes to the car (he refused to walk there and did that whole "I'm 4 and will FLING myself to the floor and scream instead of using my legs and walking, and you will want to throw me out of a window for it!" I didn't defenestrate him. I picked him up over my shoulder half-naked and put him in the car of my own accord, his shirt and shoes and jacket that I had been begging him to put on for the last hour, thrown in with him. He complained that he was cold. YA THINK?!
LM's time out schedule goes like this. "LM, I need you to sit in the chair and be quiet for 4 minutes." He'll then stare at you or fling himself to the ground or say "No!", so we start counting. Five minutes, 6 minutes, 7 minutes, until he gets in the chair. When he's quiet, his time starts. If he is quiet for 3 minutes and then screams, his time starts over, etc. He is in full control of how long he gets to sit in the time out chair. I got up to 10 minutes this morning and told him if I had to count any more minutes, he wasn't going to school. He made me count up, so he didn't go to school. Unfortunately, it was his turn with the snack bag, so I had to drive the 45 minutes to drop it off anyway, or the rest of the class wouldn't have snacks. He screamed and punched windows and spit all of the way there. Dudes...he was COLD. Apparently not cold enough to get dressed. We arrived in the YMCA car rider line with still a half-naked Little Man. As we are pulling up, he puts his shirt and shoes and socks on in record time.....seriously, 10 seconds for all 5 items was all he needed. After two hours of screaming "I CAN'T!!!!!!" at me all morning. He assumed that since he'd done what I asked him to do, that I would now allow him to go to school.
He assumed wrong.
We dropped off the snack bag, and LM had to tell his teacher he was grounded and not allowed at school today. I then pulled into the parking lot to plan the rest of my day (routine.shattered.) I had stuff to do. LM was screaming and punching things again. I told him he was on my time now, not his. I had stuff to do, and instead of playing with is friends at school, he'd be doing my stuff. He was not happy. He took his shoes off and threw one at my head. I removed his blankie from his possession. I planned my route on my phone, while he screamed that he wanted to go home NOW! Instead, we went to the glasses shop, where he went in in his socks. Complaining about freezing feet. I then had to go to the library. On the way there, LM hit me in the face with a sock. I told him when we got home, he had lost all toy privileges. He spit in my face. I pulled into Marsh, and walked him, barefoot, past tons of "you are a monster" glares from the perfect parents, while he purchased a baby spoon and a bottle of white vinegar, his punishment for spitting. I then fed him a teaspoon of vinegar in public. Oh, the GLARES, dudes....the glares. I do what I can to entertain the public, you know.
He didn't spit again.
We went to the library. He was again barefoot. I wasn't about to hand back to him his projectiles. He coulda killed us both throwing crap at me while driving.
On my way to my mom's, I smelled gasoline, and then fire. My car was on fire! My first thought "Get Little Man out. NOW! I am about to die, but get him OUT!"
My car wasn't on fire, someone else's was, nearby, though I never saw whose. It was, however, a relief to know that, no matter how angry I am at this tiny person, no matter what, I would die for him. Flat out. I'm not a monster. I'm a mother.
There are days, like today, where I feel that I wasn't cut out for this. I'm inhumane, a monster, for the way I feel and the mean things I say in my head to this defenseless (HA!), innocent (HA! HA!) 4-year-old child. How a simple thing like "Please change your shirt, Little Man" can turn into a 3-1/2 hour ordeal that has him screaming, biting, pinching, scratching, punching, spitting and, yes, throwing shoes at my head while driving. "Please change your shirt" was uttered, by me, the supposed adult, at 7:50 this morning. LM was due at school at 9. He didn't make it. He was still shirtless and shoeless by the time I carried him like a sack of potatoes to the car (he refused to walk there and did that whole "I'm 4 and will FLING myself to the floor and scream instead of using my legs and walking, and you will want to throw me out of a window for it!" I didn't defenestrate him. I picked him up over my shoulder half-naked and put him in the car of my own accord, his shirt and shoes and jacket that I had been begging him to put on for the last hour, thrown in with him. He complained that he was cold. YA THINK?!
LM's time out schedule goes like this. "LM, I need you to sit in the chair and be quiet for 4 minutes." He'll then stare at you or fling himself to the ground or say "No!", so we start counting. Five minutes, 6 minutes, 7 minutes, until he gets in the chair. When he's quiet, his time starts. If he is quiet for 3 minutes and then screams, his time starts over, etc. He is in full control of how long he gets to sit in the time out chair. I got up to 10 minutes this morning and told him if I had to count any more minutes, he wasn't going to school. He made me count up, so he didn't go to school. Unfortunately, it was his turn with the snack bag, so I had to drive the 45 minutes to drop it off anyway, or the rest of the class wouldn't have snacks. He screamed and punched windows and spit all of the way there. Dudes...he was COLD. Apparently not cold enough to get dressed. We arrived in the YMCA car rider line with still a half-naked Little Man. As we are pulling up, he puts his shirt and shoes and socks on in record time.....seriously, 10 seconds for all 5 items was all he needed. After two hours of screaming "I CAN'T!!!!!!" at me all morning. He assumed that since he'd done what I asked him to do, that I would now allow him to go to school.
He assumed wrong.
We dropped off the snack bag, and LM had to tell his teacher he was grounded and not allowed at school today. I then pulled into the parking lot to plan the rest of my day (routine.shattered.) I had stuff to do. LM was screaming and punching things again. I told him he was on my time now, not his. I had stuff to do, and instead of playing with is friends at school, he'd be doing my stuff. He was not happy. He took his shoes off and threw one at my head. I removed his blankie from his possession. I planned my route on my phone, while he screamed that he wanted to go home NOW! Instead, we went to the glasses shop, where he went in in his socks. Complaining about freezing feet. I then had to go to the library. On the way there, LM hit me in the face with a sock. I told him when we got home, he had lost all toy privileges. He spit in my face. I pulled into Marsh, and walked him, barefoot, past tons of "you are a monster" glares from the perfect parents, while he purchased a baby spoon and a bottle of white vinegar, his punishment for spitting. I then fed him a teaspoon of vinegar in public. Oh, the GLARES, dudes....the glares. I do what I can to entertain the public, you know.
He didn't spit again.
We went to the library. He was again barefoot. I wasn't about to hand back to him his projectiles. He coulda killed us both throwing crap at me while driving.
On my way to my mom's, I smelled gasoline, and then fire. My car was on fire! My first thought "Get Little Man out. NOW! I am about to die, but get him OUT!"
My car wasn't on fire, someone else's was, nearby, though I never saw whose. It was, however, a relief to know that, no matter how angry I am at this tiny person, no matter what, I would die for him. Flat out. I'm not a monster. I'm a mother.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Such An Aquitard
I think of all of these profound topics that I want to write about, and then the more I think about them, the more aquitarded they seem. Or, I think of the content such a blog would entail, and it seems inappropriate. This IS my personal blog, but it's not a PRIVATE blog, know what I mean? The Internet has gotten me in trouble before. I don't wanna go about embarrassing my future family.
Anyway, today's post is about the word "retarded". Just before my diagnosis, I was asking around a bit about personality traits that people see in me. Wondering what was wrong with me, basically. I asked a bunch of strangers and some not so strangers. During the course of this inquiry, someone I went to elementary school with piped up. We hadn't spoken in years, and I really don't have any idea why we are on one another's FB list after all this time. Half the people that friend requested me never even really spoke to me in school. Anyway, she told me that, pretty much, all of the kids in my elementary school thought I was retarded. I acted strangely. Very strangely. No one batted an eye because they thought I was mentally handicapped. I asked my mother about this later, and it turns out, no one even told her about my strange behavior at school. I guess they assumed she KNEW she had a retarded daughter. It was one of those things where the kids laughed at me behind my back and pretended to like me to my face because "it's just so sad" and the adults (teachers/administrators, etc.) allowed me to act like a fool in front of everyone because they felt it would be discriminatory to retarded people to stop me. My teachers weren't trained to deal with retarded kids.
If I was retarded, wouldn't I have been in the specials class? Is that what threw everyone off? I KNOW the kids in the specials class were redirected in their behaviors. I saw it happen. So, why wasn't I? My theory, because I didn't look like the kids in the specials class. I have no Downs features, no physical slowness to develop (until puberty, Lawd, I was a late bloomer). I had no speech delays or any intellectual issues. My mother told me she had me tested when I was 6. I don't remember why she said, but I think it had something to do with the school wanting me to skip first grade due to my reading ability. As it was, she said I tested into a freshman-level reading class. I didn't skip a grade. My social skills wouldn't have handled it.
In light of my diagnosis, though, the question has come up. Am I, or am I not, actually retarded? I've been called "retard" by people my entire life, people that meant to insult me, and of course I got offended. That was the purpose of using the word. But, I find that I feel a little twinge of pain when people use the word "retard" in general conversation. Not offense, exactly, but actual hurt. Even if the label isn't directed at me or is being self-deprecating. Last night, in Geology, we were learning about aquifers and aquitards, and during the group lab, we weren't doing so hot, and my team members kept saying, "We are being such aquitards." Funny, right? Little play on words in Geology. As it was, I felt hurt by it and more than a little embarrassed for being hurt by it.
Am I retarded? I don't know. I guess in a strict sense of the term, yes. My social development was, in fact, retarded.
I didn't go to therapy for this, I went to training. It felt like torture. I always left the sessions feeling worse than when I went in. Like I was trying to force myself to be something I'm not. I still am. Every time I want to say "screw it" I remember that no one that I interact with on a professional basis (or educational) can stand me. If I can't overcome this, to put it simply, I can't keep a job. That's the topic for another post. My 3 million jobs, none of which lasted very long (except for one, and I have a very good idea of why).
Anyway, today's post is about the word "retarded". Just before my diagnosis, I was asking around a bit about personality traits that people see in me. Wondering what was wrong with me, basically. I asked a bunch of strangers and some not so strangers. During the course of this inquiry, someone I went to elementary school with piped up. We hadn't spoken in years, and I really don't have any idea why we are on one another's FB list after all this time. Half the people that friend requested me never even really spoke to me in school. Anyway, she told me that, pretty much, all of the kids in my elementary school thought I was retarded. I acted strangely. Very strangely. No one batted an eye because they thought I was mentally handicapped. I asked my mother about this later, and it turns out, no one even told her about my strange behavior at school. I guess they assumed she KNEW she had a retarded daughter. It was one of those things where the kids laughed at me behind my back and pretended to like me to my face because "it's just so sad" and the adults (teachers/administrators, etc.) allowed me to act like a fool in front of everyone because they felt it would be discriminatory to retarded people to stop me. My teachers weren't trained to deal with retarded kids.
If I was retarded, wouldn't I have been in the specials class? Is that what threw everyone off? I KNOW the kids in the specials class were redirected in their behaviors. I saw it happen. So, why wasn't I? My theory, because I didn't look like the kids in the specials class. I have no Downs features, no physical slowness to develop (until puberty, Lawd, I was a late bloomer). I had no speech delays or any intellectual issues. My mother told me she had me tested when I was 6. I don't remember why she said, but I think it had something to do with the school wanting me to skip first grade due to my reading ability. As it was, she said I tested into a freshman-level reading class. I didn't skip a grade. My social skills wouldn't have handled it.
In light of my diagnosis, though, the question has come up. Am I, or am I not, actually retarded? I've been called "retard" by people my entire life, people that meant to insult me, and of course I got offended. That was the purpose of using the word. But, I find that I feel a little twinge of pain when people use the word "retard" in general conversation. Not offense, exactly, but actual hurt. Even if the label isn't directed at me or is being self-deprecating. Last night, in Geology, we were learning about aquifers and aquitards, and during the group lab, we weren't doing so hot, and my team members kept saying, "We are being such aquitards." Funny, right? Little play on words in Geology. As it was, I felt hurt by it and more than a little embarrassed for being hurt by it.
Am I retarded? I don't know. I guess in a strict sense of the term, yes. My social development was, in fact, retarded.
I didn't go to therapy for this, I went to training. It felt like torture. I always left the sessions feeling worse than when I went in. Like I was trying to force myself to be something I'm not. I still am. Every time I want to say "screw it" I remember that no one that I interact with on a professional basis (or educational) can stand me. If I can't overcome this, to put it simply, I can't keep a job. That's the topic for another post. My 3 million jobs, none of which lasted very long (except for one, and I have a very good idea of why).
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Downtown Stressland. One ticket, please, express line.
Today has been a FLURRY of homework and insanity. INSANITY!!! I had about 30 bazillion hilarious things to write about, but zero is how many I can recall. I've just spent about 3 hours of my life working on a single logic problem that I finally finished, but I'm not quite sure that it's right. I'll lose sleep over this, and I know it. Perhaps I should purchase my ticket to Tylenol PMville instead of Stressland.
As it is, the dreaded ROUTINE has been totally screwed for about, oh four weeks in a row now, and today, I decided I HAVE to get back to it. Have.to. I'm driving my family bananas with my whining and ridiculousness. I wake up in the morning angry with the kids because I haven't slept well in weeks because stuff went insane.
My schedule is supposed to go like this: Monday, I have off. The kids' mom takes the Little Man for the day while the Big Man is in school and Eric is at work, and I have 8 GLOOORIOUS hours to myself between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. This is the time I schedule all of my appointments, wander the local coffee shops, do all the nitty-gritty homework that I need absolute silence for and clean the house in my laundry-day underpants with Lady Gaga blaring from the speakers. Aaah, Monday. The best day of the week.
Tuesdays the Little Man goes to school about 45 minutes away at the YMCA for 4 hours. These days, I drop him off and stay to work out and shower. Their water pressure there is to.die. Then I sit in the quiet part at the Y, have my lunch and do homework until it's time to get him. It's pretty stress free, and I feel great after working out. Lately, though, the Big Man had two weeks of fall break off from school, so I had to figure stuff out to do with him instead. Routine shattered. Then, the Tuesday he went back to school, I was all excited to get back to it, but then car accident supreme happened. This is an amusing story. So, I backed my car into the garage door. Seriously. I gotta be some sorta flipping idiot. Anyway, one evening I was craving mimosas and action flicks, so I rushed outta the house to hit up the Meijer for some cheap champagne and some OJ. I opened the garage door, got in the car, started to back out, and BAM! The door was on its way back down! What the French, Toast?!?! Needless to say, I didn't get my mimosas. I stayed out there for a while, staring at the mess of a garage door, mouth agape wondering "Now, how in the heck am I gonna go inside to Eric and 'splain THIS?" "So, honey? darlin? gorgeous, GORGEOUS man? Well, we've lived here for a while now, and...uh...you remember the garage? How the door used to, like, look all nice and straight and, like, close and stuff? Well, it doesn't anymore..." Anyway, I took the car to the body shop to have the bumper repainted. I picked it up at 5 p.m. on a Monday. The first time I drove it was 8 a.m. the next morning when I took the Little Man to school at the YMCA, all happy to have my car back and my routine restored. So, we park, and this other dude parks next to me and proceeds to SLAM HIS DOOR INTO MY CAR AND WALK AWAY! I jumped out and checked, and, dudes, I kid you not, there is a 12 inch by 4 inch scratch of RED PAINT down my door. The DAY AFTER I picked it up from the body shop.
And seriously, this story gets so much better.
So, I chase the guy into the YMCA, yeah? He says, "Oh, I didn't realize I hit it." PFFFF. What he didn't REALIZE is that we were IN THE CAR when he hit it, so he got caught. Anyway, so he says he has this son-in-law, and he owns a body shop in Whiteland, so I just need to go down there, and he gives me directions and his insurance information and sends me on my way. I'm livid. ROUTINE, DUDE! ROUTINE!!!!!! So, I put Jim Bob's Whiteland Body Shop in my GPS and head on down 31 the way Duder McDuderson tells me to go. He says, "Go to the Whiteland stop light and turn left." I pull up to a light that looks like it's in Whiteland, and my GPS tells me to go RIGHT. WTF? So, I turn left anyway, like the guy says, and I look back at the street sign to make sure this is Main St. and look to the side to see if I see Jim's and BAM! Dudes.....I got in a car accident LOOKING for the body shop, the DAY AFTER I got it out of the body shop. Thank the good Lord I didn't hurt the lady in front of me, at least not physically. By the time we both got out of the car, I was in full-on Aspie meltdown mode, and she probably thought I was some sort of lunatic escaped from the local institution. No wonder she wanted to high-tail it out of there. I was crying and begging her not to be hurt. I swear to you, I hit her going about 7.5 miles an hour in my tiny Yaris. My fiberglass front bumper has a couple of holes in it, but her 1980's steel boat bumper didn't have a ding. Still, I was positive I had broken her neck with my carelessness and kept crying and squealing like an idiot. She just wanted to get her Hardee's on and split ASAP.
As it was, I pulled over to recheck my directions and calm down and throw my tantrum in the silence of my own car. I wasn't even on the right street. This was not Main St. at all. I decided old Silver Sneakers from the YMCA was wrong, and I'd follow my GPS. All the way to Bargersville (hint: NOT in Whiteland) during some freak October tornado storm. Who in the crap KNOWS where I ended up. Some Bargersville government building with the same street address (different town GOOGLE MAPS!) of Jim's Body Shop. I'm lost, and it's freakin storming like a mofo, tornado sirens are going off, and my routine is SO EFFED, dudes. I'm hysterical by this time. As it is, I found my way back to 31, and, oh, look....there's Main St. In Whiteland. I find my way to Jim's, and wouldn't you know it? Jim don't live there no mo'. The sign's upside down and the building's vacant. My fist nearly went through ole' Jim's front window.
I stopped by the Golden Chassis Body Shop in Greenwood on my way back to the Y after my THREE-HOUR adventure. They were able to wipe the red paint off with a little solvent, and you can't even tell anyone ever hit me with their door. Too bad I now have three gaping holes in my front bumper.
Man, is this blog a novel or what? It may turn into one. Like, a real one. I still haven't decided. As it is, Wednesday's routine involves making the shopping list and organizing all of my coupons for tomorrow's grocery run, so I'm gonna end the blog and do that.
As it is, the dreaded ROUTINE has been totally screwed for about, oh four weeks in a row now, and today, I decided I HAVE to get back to it. Have.to. I'm driving my family bananas with my whining and ridiculousness. I wake up in the morning angry with the kids because I haven't slept well in weeks because stuff went insane.
My schedule is supposed to go like this: Monday, I have off. The kids' mom takes the Little Man for the day while the Big Man is in school and Eric is at work, and I have 8 GLOOORIOUS hours to myself between 8 a.m. and 4 p.m. This is the time I schedule all of my appointments, wander the local coffee shops, do all the nitty-gritty homework that I need absolute silence for and clean the house in my laundry-day underpants with Lady Gaga blaring from the speakers. Aaah, Monday. The best day of the week.
Tuesdays the Little Man goes to school about 45 minutes away at the YMCA for 4 hours. These days, I drop him off and stay to work out and shower. Their water pressure there is to.die. Then I sit in the quiet part at the Y, have my lunch and do homework until it's time to get him. It's pretty stress free, and I feel great after working out. Lately, though, the Big Man had two weeks of fall break off from school, so I had to figure stuff out to do with him instead. Routine shattered. Then, the Tuesday he went back to school, I was all excited to get back to it, but then car accident supreme happened. This is an amusing story. So, I backed my car into the garage door. Seriously. I gotta be some sorta flipping idiot. Anyway, one evening I was craving mimosas and action flicks, so I rushed outta the house to hit up the Meijer for some cheap champagne and some OJ. I opened the garage door, got in the car, started to back out, and BAM! The door was on its way back down! What the French, Toast?!?! Needless to say, I didn't get my mimosas. I stayed out there for a while, staring at the mess of a garage door, mouth agape wondering "Now, how in the heck am I gonna go inside to Eric and 'splain THIS?" "So, honey? darlin? gorgeous, GORGEOUS man? Well, we've lived here for a while now, and...uh...you remember the garage? How the door used to, like, look all nice and straight and, like, close and stuff? Well, it doesn't anymore..." Anyway, I took the car to the body shop to have the bumper repainted. I picked it up at 5 p.m. on a Monday. The first time I drove it was 8 a.m. the next morning when I took the Little Man to school at the YMCA, all happy to have my car back and my routine restored. So, we park, and this other dude parks next to me and proceeds to SLAM HIS DOOR INTO MY CAR AND WALK AWAY! I jumped out and checked, and, dudes, I kid you not, there is a 12 inch by 4 inch scratch of RED PAINT down my door. The DAY AFTER I picked it up from the body shop.
And seriously, this story gets so much better.
So, I chase the guy into the YMCA, yeah? He says, "Oh, I didn't realize I hit it." PFFFF. What he didn't REALIZE is that we were IN THE CAR when he hit it, so he got caught. Anyway, so he says he has this son-in-law, and he owns a body shop in Whiteland, so I just need to go down there, and he gives me directions and his insurance information and sends me on my way. I'm livid. ROUTINE, DUDE! ROUTINE!!!!!! So, I put Jim Bob's Whiteland Body Shop in my GPS and head on down 31 the way Duder McDuderson tells me to go. He says, "Go to the Whiteland stop light and turn left." I pull up to a light that looks like it's in Whiteland, and my GPS tells me to go RIGHT. WTF? So, I turn left anyway, like the guy says, and I look back at the street sign to make sure this is Main St. and look to the side to see if I see Jim's and BAM! Dudes.....I got in a car accident LOOKING for the body shop, the DAY AFTER I got it out of the body shop. Thank the good Lord I didn't hurt the lady in front of me, at least not physically. By the time we both got out of the car, I was in full-on Aspie meltdown mode, and she probably thought I was some sort of lunatic escaped from the local institution. No wonder she wanted to high-tail it out of there. I was crying and begging her not to be hurt. I swear to you, I hit her going about 7.5 miles an hour in my tiny Yaris. My fiberglass front bumper has a couple of holes in it, but her 1980's steel boat bumper didn't have a ding. Still, I was positive I had broken her neck with my carelessness and kept crying and squealing like an idiot. She just wanted to get her Hardee's on and split ASAP.
As it was, I pulled over to recheck my directions and calm down and throw my tantrum in the silence of my own car. I wasn't even on the right street. This was not Main St. at all. I decided old Silver Sneakers from the YMCA was wrong, and I'd follow my GPS. All the way to Bargersville (hint: NOT in Whiteland) during some freak October tornado storm. Who in the crap KNOWS where I ended up. Some Bargersville government building with the same street address (different town GOOGLE MAPS!) of Jim's Body Shop. I'm lost, and it's freakin storming like a mofo, tornado sirens are going off, and my routine is SO EFFED, dudes. I'm hysterical by this time. As it is, I found my way back to 31, and, oh, look....there's Main St. In Whiteland. I find my way to Jim's, and wouldn't you know it? Jim don't live there no mo'. The sign's upside down and the building's vacant. My fist nearly went through ole' Jim's front window.
I stopped by the Golden Chassis Body Shop in Greenwood on my way back to the Y after my THREE-HOUR adventure. They were able to wipe the red paint off with a little solvent, and you can't even tell anyone ever hit me with their door. Too bad I now have three gaping holes in my front bumper.
Man, is this blog a novel or what? It may turn into one. Like, a real one. I still haven't decided. As it is, Wednesday's routine involves making the shopping list and organizing all of my coupons for tomorrow's grocery run, so I'm gonna end the blog and do that.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Vote for Pedro
Listen. I will write two bloggity blogs in one day if I want to. As I typed "bloggity blog", I recall that my stepfather, Juris, tells me that the kids need to stop listening to all that hippity hop music. When he says this, he hops from one foot to the other and wags his head like three snaps and a cheeseburger. It's hard to take him seriously, but these are his real opinions, folks.
The kids have said some hilarious things lately, so I figured I'd blog them.
The Little Man told me yesterday that he will put his shoes on......and I look like a meatloaf.
I took the Big Man to Toys R Us a few weeks ago to pick out the toys that he wants to ask Santa for. I wasn't being very sneaky. I carried around a pad of paper and wrote down everything he wanted and the price. I told him he was picking all of the expensive stuff. He told me when it comes from Santa, it doesn't cost anything. I told him Santa sends us a bill. My cousin wondered what we were gonna do when the kids were teenagers, and the "toys" they want for Christmas cost 200 bucks. My answer is that is the year when their Christmas gift is a stocking full of job applications.
Speaking of Santa, I don't recall ever having to keep this "secret" from anyone before, and seeing as I always vowed to never have kids (another, less lighthearted post topic), I figured I'd never have to do it. For real, dudes, I hate it. I think the actual idea of Santa is stupid. Also, I'm REALLY awful at lying. I might as well wink and nudge the kid when I mention "Santa". Seriously, I would do air quotes every time I said the word "Santa". Alas, I'm just a stepparent. I don't get to decide that Santa is stupid for the dudes. Their actual parents think he's one cool mofo, so I have to act like he is, too. That chubby effer. Put the cookie down!
The Little Man gave me a compliment a couple of days ago. It went like this:
LM: Karen, someone wrote on your car with chalk.
Me: I know. I can't seem to get it off.
LM: You sure do look beautiful when you have your glasses on.
Also, on Halloween, someone answered the door, and instead of "trick or treat", Little Man decided on "Whoa! What is that smell?!?" The guy told him it was food, but Little Man came down the driveway and said "That man, he had Doritos smelling in his breath." Awesome.
Last year some time, I was on this "we will only eat ground turkey and not ground beef" kick for like.....two hours. Anyway, I was making spaghetti with the Jennie-O turkey that the Biggest Losers covet, and the Big Man asks me, "What's that?" "Turkey," I supplied. Like I said, me and lying, we just don't go together. The Big Man astutely informs me that, "that's not turkey. Turkey is made from meat and sauce."
Who knew?
The kids have said some hilarious things lately, so I figured I'd blog them.
The Little Man told me yesterday that he will put his shoes on......and I look like a meatloaf.
I took the Big Man to Toys R Us a few weeks ago to pick out the toys that he wants to ask Santa for. I wasn't being very sneaky. I carried around a pad of paper and wrote down everything he wanted and the price. I told him he was picking all of the expensive stuff. He told me when it comes from Santa, it doesn't cost anything. I told him Santa sends us a bill. My cousin wondered what we were gonna do when the kids were teenagers, and the "toys" they want for Christmas cost 200 bucks. My answer is that is the year when their Christmas gift is a stocking full of job applications.
Speaking of Santa, I don't recall ever having to keep this "secret" from anyone before, and seeing as I always vowed to never have kids (another, less lighthearted post topic), I figured I'd never have to do it. For real, dudes, I hate it. I think the actual idea of Santa is stupid. Also, I'm REALLY awful at lying. I might as well wink and nudge the kid when I mention "Santa". Seriously, I would do air quotes every time I said the word "Santa". Alas, I'm just a stepparent. I don't get to decide that Santa is stupid for the dudes. Their actual parents think he's one cool mofo, so I have to act like he is, too. That chubby effer. Put the cookie down!
The Little Man gave me a compliment a couple of days ago. It went like this:
LM: Karen, someone wrote on your car with chalk.
Me: I know. I can't seem to get it off.
LM: You sure do look beautiful when you have your glasses on.
Also, on Halloween, someone answered the door, and instead of "trick or treat", Little Man decided on "Whoa! What is that smell?!?" The guy told him it was food, but Little Man came down the driveway and said "That man, he had Doritos smelling in his breath." Awesome.
Last year some time, I was on this "we will only eat ground turkey and not ground beef" kick for like.....two hours. Anyway, I was making spaghetti with the Jennie-O turkey that the Biggest Losers covet, and the Big Man asks me, "What's that?" "Turkey," I supplied. Like I said, me and lying, we just don't go together. The Big Man astutely informs me that, "that's not turkey. Turkey is made from meat and sauce."
Who knew?
The dreaded ROUTINE
At the very CORE of my Asperger's syndrome, front and center (mostly center), lies the dreaded ROUTINE. The routine is the thing that gives me the most frustration. For one, if it gets effed, my attitude becomes very, very bad. Temper-tantruming, reduced to a 3-year-old girl, outta my way, buster, bad. As you've probably guessed, this and parenting do not go together. The routine plus STEPparenting....even worse. My day-to-day has a plan. A very strict and rigid plan. I can change the plan with a slight head pain, as long as another plan is replacing it, but if someone ELSE messes with my plans, it's like a drill bit pushing slowly through my head. The more the routine is changed, the angrier and more irrational I become. Lord help the person who changes my plans and gives me no backup instructions. It goes a little like this:
"By the way, I know you weren't supposed to have the kids today, but their usual care provider is busy, so you'll have the Little Man for the rest of the day."
"Um.....I have PLANS!"
"Sorry. Just found out about it ten minutes ago."
"But....what am I supposed to DO? I have the day PLANNED."
"I don't know. Figure it out."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!! *TAZMANIAN DEVIL SPINNY HEAD MOVE* AAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"
Then I'm a totally frazzled jerk for the rest of the day. No one can speak to me. Little chatters and giggles make me what to ram blunted sporks into my eyes, and that's on a GOOD day. If whining, fighting, purposeful annoyance of a brother occurs, it's over. Everyone (including me) is in time out for 2 hours.
It builds, as well. If the routine goes bad one day, it sucks. If it goes bad two days in a row, it's a nightmare. If I don't get back on track more than 2 to 3 days in a row, I begin to implode. The inevitable temper tantrum rises up, and *poof* I need to hide in a sound-proof bathroom alone with things to throw.
The dreaded ROUTINE is something that I can't really explain. "You can't plan every minute of every day of your life, Karen." Sounds simple, yes? NO. Maybe I can't do it, but I NEED to do it. In fact, I DO do it. I plan exactly what needs to happen the next day in my head before I go to bed every morning. So, I CAN, in fact, plan every minute of every day of my life. It's when it doesn't go according to that plan is when the problems start.
I just realized that I'm only wearing one earring. Eff it all, I just bought these, and now I seem to have lost one. How does someone not notice a neon green earring falling out and onto the ground? Seriously! I suppose this blog is over. I need to go look for the damn thing now, and I can't solve my stupid routine problem, anyway.
"By the way, I know you weren't supposed to have the kids today, but their usual care provider is busy, so you'll have the Little Man for the rest of the day."
"Um.....I have PLANS!"
"Sorry. Just found out about it ten minutes ago."
"But....what am I supposed to DO? I have the day PLANNED."
"I don't know. Figure it out."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!! *TAZMANIAN DEVIL SPINNY HEAD MOVE* AAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!"
Then I'm a totally frazzled jerk for the rest of the day. No one can speak to me. Little chatters and giggles make me what to ram blunted sporks into my eyes, and that's on a GOOD day. If whining, fighting, purposeful annoyance of a brother occurs, it's over. Everyone (including me) is in time out for 2 hours.
It builds, as well. If the routine goes bad one day, it sucks. If it goes bad two days in a row, it's a nightmare. If I don't get back on track more than 2 to 3 days in a row, I begin to implode. The inevitable temper tantrum rises up, and *poof* I need to hide in a sound-proof bathroom alone with things to throw.
The dreaded ROUTINE is something that I can't really explain. "You can't plan every minute of every day of your life, Karen." Sounds simple, yes? NO. Maybe I can't do it, but I NEED to do it. In fact, I DO do it. I plan exactly what needs to happen the next day in my head before I go to bed every morning. So, I CAN, in fact, plan every minute of every day of my life. It's when it doesn't go according to that plan is when the problems start.
I just realized that I'm only wearing one earring. Eff it all, I just bought these, and now I seem to have lost one. How does someone not notice a neon green earring falling out and onto the ground? Seriously! I suppose this blog is over. I need to go look for the damn thing now, and I can't solve my stupid routine problem, anyway.
Monday, November 1, 2010
The Introduction
I suppose I better tell you a little bit about me and what this blog will mostly be about. The basics, my name is Karen. I'm 31 years old. I'm engaged to be married to the most wonderful (and patient) man on the planet next July. Eric and I have been together for a smidge over three years, and I will be the future stepmother to the Big Man, age 6, and the Little Man, age 4. Eric and I have the kids (hereafter referred to as the dudes) full time. About two and a half months ago or so, after 16 years in the workforce, I quit my job in order to become a stay-at-home mom. I was juggling a lot with 40 hours a week, plus being a full-time university student and a full-time mom to the dudes. Eric works 40 to 50 hours a week, sometimes more, at two jobs, plus he's an amazing dad. Something had to give. I'm still adjusting to the change.
This blog will be about LOADS of things. My head never stays in one place for long. There will be loads of stuff about my opinions on motherhood, I'm sure, along with quite a few stories from my past (I've got some good ones), and I'm sure quite a bit about fashion, which is my number one hobby. My PASSION, however, is school. I'm a junior at Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis. I'm a political science major. I have a 4.0 GPA, and I'm not slowing down. I freak out if I get a B, seriously, and beg for extra credit to make sure I don't lose my GPA. The blog will likely have loads of school freak abouts.
That seems a good segue. About a year ago, I was in a history class, and there was this guy. He just wouldn't shut up. Class after class after class, in the middle of lecture, at least a dozen times a class, he'd raise his hand to ask a question. The question always began with "Isn't it true that.....?" and always ended with him trying to display some sort of knowledge that the professor hadn't bestowed upon us or the opposite of what our professor had just said. He didn't really want his questions answered, he was showing off. He wanted affirmation that he was right and the professor was wrong, or that he was smarter than the rest of us. Ilike need to stay on schedule. This, it was taking time out of my scheduled class time. He was injecting information that was not going to be on my exams. I am NOT okay with that. As it was, I yelled at him. In the middle of class. And then I cried in front of everyone. A psychologist was suggested. A few weeks later, I walked out of the office with a shiny new diagnosis of Asperger Syndrome/high-functioning autism.
Thirty years of my life began to make sense.
This blog will be about LOADS of things. My head never stays in one place for long. There will be loads of stuff about my opinions on motherhood, I'm sure, along with quite a few stories from my past (I've got some good ones), and I'm sure quite a bit about fashion, which is my number one hobby. My PASSION, however, is school. I'm a junior at Indiana University Purdue University Indianapolis. I'm a political science major. I have a 4.0 GPA, and I'm not slowing down. I freak out if I get a B, seriously, and beg for extra credit to make sure I don't lose my GPA. The blog will likely have loads of school freak abouts.
That seems a good segue. About a year ago, I was in a history class, and there was this guy. He just wouldn't shut up. Class after class after class, in the middle of lecture, at least a dozen times a class, he'd raise his hand to ask a question. The question always began with "Isn't it true that.....?" and always ended with him trying to display some sort of knowledge that the professor hadn't bestowed upon us or the opposite of what our professor had just said. He didn't really want his questions answered, he was showing off. He wanted affirmation that he was right and the professor was wrong, or that he was smarter than the rest of us. I
Thirty years of my life began to make sense.
Autistics Speaking Day
So, here goes. My first blog post. This blog was inspired by Autistics Speaking Day today, which is in response to something called the Communication Shutdown. An event created with good intentions, but I think it misses the mark just a little bit. The Communication Shutdown (misnomer IMO), encourages neurotypical people to log off Facebook and Twitter for the day to stand in solidarity with the autistic community. Apparently, if you stay off FB for the day, you will know what it is like to be a "silent" autistic. Uh...PFFFFF. As it is, Autistics Speaking Day is part counter event, part co-event. Members of the autistic community are a bit weary about the Communication Shutdown because:
1. Autistic people are not silent, online or offline.
2. Non-autistic people will have no more clue what autistic people's lives are like simply by staying off of Facebook for a day, because while they are avoiding their computer, they are still not autistic.
3. The invention of the Internet has prevented autistic people from feeling so isolated. Autistic people use social networking sites, forums, and blogs to talk to other autistic people, and even nonverbal autistics or autistics who have difficulty effectively communicating have an opportunity to socialize online.
That list is straight from the Autistic Speaking Day FB page. Oh, look, I figured out how to make a link!!! Anyway, so that's the reason for the beginning of this blog. I'll go ahead and start a new post for the good stuff.
1. Autistic people are not silent, online or offline.
2. Non-autistic people will have no more clue what autistic people's lives are like simply by staying off of Facebook for a day, because while they are avoiding their computer, they are still not autistic.
3. The invention of the Internet has prevented autistic people from feeling so isolated. Autistic people use social networking sites, forums, and blogs to talk to other autistic people, and even nonverbal autistics or autistics who have difficulty effectively communicating have an opportunity to socialize online.
That list is straight from the Autistic Speaking Day FB page. Oh, look, I figured out how to make a link!!! Anyway, so that's the reason for the beginning of this blog. I'll go ahead and start a new post for the good stuff.
