A-Rod (not the ballplayer) doesn’t have parasites anymore
My pet Morkie, A-Rod, got a clean bill of health today from the vet. He had been diagnosed with a parasite a couple of weeks ago, which he had picked up from the kennel where he was born. It was a great relief to me to know he is now healthy. I cringe when I think of what probably would have happened to him had I not taken him home from the seller when I did. I don’t have any children, don’t really want any, but I have to admit there is an odd paternal feeling stirring in me as I watch A-Rod sleep off the sedative effects of the shot the vet gave him today.
I take my grandmother to the grocery store each Wednesday. Its always a nice bonding experience, although some days we drive each other nuts. I don’t believe my grandmother is physically or mentally able to walk five feet without picking up some random product and examining it. I often envy her ability to get such excitement out of the newest toilet bowl cleaning product to hit the market. I think that is one of the things that is the hardest for me as an Asperger, the sense that I’m missing out on a lot of simple cheesy happiness. Very few things please me the way so many simple things seem to please the NT’s in my life.
Growing up Asperger in a small Southern town, one of the things I was most confused and annoyed by was the tendency of everyone in my little hometown to be almost psychotically fixated on knowing every resident of the town by name, occupation, spouse, parents, children, high school, and church. The thoroughness with which my mother could describe an entire family and their jobs seemed a bit creepy and silly to me. I didn’t like very many people (still don’t), so why should I give one rat’s furry butt about what someone I saw three times a year does for a living? The sociological makeup of a small Southern town is a fascinating thing indeed. There is this almost tangible collective drive to force everyone to be as alike as possible. There is a general consensus among all the townspeople about what religion to practice, what music and sports team to like, how to dress, how to talk (the dumber your drawl sounded, the better), and endless other things. What an outrage I have caused by seeking my own path in such an environment! I chose my beliefs based on my own feelings about God, religion, and truth. To me, that is so much more special and personal than just following orders and going to the same house of worship as my parents, grandparents, and the rest of the socially acceptable white folks attended. I grew my hair long, back in the day when I could grow hair (although shaving my head does provide a nice comforting Asperger routine). This subjected me to endless callous remarks about being a hippie, a communist, and other things white Southerners despise. My grandfather wanted me to lose the goatee because “that’s not what normal folks wear”. Yes, in a world where I was in and out of psychiatric wards, my facial hair was a top priority. I was and still am happy to sport my favorite jeans, a t-shirt, and Yankees cap. I understand now that there are times and places where other attire is appropriate, but the resistance with which I met as I was startling when I didn’t wear a tie to Easter lunch. I have always loathed wearing dress pants from as far back as I can remember, and I would argue until my head ached every time my mother told me it was time to bust out the tacky khakis. The seams were uncomfortable, and the material was stiff and hot. Then they would be paired with a scratchy golf shirt with an embroidered alligator to scratch at my chest, as well as shoes that hurt my toes and frankly, looked ridiculous.
One things about growing up in a small Southern town is that you are expecting to dress up for more than just church. My mom would make me sport the dreaded khakis so I could go to the doctor’s office and have him listen to my lungs. Nothing I wanted more when I was sick than to dress up for the occassion. Again, keeping up appearences. That phrase still elicits a powerful negative reaction from me, I know how fraudulent a concept it is, and how many important things people ignore because there are appearances to be kept.
When I was about ten years old, my whole family was in Savannah, GA at one of my father’s big conventions he organized. His routine at the conventions was to parade his perfect family around the bigwigs during the day, then at night get as drunk as possible without actually losing the ability to move his legs. One day, during lunch, my father escorted me over to a table of political dignitaries in the hotel restaraunt. One of the men asked me what I thought of my father. In my brutally honest Asperger way, I told him “Sir, my father was drunk as a skunk last night”. They all howled hysterically while my father turned bright red.
Making people howl hysterically seems to happen a lot in my Asperger life, stuff I blurt out when I think I am just being honest or helpful seems to really amuse the NT’s. Unless of course, it is something unflattering directed at them. People love my Asperger directness when I am ragging on someone they don’t like or spouting off an opinion with which they agree. But if I tell them I think they talk too loudly, even if they ask, then they don’t find me so entertaining.
A few years ago, I was at the dentist, getting a routine cleaning. The assistant was doing the grunt work, taking x-rays and so forth, when she informed me in a salesperson-like way that they offered teeth whitening. She said it would make my smile look even better. Confused, I responded, “That’s ok, I don’t smile much”. When I related this story a few hours later to my mother and grandmother, they laughed until I thought they would pass out.
Tags: asperger, keeping up appearances, morkie, neurotypical, southerners
