Voice

June 5, 2013Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I understand the mechanics – to a degree.

God has a sense of humor. Many people on the autistic spectrum struggle with language, especially with making one’s use of language audience appropriate. As a hyperlexic I deal with verbal language much more easily than many people on the spectrum, but I still have my limitations. I understand what I mean to say and I understand the vocabulary I use, but not everyone else does. I prefer to communicate in writing for this reason. Writing allows me to organize my thoughts more effectively and to communicate more clearly. Writing also takes away that awkward non-verbal factor that can distract and vex me as well. I talk with people all day on the phone (again, don’t have to deal much in the non-verbal there) but when the day is done I really don’t have much left to say. I’m usually all talked out by noon, especially here lately that I’m stuck doing two people’s jobs again, so I’m craving my solitary time away from the idiots and inquiring minds.

Call me back when you know what the hell you want, dipshit…

The humor in this is that somehow I ended up with a loud, resonant speaking voice that carries, and a broad (almost four octave) vocal range. I studied classical voice for a number of years, and was even the lead singer in a heavy metal band for awhile. The two are not nearly as far apart as most might think, and classical technique will keep you from destroying your vocal cords. When I was in high school I performed a capella in a hall that seats 1,000 without amplification. The people in the back could hear just fine. Oh, yes, you bet your sweet bippy. In spite of my bad sinuses and history of bronchitis and pneumonia, I can project. Just ask my son.

Even though I can communicate relatively articulately (especially when non-verbals are out of the equation) every morning I have to fight the temptation to simply choose not to communicate. With anyone (except maybe the dogs and cats, because they can’t fend for themselves, because they don’t have thumbs.) Definitely not with humans.

I don’t know if it’s an Asperger’s thing or just my own personal frustration with dealing with people in general. I’m not specifically incensed with stupid people or angry people or people who want stuff, although I very seldom speak with anyone that isn’t in at least one of those categories. I pretty much don’t want to talk to anyone. I especially don’t want to have to fulfill anyone’s request, placate anyone’s anger, or explain the obvious to the stupid for awhile, but I will have to start right in again in the morning, just like Sisyphus pushing the boulder up the hill every morning only for it to roll back down to the foot of the hill to start all over again.

There are too many times when I’m afraid to use my voice. Too often I stay silent either out of self preservation, fear or expediency. My own cynicism and sense of “why does it matter anyway,” keeps me from saying what I should when I should speak out.

When my emotions kick in – especially when I am angry, insulted or outraged, I lose what eloquence I thought I may have had. At that point my silence is a result of not finding the words, of not being able to express my loathing, fear or outrage in a coherent and logical way. The voice loses its connection with my rational mind, and a breathless, mindless silence is the result.

I guess if I were to continue on the cynical rant, I might as well be resigned to the fact that since nobody gives a rat’s ass about my opinion except me, then why bother sharing it?

It might be funny. It might be twisted. Somebody might get some entertainment value out of the things I say. Maybe.

Today I got to see yet another medical specialist- an endocrinologist- to try to figure out why my blood sugar is so damned hard to control even though I’m trying to do all the “right” things. Of course he took more blood and pee and he’s going to do more tests the other doctors didn’t do, etc. This Dr. thinks I could have a thyroid and/or adrenal issue that’s playing into my sugar control as well as the lingering fatigue and the depressive funk that just won’t go away. I’m not holding my breath.

I’m thankful I can communicate. Sometimes it’s everything I can do to communicate- but God had a sense of humor when he gave me a voice.

Belling the Cat, Parents and Children, and the Virtual Graveyard

May 1, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

Jezebel is not happy with me this morning. Not at all. But I did level the playing field between her and Fanny.

Cats generally despise collars, and it takes awhile for them to get used to them. Isabel never would wear a collar. She was too good at removing them, and at some point several years ago I gave up. Isabel’s almost 15 years old. She has no interest in actually going outside anyway, so collaring and belling her is sort of pointless. Miz Izz is quite content to lounge in the window sill, enjoying the climate control as she watches the birds and other little critters of nature. She didn’t get to be an old fossil by being stupid. F.B. is the same way- I’ve never tried collaring F.B., and it probably wouldn’t make much sense because she is even less interested in the great outdoors than Miz Izz. F.B. has got to be the most sanguine cat on earth.

I put a collar, tag and bell on Fanny after her brief, unauthorized forays out in the great wide open. Both times I found her large, frightened carcass under the dump truck on the body shop lot. At least with the bell on, I have a chance of hearing Fanny if she tries to sneak out the door.

Jezebel spent a good portion of the evening trying to run away from the bell. Hopefully by tonight she will realize the bell’s attached, and hopefully she will begin to understand the more you move the more noise it makes. I’m hoping she will chill some, and at least partially forgive me. I’d put a collar on her much earlier to get her used to wearing one, but she is so tiny that I have the collar adjusted almost as small as it will go as it is. I thought about those teeny collars for ferrets or the collars for ankle biter dogs, but cat collars are specifically made so if a cat gets tangled and is dangling from something the collar will release before the cat is asphyxiated.

Jezebel doesn’t really try to get outside, but she does torment Fanny every chance she gets. Fanny- all 17# of her- is a wide target. Fanny’s not only slow, she has a bell on to boot. So Jezebel, being young, lithe, fast and silent, can stalk and ambush poor fat Fanny with impunity. Even though Fanny is about 3-4 times as large as Jezebel, Fanny is a poor fighter and has a hard time defending herself, especially when Jezebel wraps herself around Fanny’s neck and starts in with the rabbit kicks.

So I have to try to make it fair. Even though I know, life is not fair, and some things really suck no matter what you do.

Sheena is not much longer for this world, and in some ways it breaks my heart. I scheduled the mobile vet to come to our house tomorrow (if she’s still with us then) to put her down. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but she’s gotten to the point where she doesn’t want to eat, and isn’t enjoying being a dog anymore. She’s actively dying at this point, and it’s not right to let her suffer.

In some ways I wish we could have done more for her, but she was so ill-treated and in such poor health when we found her, that there’s only so much you can do. She has had numerous issues with mobility from the beginning with the severe HD, but now the mammary growths have come back with a vengeance, and they are everywhere. She is barely able to stand and walk and it’s getting hard for her to breathe. I’m glad I got through to the mobile vet. I wish he could have made it out today but tomorrow’s the soonest I could get. Although Sheena has never had problems with going the vet, let’s face it, she’s not going to have an easy time getting in the car to begin with, and even worse, it’s not easy to load 75# of dead dog back in the car. I took Heidi to our regular vet when we had to let her go, which I preferred in a way, because we love our vet, but it’s not a pleasant 40 mile road trip back home knowing you have a dead dog in the trunk that you’re going to have to both unload and help bury. It was awful enough with Heidi, and she only weighed about 60#.

I can’t help it, and I know it’s macabre, but there’s something about transporting a dead body (even a dog’s) in the trunk that reminds me of the movie Goodfellas.

I really don’t want to do that again.

We had a mobile vet come out when Kayla was dying. I think it’s the same guy who came out with Kayla. I hope so, because he was very understanding. Kayla was a good 90# when she died. I could not lift her by myself. It might sound cruel, but we laid her out on a large blanket before the vet started in with the chemicals, so we could sort of roll her up as if she were in a hammock- so we could carry her outside and lower her into her grave. I know it sucks, but even in the mechanics of death, someone still has to think about the logistics. We will have to do the same thing with Sheena. I can go on and on about how it sucks that we outlive dogs (and Sheena’s probably only about 7 or 8, which really sucks) but you can’t change reality.

I think most people have a sort of love/hate relationship with their parents to some degree, but the older I get the more I appreciate my parents and their work ethic and old-school values. They did the best they could, especially considering Mom is bi-polar, and no matter how much Dad worked, it never seemed like there was enough money to get by. I could barely afford one child, let alone three, and Steve-o (thank God) had very few illnesses or medical issues. I do think it a bit creepy last Sunday, out of the clear blue sky, Mom starts apologizing to me for my trainwreck of a childhood.

What Mom doesn’t get, is that even had I been born into a family with every possible material advantage, it wouldn’t have changed my overall reality much. I might not have been cursed with an uncontrolled, sadistic older sibling. I might have worn better clothes, and might have had new glasses when I needed them. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten rheumatic fever, or maybe I would have gotten a more extensive formal education, but the fact is that in the 1970s, nobody knew how to deal with people who are wired like me. Hyperlexia only occurs in about 1 in 50,000 children, and 75% of those are male. Nobody knew what to do with my precocious reading, and nobody knew that it went along with constant anxiety, poor motor skills, abysmal social aptitude, and weak health.

High fashion, no. High IQ, well, intellect does have its advantages.

Mom did the best she could with what she was given, and no apology was ever necessary. After all, I’m not a correctional institute inmate, I’ve managed to be gainfully employed, and I’m not a serial killer. I went to school with people who fared much worse in the long run than I did, and they were given many advantages I could only have dreamed of.

Perhaps had I been given every “advantage” I might not have had the fortitude to work for anything or appreciate anything. Perhaps scarcity and adversity are good for the soul, even though neither of these are fun to endure.

The older I get, the more I believe the great theologian/philosopher Mick Jagger has it right:

“You can’t always get what you want

You can’t always get what you want

You can try sometimes, you just might find

You get what you need-“

My “Best” Self, Time Keeping in the Post-Apocalyptic World, and Other Questions No One Asks But Me

January 16, 2013Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I forgot my watch today. That is rather vexing, even though I can make the argument that the habit of wearing a timekeeper on one’s person is rather archaic and quaint. I very seldom forget to wear a watch. It became habit when I was in elementary school (way before the days of smart phones or computers) because it was necessary for me to know the time, 1.) when I went home for lunch and had to be back at school, so I didn’t screw around too long on the way back (I don’t know of any elementary schools today that let kids leave for lunch, but that was a different time) and 2.) if Grandma was going to pick me up after school, I would know she would be there at exactly 3:00, and that I had better be right out front next to the oak tree and not messing about on the playground.

The watch I wore from the time I was 9 years old until I was in college was a wind-up Timex (good luck finding one of those, but I still have it, and it still works.) Today I generally wear a Timex digital watch (I have a few) or the really nice Fossil analog watch (talk about archaic, though this one does have a battery) I reserve for non-casual occasions. I don’t know why I hang on to that rather dated custom- there’s a freaking clock in the car for heaven’s sake, not to mention on the cell phone and on the computer screen. If I really need to know what time it is that bad, the current time is everywhere.

The impulse to always have a watch on reminds me of “Rainman’s” obsession to always buy underwear at K-Mart. Not everyone on the autistic spectrum is OCD, (and I’m not) but I do remember as a kid I did NOT like having my schedule or routine changed at all, unless I was the one changing things. I still don’t like other people screwing up my itinerary, but the older I get, I tend to be a lot more flexible.

It really doesn’t matter in the broad scheme of things, but people like me tend to get hung up on some really weird shit sometimes. Perhaps it is a lame attempt for me to maintain some sort of continuity in an increasingly unpredictable world.

This country may be going to hell in a handbasket as the new Louis and Marie strut about as if they are royalty, as they stomp on the Constitution, squander taxpayers’ money, take their Hawaiian vacations and pontificate from their ivory tower, but at least I’ll know what time it is. I can even set the chronometer, should I need to call 911 and want to know how long the cops take to get there.

I couldn’t help it. This reference to B.O. and Moochelle as the new Louis and Marie was too much NOT to share. Sad thing is, this is NOT France.

Since I am painfully aware of not having a watch on my wrist, the thought came to mind, when would it really be imperative to have a watch on to know what time it is? After the apocalypse- when there are no more computers or cell phones or cars?

At that point, when my immediate surrounding area resembles something out of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, who would give a rat’s ass about the time? It would always be half-past ass whupping time, right?

There is a politically correct phrase I’ve heard that teachers use to “encourage” the children they teach, and for the most part I loathe it: “Be your best self today.”

WTF?

Can I be my shitty self tomorrow?

This is about as far as the “best self” train is going to go today.

I’m sorry, but the way I grew up was that it was either tow the line or get a boot up your ass. I think that’s part of the problem with kids today, that parents and teachers are afraid to challenge them. I can think positive all day and blow sunshine out my poop chute, but unless I actually do something positive it really doesn’t matter, does it?

Kids today need less mollycoddling and more boot camp.

Now I do like some of the suggestions here, even though the author of the post uses that phrase. I think I will strike up a conversation with a complete stranger for shits and grins, or do something completely spontaneous just because I can. Some of her suggestions are a tad bit more challenging, such as telling someone you love how much you love them. I have emotions- I think- but I’m not very good at sharing them.

Is it just me, or am I the only one who thinks it to be bad manners to make a take home plate at a funeral wake? I went to a calling hours and wake last week for a friend of mine whose father had died. The departed was Irish, and there was plenty of liquor, so it really was a proper Irish wake. Since we belong to a group of Lutheran church ladies, we had all brought enough chow for three armies too.

Jerry actually had the cojones to ask me if I’d fixed him a plate when I got home.

Granted, there was more than enough food and nobody would have missed it if I would have made Jerry a plate, but if you don’t at least go to the wake and pay your respects to the departed, then what gives you the right to go munching on their chow?

This is the message that action sends: “Gee, sorry about your Dad, too bad I was too busy drinking beer and watching the Big 10 channel to show up for his wake, but can my wife set me up with a doggie bag?”

I know Jerry was raised by wolves, but methinks requesting a doggie bag from a wake is a bit much.

Asperger’s Is Not an Excuse, Actions Still Have Consequences, and Humanity is Still Totally Depraved

December 17, 2012Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I am glad that some thinking people are starting to understand that keeping people from protecting themselves and their families does nothing to change the fact that killers will kill. Even in the light of the past couple weeks’ worth of senseless shootings- and I freely admit that the existence of evil is something I don’t comprehend- I still believe that the Framers of the Constitution had the right idea when they included:

“A well-regulated Militia, being necessary for the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed. “

The Second Amendment has been expounded upon by far greater minds than mine, however, there are two points being made here. Some more left-leaning interpretations of the Second Amendment take the first part about a well regulated militia and assume that meant that the Framers were talking about the armed forces, National Guard and law enforcement but not about private individuals. What they are leaving out is a knowledge of 18th century history. In the 18th century there was really no full-time armed forces, but individuals who would volunteer in time of war (a concept similar to a very rudimentary National Guard) and individuals had to keep their own weaponry in order to be able to be available when the need arose.

Fast forward to the 21st century. Most Americans have no concept of what it would be like to have to defend one’s life and property if a scenario such as the one proposed in the film “Red Dawn” would arise, where there would be war in streets and neighborhoods rather than an abstract concept of soldiers and armies fighting over obscure hills and fields in far-distant lands. However, many Americans have experienced armed robbery, assault and other crimes of violence that could have been prevented if the victim had been able to defend him/herself. The Framers had a solution to that: “the right of the people to keep and bear Arms shall not be infringed.” The Framers not only believed so heartily in a strong national defense that it is one of only two responsibilities of the Federal government spelled out in the Constitution, but they also added it to the Bill of Rights- along with the proviso that individuals also have the right to defend their person and property. In this statement the right to self defense is underscored as a natural right rather than a privilege granted (or withheld) by the whim of the state.

I don’t have any problem at all with responsible gun ownership. The law-abiding person who owns a gun and has had appropriate background checks and safety training is not generally the person you have to worry about- unless you are trying to perpetrate crime. On the other hand, the unarmed are all potential victims. All one has to do to be a victim is to be in the wrong place at the right time.

This being said, I can go back to the fundamental argument that guns don’t kill people any more than spoons make people fat. The conscious decision to aim a firearm and pull the trigger is what kills. It’s easy to go around screaming “gun control,” until one realizes that the decision of a killer is the root of the lethal mechanism. It is possible to kill with bare hands, with knives, with poison, with motor vehicles, with a baseball bat. The possibilities of potential lethal weapons are only limited by a potential killer’s imagination and desperation. Banning firearms just means killers will find weapons other than guns to kill people with. There are still murders in the UK and in every other country where strict gun control has been enacted. The murderous impulse does not lie in an armament of steel, but in the convoluted and dark malice dwelling in a killer’s heart.

Dark malice that can lead to murder can surface in any human being alive today if circumstances and opportunity press that individual hard enough. Evil is that pervasive in this world. I don’t subscribe to all of Calvinism (my soteriological leanings are more congruent with Molinism) but I agree with 100% of one of the petals of Calvin’s TULIP- the Total Depravity of man.

Human beings, if left to their own devices, are 100% self serving. I’ve heard every excuse out there for why people kill- video games, bad childhoods, being deprived, being over-indulged, crappy schools, being bullied, being introverted, being mocked, et cetera and so on. I think a better question, given the total depravity of man, is what keeps everyone from becoming a killer? Or are we all killers, and the severity of our behavior is simply a matter of degree? If so, then what is the mechanism of our restraint? Does it have to do with the wiring of the frontal lobe of the brain, or is it a matter of the will, or a combination of both? I believe it is entirely possible that the only thing that restrains most from indulging their darker urges is simply the grace and mercy of God.

Even though I believe that there is a God and that He is highly involved in the lives of humanity, I also believe that He expects people to respond to Him. I believe He has expectations for his creation (and maybe this is my repressed Catholic guilt coming out.) After all, when one reads Scripture we learn that most of humanity’s problems arise from thinking our ways are better than God’s ways.

We don’t have the liberty to simply say, “the Devil made me do it,” if for any other reason than at the end of the day, God holds us accountable for what we do or don’t do. Psychology would say that humans do what they do to pursue pleasure and avoid pain, but there is a deeper aspect- the aspect of “you own who you are and what you have become.”

Things in life can and do suck, but it’s every person’s responsibility to choose how to react to things that suck. The question is, do we turn to God and His will or do we let evil win?

I find it disturbing that society is all too willing to absolve people from individual accountability and blame their abherrent behavior on everything from being bullied as children to being on the autistic spectrum. As someone who experienced both gratuitous and fierce childhood bullying and is a high-functioning autistic,* (apparently that’s what the medical community is calling Asperger’s Syndrome these days) I am here to tell you that both of those theories may have some credence, but at the end of the day, the decision to move beyond a painful past and to learn to work the wiring is not only possible, but it is also a moral obligation. Maybe I say this out of a sense of noblesse oblige that I was taught- that those who are given more are held to a higher standard. I can say that the convoluted and sometimes vexing wiring of Asperger’s or “high functioning autism” or whatever is the current terminology used to categorize the introverted, weird and/or eccentric is not a license to allow the depravity within to overcome. Video games are no excuse. Technology in general is no excuse. The laxity of discipline and the pervasive faux feel good PC philosophy being taught in the schools (while dreadful, false, and a contributor to the delinquency factor) is not an excuse either. There is a God, and He has standards and rules, even when it seems like society does not.

I don’t discount the influence of mental illness, and how society so conveniently “mainstreams” the mentally ill, denying that some people do have an inability to control their rage and that some people should be isolated from the greater community for a time to receive mental health treatment. I do understand what it is to be depressed and near suicidal, but I also understand that there is help available for individuals and families when mental illness becomes overwhelming. I’m no poster child for mental health, and insanity is downright pervasive in my family tree. If there is anything that society (as opposed to the individual) can do to help prevent violence it is to identify mental illness and provide ways for those at risk to get help.

I wish this were a joke, but it’s not. I have ancestors who were crazier than shithouse rats.

I may never know for what purpose God decided to plop my sorry carcass on this earth, but I’m pretty sure that no matter how beat up on I was or how bizarre my wiring, He didn’t intend for me to load up an assault rifle and shoot up a classroom of unarmed, defenseless kids.

I’m pretty sure God never intended me to be a pole dancer, either. I’m doing good to walk a straight line without tripping over my own feet.

There I go again with that whole morality thing again, and no, I am not talking about the mundane concepts of morality- refraining from fornication, eschewing the use of swear words, and those sorts of trite formalities, but a deeper morality.

One that says, “There is a God, and He has rules.”

Nothing That Years of Psychotherapy Won’t Fix, Pragmatic Politics and Obscure History

July 18, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

I’ve never been a true believer in Freudian psychology, especially his premise that all behavior goes back to sex. If that’s the case, and everything revolves around sex, I’m in really big trouble, because in that regard I am extremely low mileage- as in barely driven off the dealership lot. That vehicle’s been sitting on the lot so long the tires are dry-rotted and the battery’s dead and the upholstery smells like locker room funk, if my sex life could be compared to a used car.

But it only has 200 miles on it!

I also have problems with the touchy-feely approach that some psychologists take where it’s all about “embracing your inner child.” When I was a child I didn’t want anyone touching me for any reason. “Touching” usually involved getting my ass kicked in some sort of way. I was the geek kid that nobody associated with unless it involved me getting an ass kicking, or it involved someone trying to bribe me to let him/her cheat on a test. If you’re trying to improve my self-esteem, then why do you want me to “embrace” the geek kid? I have to wonder about that approach. I have to wonder about all the hoo-hah about self-esteem. Today’s kids are all about self-esteem, even if they suck. I would rather know I suck than have some lying ass pilot fill me full of crap about how great I am.

I was the butt-ugly geek kid.

My childhood was not nice. It was mostly hell. There were good moments- but they were few and far between. I won’t blame my parents. They did the best they could with what they had, and in their defense, they got dropped a raw deal. There are no child development manuals that could have offered them any help. No parent asks for a child with physical deficits, and no parent asks for a child whose intellectual, emotional and social development can only be categorized as highly abnormal. There was no option of specialists or special schools, especially when it was a struggle for them to afford the bare necessities. Hell, Mom was at the zoo herself most of the time, being bi-polar and untreated- and unpredictable. Dad was at work just about all of his waking hours- partially out of necessity and partially because he didn’t know if he’d come home to Jekyll or Hyde. When I say that my grandmother (actually both of them, but more so my Dad’s Mom, who was within running distance) saved my life many times, that is an understatement. I know Mom probably didn’t appreciate Grandma’s interference (when she was aware of it) but it was Grandma who stormed the principal’s office and kept me from getting the hell beat out of me waiting on the bus. It was Grandma who took me to the Dr. and stayed with me when I was sick with rheumatic fever. It was Grandma who gave me a safe place to go when my sisters and/or the neighborhood kids were looking for someone to pummel again.

I will say that Mom’s unpredictability set me up to deal with future coke-head bosses pretty well though.

Given what they had to work with, it’s a miracle that I am vertical, gainfully employed, and not a serial killer.

Needless to say, I have spent several years in various types of counseling- some more effective than others. The first counselor I went to, when I was 13-16 was tolerable. Better yet, it didn’t cost my parents anything for me to see her because she was a family friend. I learned fairly quickly the answers she wanted to hear- no, I’m not going to kill myself, yes, I am thinking positive today (retch,) but truth be told more than anything I appreciated getting out of school early every other Tuesday to sit and pretty much just shoot the shit. Because she was a family friend, I don’t think she believed me when I told her that my oldest sister was a sadist and a psychopath, but by that time my oldest sister was so much more interested in whatever money and assorted favors she could extort from the boys that she didn’t have much time to waste torturing me.

The second counselor I went to truly wasted my time and money. About a year after Steve-o was born I was having panic attacks and full-blown PTSD, as well as I was going through a rather nasty separation and divorce. I thought it a good idea to seek counseling because I truly was freaking out. The only thing she did after a couple of sessions was to tell me to buy a copy of the book Codependent No More and wished me happy trails. In hindsight I think it was because I had shitty insurance and she was afraid she wouldn’t get paid. I got really cynical about the whole counseling thing after that, and figured that mental health must just be too lofty a goal. So I decided to just deal with life the way I’d always had since I’d become an adult: chain smoking, binge drinking whenever I could, obsessive overwork, and indiscriminate liaisons when I could get away with it. I was a Ruthless Bitch, and that worked for about seven years- until my physical health really started to go south.

Thankfully my path necessarily changed because of my health failing. By the grace of God I got back into a relationship with Him and got involved in a church. Also by the grace of God I gave up smoking. I went to a counselor for a couple of years who wasn’t in it to either bullshit me or rip off my insurance company, and learned some helpful ways to navigate the way I’m wired and to deal with my past (which is an ongoing project.) I also acknowledged that I have inherited and organic tendencies toward anxiety and depression that require medical treatment and medication as well, which has helped me deal with PTSD and work beyond it. It’s a journey, not so much a destination, but I would have to say I am mentally healthier now than at any point in my life, which is almost scary.

I registered to vote on my 18th birthday- for what it’s worth.

This year is another year in which I not only have to be careful not to get caught up in the rhetoric (which is easy for me to do) but I feel as if I have to stand back and look at the election with a pragmatic eye. Voting for a third party or a write-in, i.e. Ron Paul, Mickey Mouse, Ron Jeremy, Dennis Kucinich or even posthumously, Ronald Reagan, effectively is a vote for Obama. Staying home and not voting is also effectively a vote for Obama, and it would also take away my right to bitch about him should he be re-elected. And I am going to bitch about him, re-elected or (hopefully) not- believe it. I would rather have fire ants poured down my underwear than to be complicit in re-electing the worst president ever, and I state for the record that Obama is The Worst Ever. Even if I include Pierce, Buchanan, Wilson, Harding, Nixon, Carter and Clinton, Obama takes the Worst Ever prize hands down.

I’m still not a huge fan of Mitt Romney. The last truly good president this country has seen is Ronald Reagan, and sadly, he’s been in his grave for eight years. But even though Mitt is no Reagan, I can think of FAR better choices to be sitting in the Oval Office than Obama.

Sheena, the mentally challenged Husky. Bonus: her birth certificate is just as contrived as Obama’s, but it’s a little more creative.

Ron Jeremy

Karl Pilkington (yes, he’s a Brit, but hey, BO didn’t have to be a citizen!)

The guy on the Quaker Oat box

Satan

Just remember, folks. The people who voted for Ross Perot bought us 8 years of Bill Clinton. That was bad, but Obama’s a million times worse. As much as I hate the adage, “choose the lesser of the two evils,” what do you do when one of the choices is overwhelmingly odious, the other one is less odious, but still not quite good? <Sigh…>

Twisted Ann Landers, (Why Are You Asking Me?) and Suffering Fools- Begrudgingly

February 1, 2012Tonya Lanthron 2 Comments

Some days are meant just to catch up and ruminate – and others to indulge others’ laziness and/or stupidity. I thought this morning that today might be the first of those choices, (and I enjoy the rare delight of not being overly pestered or rushed,) but I am finding out very quickly that it’s going to be one of those days I spend thinking for and pointing out the obvious for others because they are unwilling to think for themselves, or are incapable of thinking, and/or of discerning the obvious for themselves.

I’ve said it before. I am certainly no rocket scientist. I’m lucky to get out the door with all the crap I need for one day. I forget things, misplace things, and I find that most of the time I am more reactive than proactive. As far as examples go, everyone is an example of something, and for the most part my example is a cautionary tale of, “What Not to Do.” As far as “What Not to Do” goes, I could write a book. Maybe I should.

So who died and made me some sort of twisted Ann Landers, whose advice is sought in matters ranging from things automotive (while I am not the final authority by any means, at least I do have some experience and expertise in this field) to relationships (really good to ask advice on interpersonal relationships from someone with Asperger’s who borders on being both agoraphobic and antisocial) to (and this is the kicker) “Where the Hell Did I Put My Stuff?” As far as relationships go, asking me advice would be about as effective as asking the guys who built the Titanic to engineer you an unsinkable boat. I am not the right person to find anyone else’s stuff, either. Half the time I can’t find my own. I’m doing good to make it through the day without misplacing one of my three essentials- the cell phone, the Bluetooth, and the MP3 player.

One of my favorite tools when I am asked for advice is the Magic 8 Ball. I have one. They’re about $8 at Target- look in the toys and games. I know, it’s a rather technologically primitive device that dates back to the late 1940’s, but it is every bit as accurate as my advice on subjects outside the narrow areas of my expertise.

Perhaps those around me don’t realize just how emotionally stunted I am, or maybe they ask my opinion because most of the time I make decisions based on practicality and utility- or expediency. I have worked very hard my entire life to compensate for my weaknesses, but there are some areas in which I am just plain inept no matter how hard I try. Anything involving gross motor coordination- forget it. I do good to walk in a straight line without tripping or falling down. As far as social interaction goes, I am always monitoring and second-guessing myself because I am not good at reading (or sending) non-verbals. I can put on a good show if I need to, but it takes far too much conscious effort. Imagine if you had to consciously think about and analyze your breathing. This is the mental effort it takes for me in social situations. The ability to socialize and converse face to face with people does not come naturally to me at all.

So, by some strange twist of fate, who always seems to get elected to be the hospitality committee? It’s like expecting the class midget to play center on the basketball team.

I’ve never seen myself as having anything but rudimentary (at best) social skills, but other people either don’t seem to notice or don’t seem to care. Maybe I put on a better show than I thought.

Shakespeare said that “all the world’s a stage.” The sad thing for me is that most of the time I want nothing more than to escape scrutiny and blend into the wall. I seriously need to schedule a real vacation (root word: vacate, as in get out of Dodge) and get in some extreme ivory tower time before I start ripping people’s heads off. Dealing with other people just plain wears me out.

I wouldn’t mind just camping out at home- sleeping, reading, writing, doing some cross-stitch, digging me some Tru-TV and jamming to some classic rock, except that I won’t be left alone to do those sorts of things. I would end up being roped into errand-running, cleaning, and divers other activities that I don’t want to do. I know I should put my foot down at times but I also have to choose my battles. As much as I hate to admit it, usually it’s easier to just do whatever so I don’t have to take the browbeating.

I have been challenged to refrain from making negative comments about Jerry for entire month of February. I am sincerely going to try. I admit, while he is challenging, I can be a rather harsh judge. In some ways he deserves it, but I couldn’t be easy to live with either.

The Power of Prayer, “No” IS an Answer, and the Freedom to Not Be In Control

May 5, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I am a control freak. I freely admit it. While I may not completely agree that Asperger’s syndrome should be in the same category as autism, and I’ve never really thought of myself as being “autistic lite,” (I do function fairly well out in the neurotypical world) but I can identify with the Rain Man really well on the whole routine and habit thing. Although I don’t necessarily insist on buying my underwear at K-Mart, (I don’t live anywhere close to a K-Mart, going in to the Wal Mart near me is more terrifying than being the last one left standing in an ’80’s slasher flick, so I generally go to Target for such things) I have a certain brand and style that I pretty much buy and wear exclusively. I have certain things that I like and certain order I like to maintain in my world. I only like to change my routine when it’s my idea.

One of the really wonderful things about the Serenity Prayer is that it’s a big reminder on Who is really in control, and thanks be to God, it is NOT me. That is a liberating statement. The fate of the free world does not hinge upon whether or not things go my way or whether or not I screw things up or even if I forget to do things. It really has absolutely nothing to do with me, so I am free to play word games on the DS and to turn up the volume on the TV when Jerry starts in on his drunk and stupid diatribes in the middle of the night.

As a child growing up with a Very Strict old-school Catholic mother (someday I will have to expound on old-school Catholic motherhood for those who never had the distinct privilege of enduring purgatory here on Earth) there were Acceptable and Non-Acceptable prayers.

Acceptable prayers were: The Our Father (without the “and thine is the Kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever and ever” line that the “heathen Protestants” add on,) and the Hail Mary. You could never go wrong, if you were asked to pray, if you said either the Catholic version of the Our Father, or the Hail Mary.

Unless of course, you were asked to say Grace, which had to be Catholic Grace. No “Protestant heathen” Grace, such as, “God is great, God is good and we thank Him for our food.” You dared not even to use the longer Lutheran Grace which is often sung, and starts out with, “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow.” It had to be the “Bless Us Our Lord, for These Thy Gifts” prayer, that’s Catholic Grace, and Mom liked to always add a few lines on the end of it about her friend Judy’s boils, or about starving kids in Africa, or a thinly veiled nag fest on how Dad needed to stop smoking (he eventually did do that) and straighten up and go to Mass and be converted to Catholicism (don’t see that happening, ever.)

Acceptable Prayer also included confession. It was OK to tell God how nasty you were for having fantasies about sending your sadistic older sister to Africa with the starving kids, or how you got the telemarketers to quit calling the house by telling them Mom is not home because she’s been committed to the Asylum for the Insane, and she won’t be back for a year or two.

Non-Acceptable Prayers included such things as:

“Protestant heathen” prayers, unless you were praying for the “Protestant heathens’ ” conversion.

Praying for stuff for yourself such as money, a pony, a remotely human looking boyfriend, a dirt bike, clean socks, or new clothing that actually fits, of your own choosing. You weren’t supposed to waste God’s time with your selfish demands when there were far more pressing problems in the world such as Judy with her boils, Dad puffing away on cigarettes whilst being a “Protestant heathen,” and of course, there’s starving kids in Africa.

Praying for retribution- even if your sisters really do deserve to either be sent to Africa or to be abducted by space aliens, and even if the boys who put the used condom in your book bag really should wake up with a wicked case of jock itch for their trouble.

I prayed for a lot of crazy things when I was a child, and if I were God (in retrospect) I would have had to say no also. It’s probably a good thing that my sisters didn’t end up in Africa. They’d have gotten wicked sunburn. Nobody in their right mind would have given me a Porsche 911 when I was 16 either. Nobody in their right mind would give me a Porsche 911 now that I’m 42. The distressed Subaru DL with its vicious oil leak, and four different sizes and tread patterns of tires, that I did end up with when I was 16, was oddly sufficient. But “no” is an answer. I prayed to be tall. I’m 5’4′, the perfect height for “petite” pants to be high waters and for “regular” pants to drag the ground. God has a sense of humor. I prayed to be physically attractive, or at least not to have “the face that stopped a thousand trucks.” I have the proportions of a mutant troll, and I have a face and hair combo that would scare the bejesus out of small children and dogs if not for hair color and strategically placed makeup. Again, God has a sense of humor.

If nothing else, my purpose in being kept vertical and drawing breath is to keep the Clairol and Maybelline folks in business, as well as ensuring that someone will always be out there to buy capri pants, whether or not they are technically in style.

I don’t want to run the universe. I’m happy enough to have my own TV remote. At this point in my life all I ask is for the grace to take what I’ve been given and roll with it- to be rich enough that I am not forced to steal, and to have enough to share with others. No, I will never be beautiful, or even free from excessive body hair without continual vigilance. No, I will never have a doting spouse, or piles of money, or anything even close to what the world calls success. So what. I belong to God, and He has good plans for me- and they will probably even be funny.

If God said, “No,” then apparently I didn’t really need what I asked for. God knows what I need, but a lot of the time I don’t have the good sense to see it unless He shows me. A lot of times He has something a lot better for me than the thing I asked for that He said “No” to, but I would never gotten to that point without getting that “No” answer first.

The importance of prayer is not so much in praying for the “right” things but in the whole process of seeking, knocking and asking (see Matthew 7:7-8.) It’s OK to ask God for what in retrospect may be very silly things. God always has the perogative to say “no.”

I have more than a few friends and acquaintances who claim to be atheists, and they are free to believe there is no God. I can’t argue for the existence of God only to quote the words of a wise Lutheran Pastor- “If you are saved, it is to the glory of God alone, but if you are damned, the fault lies upon you alone.”

But I fail to see a logical answer for life, for order, for the existence of the universe itself, in random chance. I fail to see any kind of omnipotence in mortal men. Everyone who has attempted to “rule the world forever” has fallen in a blaze of failed glory. Even those who have attempted to usurp power that isn’t rightfully theirs on a smaller scale have ultimately failed.

I make a lot of jokes regarding the current President and what I consider to be his dangerous, evil and failed policies, but it really isn’t funny. I know that Christians are called to pray for the leaders of their government- even when praying seems like a silly thing to do because the person or situation you’re praying about seems utterly pointless. But sometimes God answers “Yes” to impossible things, because He is in control and I am not.

So I’ll keep on praying that Obama gets impeached- or at the very least that the damage he does do will be limited and fixable, and that his heart will be changed from evil to good. God may say “No” to my prayers for very good reasons that I can’t see, but He still wants me to pray. Even if it’s silly. Even if it’s trivial. After all, what do we talk to our friends about? Do we address our friends with rote quotes using archaic words like “thee” and “thine?” Do we shield our friends from the rather unsavory parts of our lives, and try to put up a happy front when in reality we are pissed off and want to take someone’s head off?

Prayer is just conversation. Sometimes it’s silly, sometimes it’s serious, sometimes it’s angry, sometimes it is the wordless, airless, deep-void lamentation of grief. God wants to hear it all- not so much the memorized “thee” and “thine” stuff (though rote prayer can be a good starting point, especially when your mind has lost its words) but He wants all of us- the heartfelt anguish and questioning of Job, the joy (and repentance) of David, and the humble trust and obedience of Mary.

Save by the grace of God…

I’m glad He’s in control and not me.

Definitely Not Normal, So Adjust, (and Learn When to Say “Tough Titty!”)

February 23, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I never really liked the word “normal,” because “normal” is a most subjective word. What is normal for me is probably not normal for most other people, and vice-versa. That’s OK, because I’m comfortable with the way I’m wired, and I can navigate with it pretty well. The problem for me is that the rest of the world isn’t wired the same way, so I have to modify my methods and approach accordingly in my interactions with the rest of humanity. My peculiar wiring gives me some advantages (for instance, for me, speed-reading has always been a mechanism that is both automatic and near and dear to my heart) but my wiring also gives me disadvantages when the only route I’ve been given is not the well-traveled road. I see much that others miss, but I miss much that others see. I miss the subtle cues of facial expression and body language that most people cue in on automatically. I have to make a conscious effort not only to read non-verbals, but also to be sure that I’m sending the right non-verbals, both of which are vexing for me. I’d much rather communicate in print so I can revise as necessary and say what I mean to say. I also have to make a conscious effort to do anything requiring gross motor skills. I didn’t learn to ride a bike until I was almost 8 years old, and in spite of intense physical therapy when I was 3-4 years old, and my mother’s misguided attempt to force me into ballet lessons a few years later, (too bad they didn’t have video cameras then, because my abysmal attempts at ballet dancing would have been a hoot to watch) I’m still doing good to walk without falling.

A better term for “normal” in my world would be “neurotypical”- meaning the vast majority of humanity, i.e. people who can walk across a room without tripping on their own feet, and whose perception is not perennially “cranked up to 11.” Neurotypical people have to learn to read the written word the hard way (something I still don’t understand, because I can’t remember a time in my life when I couldn’t read) but for the most part they automatically pick up on empathy and relating to others, while I have to consciously develop and practice those skills- the hard way. I also have to train myself to narrow my focus, otherwise I would be kept awake by a star’s reflection in my window or by the whistle of a far off train. The danger in this is if I turn down the perception knob too much or hone in on one tiny spot for too long I truly do shut off the rest of the world. One of my greatest talents is the ability to ignore. I have to consciously keep a balance between the two extremes. I can go from near-catatonia to panic attack in a heartbeat if I fail to keep the “need to shut down” and “need to experience everything” parts of my mind balanced.

I have suspected for a long time that I have Asperger’s Syndrome- the description of Asperger’s explains much about my rather “abnormal” intellectual and social development. I understand how easy it is to simply shut down. It’s hard for me to describe, but I can see both how and why autistic people do shut down. It’s easier than the constant fight to maintain the balance, and it beats panic attacks and/or manic rages. Leave me alone in the ivory tower, because it’s a lot easier that way. Yes, that I most certainly understand.

I remember all too well Mom used to backhand me for “being rude” or “staring” when I couldn’t see what was wrong with a.) stating the obvious, or b.) making an observation. Then again I may have had some advantages in such a harsh upbringing. Mom was a big believer in operant conditioning, and more specifically the negative reinforcement component of operant conditioning. She would backhand you for a dirty look, or for missing a response whilst doing the Catholic calesthenics during Mass. In her economy one’s behavior better be appropriate at all times, and to flying hell with any reason you might provide for behavior she deemed inappropriate. My sisters had a different MO for beating the hell out of me, (unless they could beat me and make me scream so Mom would also beat me- for screaming) and they beat me a LOT more often than Mom ever needed to. They beat the hell out of me because I was an easy target and it was something to do when Mom locked us outside and cranked up the volume on the TV. Who knew sadism could be so entertaining? Today they have video games for that, but not back in the 70’s.

In my opinion, “telling it like it is,” is simply being honest. You can be honest and tactful, but tact is an acquired skill, and not necessarily one that I excel in. I acquired a good measure of tact with the quickness when I was about five- after I commented that one of Dad’s friends was getting really fat. Gotta love that operant conditioning. You will shut up after being backhanded into next week- but it didn’t change the fact that Dad’s buddy was getting downright lardy. One of the nice things about cougardom is that I don’t have to be as tactful as I was required to be when I was five. Age buys one at least a slight bit of gravitas in some ways. I can call a lard ass a lard ass and get away with it, though if I must comment on someone’s superfluous girth, I generally just say “large” and move on. I’m not consciously trying to be rude, but I do call it as I see it. I can make commentary as much as I want to at my age without having to be as paranoid about offending people.

One of the reasons I really hate political correctness is that it gives people excuses to be wussies. I was never allowed to simply follow the path of least resistance and shut myself down to the point of being cloistered away in a padded room with a stack of adult diapers (though I think I would actually have to leave my little private enclave to at least use the toilet and bathe) and vast selection of reading material. No one catered to me. I had to adjust to everyone else and if I didn’t like it, it was tough titty. I was held to a higher standard because of my IQ scores, with no mercy or accommodation for my motor deficits or emotional and social deficits. My family forced me to be social and to function in the neurotypical world whether I wanted to or not. I was not given the choice to withdraw from human interaction. The best metaphor I can think of is that I was thrown in the pool and left to sink or swim. No water wings, no instruction, no floatie for me. Use what you have and figure it out. I probably could have done without all the beatings and likely the attempts at ballet lessons too, but for the most part I don’t think that I would have the ability to function in the “normal” world today had I not been forced to do so. Sadly, today no one has the audacity to require kids to adjust and to learn how to navigate the world with the wiring they’ve been given.

Granted, I am probably not an exemplary picture of mental health. I freely admit I have Issues. Then again, had I not been thrown into the fire I can guarantee my Issues would be far more profound and limiting.

So, just shut up and make it work. That’s what has to be done sometimes.

Proven: The Total Depravity of Man, Earthly Purgatory Remembered, and Middle Age Rules

January 18, 2011Tonya Lanthron Leave a comment

I was one of those wise-assed kids who most teachers really didn’t want to deal with. Not only was I a whipping post as well as a social pariah amongst my peers, the teachers didn’t like me either, especially in elementary school. Hindsight being 20/20, I fully understand why a young first grade teacher would be intimidated by a freaky looking five year old whose current reading list included Dante’s Inferno, the KJV Bible, the Encyclopedia Brittanica, and whatever happened to be lying about the house or in the daily newspaper. I highly doubt that too many teachers have had the dubious distinction of dealing with a hyperlexic (or Asperger’s/hyperlexic, because parts of both of those descriptions fit) child, especially in the backwater town where I grew up. I have all the sympathy in the world for any educator attempting to deal with a child like me. You can take all the conventional child development theories and throw them out the window because I didn’t come close to following the patterns or the formal stages. Erickson and Piaget did not encounter kids like me, I can assure you. I could have had a lot of fun with them though.

I could read when I was two years old, and I can’t remember a time in my life when I couldn’t read. I read voraciously as a child and still do. The school system had absolutely no idea what to do with me, so in their wisdom they decided I should go directly to first grade at age five. The only problem with this was at age five I was reading on the same level as a college freshman. I can just imagine how embarrassed my second grade teacher was when I used the word “sarcastic,” which apparently was not a word in her vocabulary. She thought I was making up words- until I spelled it, defined it, and looked up the definition for her in the dictionary. I was transferred to the other second grade class the next day. That teacher didn’t like me much either. As a child I made the simple mistaken assumption that if I knew something it was common knowledge. Today I know better. It’s safer for me to assume that if I know something, most other people don’t know, which is not a testament to my intelligence, but a sad commentary on the progressive dumbing down of society. Intelligence is a constant and the population is growing. I certainly don’t know everything- the more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know- but I do know that humanity has continued to head downhill since the Fall. No matter what society wants to believe regarding technology and the human ability to build utopia, utopia is not happening. Utopia is not going to happen at the hands of humanity, believe that. Dystopia is alive and well though. If anything, human beings just screw things up in ever more creative ways. Even though I would not consider myself a Calvinist in regard to theology (I lean more along the lines of being a confessional Lutheran as far as theology goes) John Calvin had it 100% correct in his teaching on the total depravity of man. We are all born with the brown touch. Everything human beings touch eventually turns to, well, you know, poo.

I’m not implying that I was some kind of prodigy or anything like that. To this day I can’t explain why I could read at such an early age. I still struggle with math (anything beyond basic business math is out of my realm) and I have the physical coordination of a drunken mule. I’m scatterbrained and disorganized. I remember things I don’t need to, and forget things I need to remember. I am not particularly social unless I have to be for business reasons, and no one would accuse me of being Miss Manners or Emily Post. What you see is what you get.

I’ve been trolling some blogs written by middle school teachers lately (oh, my condolences on that career choice) and thinking of that dark portion of my life almost makes me believe in purgatory again. Middle school had to be the absolute worst three years of my life. There were some funny parts, most memorably the day Ellen stuck a roach clip on Howie’s belt loop and then locked him in the science room closet, but for the most part it was a living hell.

“Howie” was my eighth grade science teacher. I have all the sympathy in the world for this poor guy. First of all, even considering this was 1981-2, he could have used a few couture lessons. The polyester high water pants and white socks with black shoes weren’t winning him any fashion accolades. He also combed his hair into an Elvis-style pompadour waxed up with that greasy Brylcreem stuff. To top it off he had thick (and also greasy looking) coke bottle glasses- the style of glasses referred to in the military as “birth control glasses.”

I have to wonder if Howie was one of those guys who went to college to avoid going to Vietnam. I had several teachers in middle school and high school who readily admitted to doing exactly that. I bet some of them wished they would have gone to ‘Nam instead of dealing with the hellions I went to school with. Education was one of the easiest majors to complete back in the 1960’s and 1970’s, so a lot of guys who normally would have ended up as factory workers or truck drivers or roofers ended up going to college to avoid the draft. This probably explains why I was volunteered to correct spelling for my freshman English teacher, and why my sophomore history teacher spent every class period reading the day’s chapter to the class in a dull, dry monotone.

Anyway, poor Howie had his work cut out for him. My eighth grade science class was filled with every misfit and jackoff in the school. Howie, being rather soft spoken and somewhat of a wimp, didn’t have any kind of control over that class. It was cacophony and chaos every day. Most days I left that class with my hair full of spitballs and/or nasty notes taped to my back.

One of the girls- Ellen- who was 13 going on 35, had a thing for Marlboro reds, enjoyed sleeping with anything remotely male, and rolling up a joint of Marion County Homegrown whenever she could get it, usually sported a pink feathered roach clip attached to her hair like a barrette. I can only assume that she kept the roach clip handy should the opportunity to smoke some homegrown come along.

One day Howie was trying in vain to get people to shut up and stop throwing spitballs, eraser tips and other divers projectiles. At the same time one of the boys decided it would be fun to grab my notebook and draw swastikas and SS lightning bolts on it. At least he didn’t spit on it or smear boogers on it, which would have been more typical of this particular dude. There were so many things flying through the air and so much noise going on that it was difficult to discern how many rules were being broken and to what degree. It was in the midst of this tempest that Ellen sneaked up behind Howie and pinned her pink feathered roach clip on his belt loop. Howie had absolutely no clue and went back into the back closet to get something, wagging his roach clip tail behind him. Normally I didn’t take any kind of joy in others being tormented, being no stranger to torment myself, but this visual was so outrageously funny that the entire class was laughing themselves to tears and I was laughing right along with them.

The science closet had a locking door on it. A key was required to open the door from either side. The key was on Howie’s desk as he usually left the closet door open. Just when the visual of the roach clip tail couldn’t get any funnier, Ellen shut the door, locking poor Howie in the closet with no key. The entire class (I hate to admit it but me included) was absolutely howling in uncontrollable laughter.

About fifteen minutes later the principal showed up. I can’t believe it took him that long to hear all the racket. He immediately starts looking for Howie and then he hears the frantic pounding from inside the science closet. Howie was eventually set free, but it took the principal awhile to find the key on the desk. Rumor had it that Howie resigned from the school system following that school year from hell and got a job driving a bread truck. I don’t blame him one bit.

Middle school thoroughly sucked. Also in eighth grade I had the misfortune of being placed with a classmate who had been in all kinds of trouble with the law and technically should have been in Juvenile Hall- he was sixteen, still in eighth grade, and he was a pervert. Granted, all sixteen year old boys are perverts to a degree, but this lecherous freak was way too close to me- the only thirteen year old in eighth grade with a 36C chest. Every morning before home room this nasty dude would chase me around trying to grab said chest to the chant of “titty, titty, titty.” This dude scared me half to death- but there was no way in hell I was going to let him grab me. One morning he was particularly randy and had gotten very close to getting his wish. It didn’t help that the other boys were egging him on. Then my best friend decided she’d had enough of his behavior, so she tripped him. He grabbed back at her, knocked her down and broke her leg. The part of this that really torqued me was that she got in trouble for fighting as well as the pervo which in my mind was completely unfair. I don’t agree with the common school rule that both parties in a fight get punished. In my opinion there is an instigator and a victim and no one should face a penalty for defending themselves or for defending someone else who is being victimized. So she got to finish out the school year in a cast. The pervo ended up being expelled because he had caused so much additional trouble in the school, so that at least was a good thing.

I had a few small victories in middle school, but the best thing about it is that it is long since over. There were too many mornings of being thrown head first into garbage cans, stuffed into lockers, and being chased by a pervert.

There are those who say that they would like to be young again. I would only want to be young again with one caveat- that I could be young again knowing what I know now. I think I’d have a lot more fun with it. Middle age has its disadvantages, but for the most part cougardom is a lot more comfortable. I don’t worry about impressing anyone, and I don’t think I have to worry about being tossed into garbage cans, stuffed into lockers or being chased by perverts. I don’t have to wear my sisters’ old clothes nor do I have to put up with guys asking for my phone number to call them for dates.

ELYSIANHUNTER, ALWAYS INCITEFUL:

Because comedy is the flipside of tragedy

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