magic 8 ball

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

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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. 

Embrace the Technology, Ask the Magic 8 Ball, and Catharsis by Proxy

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Thankfully I’ve never really been a technophobe.  Unlike my “better half,” who just about had fits of apoplexy trying to operate a touch screen phone, I would rather embrace the technology, especially when said technology is something that will make my life easier. 

For being cougar-aged I think I do pretty good with texting, Facebook, e-mail, Twitter, etc. and I try not to let the gadgets intimidate me.  The MP3 player, for instance, is one of my favorite innovations, because it has freed me from both testy cassette tapes and CDs that skip at the slightest vibration.  I can also put my entire music collection in a tiny box that is just a wee bit larger than a credit card, which is convenient too.  Granted, most of my music collection was originally released long before both CDs and MP3s, but it’s pretty much all been converted to digital format, so I don’t have to worry about being right in the middle of “Bohemian Rhapsody” or “Dixie Highway” only to have the damned tape break.  This is a many splendored and beautiful thing.

However, just because something is new doesn’t mean that it’s essential or even desirable.  Some good examples of innovation gone horribly wrong include:

No Wash Underwear!

I bet those would smell really good after a few days.

The “As Seen on TV” crap is always good for a laugh, but as far as practical application goes, I really can’t see it here:

Spray On Hair!

I wonder what this stuff does if you get caught in a rain storm?  Or if you want to go to the pool?  I bet it would be cheaper to just buy a can of Rust-o-leum in the appropriate shade and spray away.  Or maybe try some of that fake fur that Grandma used for those horrible doll faced Kleenex boxes – the same stuff I covered the dash of my ’77 Rabbit with.  I’m sure there’s some waterproof double-faced tape that would hold it on.

One of the more endearing devices I acquired for my amusement actually dates back to the late 1940’s.  Consulting the Magic 8 Ball always ensures a good laugh even though it is about 50% accurate on a good day.  That makes it about as reliable as a Central Ohio extended weather forecast. 

Let’s have a bit of fun with the 8 Ball today, shall we?

Question:

“Will I ever be able to go more than a day or two without removing superfluous hair from some area of my sorry old body?”

Answer:

“It is certain.”

Is this damned thing broke?

Well, I might as well ask while this thing is giving me answers on the far side of credibility.

“Will I be going on a lovely, long Caribbean Cougar Cruise this fall?”

Answer:

“Better not tell you now.”

That’s probably the best answer this thing’s had in a long time.

I have to admit I have been rather bummed out lately.  I feel as if I have failed at so many things I really wanted to be good at.  Right now I particularly feel like a bad mother.   Maybe I overindulged him.  Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten so pissed off when he was 12 and I got a bill from the cable company for about $300 worth of hard core porn pay-per-view.  That’s one of the things that has to suck about being an only child (although when I was a child I would have been delighted if somehow my sisters would have gotten shipped off to Africa or Siberia or pretty much anywhere way far away from me where they couldn’t kick my ass, and guys couldn’t ask me for my phone number so they could call them.)  With an only child, everyone knows exactly who to blame for everything messed up or bizarre- from the unflushed, toilet paper-less mountain of feces in the toilet to the BB holes in the walls and ceilings.  Even though he denied it, I knew he was the purveyor of the pay-per-view porn, and it was so easy to prove.  It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure this out:

1. Jerry is lucky to figure out how to use the remote to turn on the TV and change channels.  Anything beyond that, including operating the “guide” function, is quite over his head. 

2.  While I can navigate the cable menus with the remote with relative ease, I am not awake from 11PM-2AM, which is when said skin flicks were viewed, and I really have no use for flicks with titles like, “Hot Cheerleaders in Heat” or “Thunder Twats.”  If I were to be the video voyeur, there would have to be a lot more sausage in the titles for them to interest me.

Soooo, the only person in the house who understands the technology (how to access pay-per-view with the remote,) and is awake at such an unholy hour to view the ill-gotten smut, and has an interest in plotless girlie action would be???

Process of elimination?  The fact that the dirty viewing was all done on weekend nights when he had buddies staying over clinched the deal.

I still have pay-per-view disabled in my house, just in case by some weird Murphy’s Law-like corollary, Jerry would access it by mistake.    I know Jerry figuring out pay-per-view (or even accessing it by accident, which would be more likely) would be about as likely as 1000 monkeys banging on typewriters coming up with Webster’s Dictionary, but it would be my luck.

I need to find a site where I can virtually punch something.  Something to make me feel better about completely horribly sucking at everything. Online Frogger is good, but a bit frustrating because the aim is NOT to get the frog hit by a truck.

I guess I am just waiting for something else to remind me what a horrible mother I am.  Oh, yeah, I didn’t buy him those $100 pants he wanted when he was in 8th grade, or the big screen TV.  I made him fess up to his Dad when he was five years old and called me a b—h.  I didn’t staple a full body condom on him every time he walked out the door.

Then again I have to remember, the boy is now an adult and perfectly free to screw up all by himself.  Lord knows I screwed up just about everything, and freaking still do.