I'm sure you've heard the old saying, "Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime." That's only true if the man knows how to cook fish.
When I met Barry he could grill and microwave. Almost every day he ate the same cereal for breakfast, SlimFast for lunch, and a green salad, Bush's beans, and steak for dinner. Sometimes he'd have a pork chop instead of steak. Once in a while he'd order pizza. If he was feeling really wild and crazy he'd make stir-fry and rice. After I moved in he seriously suggested that we eat out all the time so he wouldn't ever have to consume anything outside his comfort zone. I now realize that this was a symptom of his Asperger love of rigid routine, but at the time I was very upset; having the time to cook complicated favorite foods and experiment with new ones was supposed to be one of my compensations for giving up my good-paying job. Plus, after I quit working in insurance we couldn't afford to constantly eat at restaurants.
Eventually Barry became reconciled to variety in his diet and when we committed to healthier eating he started to research different foods and suggest that we try things (like quinoa) we'd never eaten before. However, he never actually learned to prepare any of those items; he just agreed to eat them when I cooked.
Once we separated, Barry returned to his old diet. This fall, though, he's been complaining about being tired of eating the same things all the time. (Talk about "I never thought I'd see the day..."!!) Occasionally I break down and invite him over for dinner, but my long-term strategy is to teach him to cook more things himself. Last week, for instance, we baked a ham together and I showed him how to make deviled eggs, and for Christmas I gave him two cookbooks.
Originally I considered giving him a "learn from scratch" cookbook like the one I gave a friend last year, but Barry already knows many of the basics of cooking; he just needs to learn how to put them together in a healthy way. And, oh, yes, have I mentioned that he doesn't have any patience?
Here are the two books I finally bought for him:
More Fast Food My Way by Jacques Pepin. You already know that I think Jacques is the greatest teaching chef ever, and these recipes are relatively healthy and practically goof-proof. The accompanying TV show is also still in reruns on the local PBS station so Barry can see the techniques in action if he so desires.
Now Eat This!:150 of America's Favorite Comfort Foods, All Under 350 Calories by Rocco DiSpirito. When I lived in New York, Rocco was the executive chef at Union Pacific Cafe, where the food was fabulous. Since then he's become a triathlete and jumped on the healthy eating bandwagon. He was the consulting chef for several seasons of The Biggest Loser. These recipes drastically cut the fat, sugar, and bad carbs from standard recipes while maintaining or (in many cases) improving their flavor. Not quite as easy as the Pepin recipes, and some searching for unusual ingredients may be necessary, but a great starting point for anyone who wants to learn to make healthier versions of old favorites.
With luck, Barry will learn to make more than steak and stir-fry for himself, and I may get a few free meals out of it, too.
"Anybody who believes that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach flunked geography." ~Robert Byrne
Showing posts with label Aspergers syndrome. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Aspergers syndrome. Show all posts
Monday, January 2, 2012
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Seance Cooking
The book club I belong to has its next meeting a week from tonight, so I was relieved when my copy of the book we're going to discuss finally arrived from Amazon on Monday. I just finished reading it.
All of us are supposed to bring suggestions for the next book to each meeting, and we vote on which candidate to read next. The club is full of people who are (in my sister Sue's words) in "the helping professions," so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that this month's book is The Kitchen Daughter, a novel by Jael McHenry about a women with Asperger's syndrome.
The member who suggested the book told us that the protagonist used cooking as a way to shield herself from and cope with the outside world. This bald description, however, does not do the novel justice. Ginny, the main character, doesn't just use cooking to deal with the land of the living. At the start of the book she discovers she can summon ghosts by cooking their recipes. Her parents have just died, so she uses her discovery to try to solve the family mysteries they left behind.
Ginny is farther down the road toward autism than the Asperger's sufferer I lived with, but her reluctance to look others in the face, her sudden obsessions and equally sudden lack of interest, and her emotional overreaction to things that others wouldn't even notice were eerily familiar. If the author isn't actually close to someone with Asperger's, she has done her research. The book goes far beyond merely uncovering the quirks of Asperger behavior, though. The language, particularly when Ginny cooks or thinks about cooking, is rich and evocative; I could almost smell the food she put together. At times the book's exploration of how family members hurt each other most when they are trying their hardest to help was acutely painful, and even when it's not the tension and uncertainty Ginny feels as she fights her sister's attempts to sell the family home and move Ginny out (for her own good, of course) left me pretty tense myself. I can't say much about the ending without giving it away, but it seemed both surprising and right.
I had intended to read this book and then donate it to charity, but I liked it so well that I'm making a permanent place for it on my bookshelves - and not just for the delicious recipes it contains.
[Amanda:]"I want to talk about your problem."...
[Ginny: ]"I don't have a problem."
"You do."
"I have a personality. That's what I have."
~Jael McHenry, The Kitchen Daughter
All of us are supposed to bring suggestions for the next book to each meeting, and we vote on which candidate to read next. The club is full of people who are (in my sister Sue's words) in "the helping professions," so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that this month's book is The Kitchen Daughter, a novel by Jael McHenry about a women with Asperger's syndrome.
The member who suggested the book told us that the protagonist used cooking as a way to shield herself from and cope with the outside world. This bald description, however, does not do the novel justice. Ginny, the main character, doesn't just use cooking to deal with the land of the living. At the start of the book she discovers she can summon ghosts by cooking their recipes. Her parents have just died, so she uses her discovery to try to solve the family mysteries they left behind.
Ginny is farther down the road toward autism than the Asperger's sufferer I lived with, but her reluctance to look others in the face, her sudden obsessions and equally sudden lack of interest, and her emotional overreaction to things that others wouldn't even notice were eerily familiar. If the author isn't actually close to someone with Asperger's, she has done her research. The book goes far beyond merely uncovering the quirks of Asperger behavior, though. The language, particularly when Ginny cooks or thinks about cooking, is rich and evocative; I could almost smell the food she put together. At times the book's exploration of how family members hurt each other most when they are trying their hardest to help was acutely painful, and even when it's not the tension and uncertainty Ginny feels as she fights her sister's attempts to sell the family home and move Ginny out (for her own good, of course) left me pretty tense myself. I can't say much about the ending without giving it away, but it seemed both surprising and right.
I had intended to read this book and then donate it to charity, but I liked it so well that I'm making a permanent place for it on my bookshelves - and not just for the delicious recipes it contains.
[Amanda:]"I want to talk about your problem."...
[Ginny: ]"I don't have a problem."
"You do."
"I have a personality. That's what I have."
~Jael McHenry, The Kitchen Daughter
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Making a New Ending
This has been an odd week. I had intended to spend as much time as possible at our house, cleaning, but Barry feels unsettled having me there now that we are no longer a couple, so I've pretty much moved in with my parents. Doing so has made me realize just how much of my time and energy have been sucked up the last few years by waiting on Barry and coping with his Asperger issues. Suddenly I'm catching up on everything from the overdue oil change for my car to overdue physicals for myself and the cat. I'm sleeping better. I've also set up a new budget. If the house sells quickly, I will be able to buy a small home outright, settle the rest of my monetary issues, and enjoy being in control of my schedule, my diet, and my finances. I see a light at the end of the tunnel and it isn't a train.
“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”
“Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.”
~Maria Robinson
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Pulling the Plug
Well, today Barry and I took our relationship off life support. He called the Cabana Boys to come drain and descale the pool and I have spent the day cleaning and decluttering the house so the real estate agent can come tomorrow. In a way, this is saying goodbye to the house - as if I were dressing it up to leave it on the steps of the orphanage - and I keep having to stop and wipe the tears from my eyes.
Sadly, the house is a symbol of everything that went wrong between us. Barry insisted that we sell both our previous houses and jointly buy a new one. That made sense, since his house was too small for both of us and he didn't want to live in the home I had shared with Tom. The one we built was a compromise, though - smaller than he wanted, bigger than I did. (It was at the upper limit of what I thought we could afford after I quit working full time. It was actually just past that limit, contributing regularly to the financial stress of our situation.) He was never happy that it wasn't a huge mass of wasted space located on a golf course, and he insisted on putting in a pool. Unfortunately, over my protests, he chose a pool builder who couldn't start until after we took possession.
This is the first new house I have ever lived in, and I was so excited at the prospect of moving in. The layout of the model we chose was great, I argued Barry into Corian counters in the kitchen, and the whole thing was so bright and shiny that I was thoroughly infatuated with it. Until the first night, when Barry decided the location was too noisy and we should move back to his old house. The landscapers starting work at dawn the next day didn't help, either. I bought a white-noise-emitting humidifier to block the (actually very minimal) noise from the street and after a month or so Barry became reconciled to the location. By then, though, my pleasure in the house had greatly diminished and never completely returned.
In retrospect, I think Barry was reacting not to the noise but to the change. At that point we didn't know that he had Asperger's and he thought (I can't imagine why) that he was the most flexible and adaptable person on the planet. In reality, of course, the stress of the move alone (although I did 90% of the packing and all of the unpacking) was enough to totally disorient him, even without the new surroundings.
So, poor unwanted and unloved house, I hope you are adopted by someone who loves you for my kitchen and Barry's pool and the fact that you are within walking distance of the rec center. You deserve much more affection than you've received for the last six years. So do I.
“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.” ~Mother Teresa of Calcutta
Sadly, the house is a symbol of everything that went wrong between us. Barry insisted that we sell both our previous houses and jointly buy a new one. That made sense, since his house was too small for both of us and he didn't want to live in the home I had shared with Tom. The one we built was a compromise, though - smaller than he wanted, bigger than I did. (It was at the upper limit of what I thought we could afford after I quit working full time. It was actually just past that limit, contributing regularly to the financial stress of our situation.) He was never happy that it wasn't a huge mass of wasted space located on a golf course, and he insisted on putting in a pool. Unfortunately, over my protests, he chose a pool builder who couldn't start until after we took possession.
This is the first new house I have ever lived in, and I was so excited at the prospect of moving in. The layout of the model we chose was great, I argued Barry into Corian counters in the kitchen, and the whole thing was so bright and shiny that I was thoroughly infatuated with it. Until the first night, when Barry decided the location was too noisy and we should move back to his old house. The landscapers starting work at dawn the next day didn't help, either. I bought a white-noise-emitting humidifier to block the (actually very minimal) noise from the street and after a month or so Barry became reconciled to the location. By then, though, my pleasure in the house had greatly diminished and never completely returned.
In retrospect, I think Barry was reacting not to the noise but to the change. At that point we didn't know that he had Asperger's and he thought (I can't imagine why) that he was the most flexible and adaptable person on the planet. In reality, of course, the stress of the move alone (although I did 90% of the packing and all of the unpacking) was enough to totally disorient him, even without the new surroundings.
So, poor unwanted and unloved house, I hope you are adopted by someone who loves you for my kitchen and Barry's pool and the fact that you are within walking distance of the rec center. You deserve much more affection than you've received for the last six years. So do I.
“We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless. The poverty of being unwanted, unloved and uncared for is the greatest poverty. We must start in our own homes to remedy this kind of poverty.” ~Mother Teresa of Calcutta
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Seven Year Itch
I have a finite amount of energy, patience, and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, so do my relationships, and I'm afraid mine and Barry's may be approaching the end of its shelf life.
When we first met, I had been widowed for a year, and Barry seemed to be the very image of my perfect man. He was tall and smart and sexy, and he thought I was brilliant and gorgeous. The course of true love ran smoothly for about four months, after which he pressured me to move in with him and sell my house. I was reluctant to do so, but afraid to lose him, so that's what I did - and that's when his Mr. Hyde (aka Asperger) side appeared. He didn't want me to keep anything that might possibly remind me of my late husband - photos, furniture, or souvenirs of our travels. He demanded that I cut my ties with Tom's family. He never wanted me to mention that I had lived in New York or traveled anywhere that he hadn't. He pressured me to give up my job - the most enjoyable and one of the best-paying jobs I had ever had. He even insisted that we lie about being married, although I refused to marry him because we couldn't afford to give up the remains of Tom's pension and health insurance. Barry assured me that he had never acted this way with anyone else and that it wasn't his true self, and I wanted so badly to believe him that I did. I also gave in to most of his demands, hoping that he would be happy when they were met. Hah.
Fast forward almost seven years and three couples counselors. I know now that between Barry's Asperger's and the abuse he suffered as a child, he will never be able to love or trust me in ways that I believe are essential to a good relationship. Worse, when I am with him, I am not the person I want to be. Seven years ago I would have told you that I was a calm, mature person without much of a temper. Sadly, an argument with Barry can reduce me to a bratty five-year-old in the blink of an eye. I have yelled more in anger since meeting him than in my entire 49 previous years combined - some kind of a record, no doubt, but not a good one. I WILL NOT be this person for the rest of my life.
Last night Barry had a meltdown because I religiously followed what had previously been one of his hard and fast rules. THIS time he wanted me to do something different.
I am so tired. I still love him but I don't think I can continue to inhabit the same house. Life is too short to live with someone who criticizes everything I do and apparently no longer finds me physically attractive to boot.
After Tom's death I jokingly told his sons that their father had been the most expensive hobby I'd ever had (he took early retirement shortly after our marriage). Well, going along with all of Barry's demands has probably cost me upwards of half a million dollars, making him the official most expensive Ken doll in my personal experience. Too bad I can't sell him to the highest bidder to recoup some of my financial and emotional losses.
To be continued.
“The quality of your life is the quality of your relationships.” ~Anthony Robbins
When we first met, I had been widowed for a year, and Barry seemed to be the very image of my perfect man. He was tall and smart and sexy, and he thought I was brilliant and gorgeous. The course of true love ran smoothly for about four months, after which he pressured me to move in with him and sell my house. I was reluctant to do so, but afraid to lose him, so that's what I did - and that's when his Mr. Hyde (aka Asperger) side appeared. He didn't want me to keep anything that might possibly remind me of my late husband - photos, furniture, or souvenirs of our travels. He demanded that I cut my ties with Tom's family. He never wanted me to mention that I had lived in New York or traveled anywhere that he hadn't. He pressured me to give up my job - the most enjoyable and one of the best-paying jobs I had ever had. He even insisted that we lie about being married, although I refused to marry him because we couldn't afford to give up the remains of Tom's pension and health insurance. Barry assured me that he had never acted this way with anyone else and that it wasn't his true self, and I wanted so badly to believe him that I did. I also gave in to most of his demands, hoping that he would be happy when they were met. Hah.
Fast forward almost seven years and three couples counselors. I know now that between Barry's Asperger's and the abuse he suffered as a child, he will never be able to love or trust me in ways that I believe are essential to a good relationship. Worse, when I am with him, I am not the person I want to be. Seven years ago I would have told you that I was a calm, mature person without much of a temper. Sadly, an argument with Barry can reduce me to a bratty five-year-old in the blink of an eye. I have yelled more in anger since meeting him than in my entire 49 previous years combined - some kind of a record, no doubt, but not a good one. I WILL NOT be this person for the rest of my life.
Last night Barry had a meltdown because I religiously followed what had previously been one of his hard and fast rules. THIS time he wanted me to do something different.
I am so tired. I still love him but I don't think I can continue to inhabit the same house. Life is too short to live with someone who criticizes everything I do and apparently no longer finds me physically attractive to boot.
After Tom's death I jokingly told his sons that their father had been the most expensive hobby I'd ever had (he took early retirement shortly after our marriage). Well, going along with all of Barry's demands has probably cost me upwards of half a million dollars, making him the official most expensive Ken doll in my personal experience. Too bad I can't sell him to the highest bidder to recoup some of my financial and emotional losses.
To be continued.
“The quality of your life is the quality of your relationships.” ~Anthony Robbins
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Scrimmaging for Books
Yesterday Barry and I set new personal records for partying. In the morning I attended a clothing party hosted by a friend of mine. Other friends held a pre-dance dinner party late in the afternoon. Then we attended the Valentine ballroom dance I mentioned in an earlier post, and finally a birthday party for three people we know. We ate a lot of things we shouldn't have, including two pieces of cake each, and didn't get home until after midnight. Barry pretty much crashed today, but I had a different kind of party to attend.
Today was the second and last day of the annual VNSA Book Sale, an institution in the Phoenix area. Held in a cavernous building on the Arizona State Fairgrounds, it's an opportunity to load up on used and remaindered books for very little money. The books are displayed on tables and shelves and in boxes, and the shoppers come equipped with bags and boxes and rolling carts and lists of things they're looking for. Shopping carts are available inside the building and many people fill them up. Particularly on the first day of the sale, the multitudes of book buyers are aggressive and acquisitive. The second day is slightly less crowded because the books have been picked over, but those that remain are half off the already low prices; this brings out the high-volume shoppers.
Attending the sale requires special defensive techniques. The ability to loom slightly can discourage crowding, but if that fails, keeping one's elbows slightly cocked can help defend one's feet and ribs. Today, however, even looming and cocking didn't keep an absent-minded woman from ramming me with a shopping cart in front of the science fiction section. Fortunately I had my purse on one side any my tote bag full of books on the other to act as bumpers. I ended the day unscathed with a mixed bag of hardcover and paperback books for only $19.50.
Only once did I try taking Barry with me to the sale. The huge building and determined crowds sent him into full-fledged Asperger mode. His initial panic attack turned into rage. I prefer to draw a veil over the remainder of the day, but I'm still surprised we weren't cited for reckless driving or killed on the way home. Now I go alone and try to bring back at least a couple of souvenirs for him. This time he graciously approved the Freeman Dyson book I bought for him, although he was less pleased with the only calculus book I could find. Ah, well, it only cost me a dollar - a small price to pay for peace on the home front.
In any case, I have a sack full of new books to explore. Good thing I've managed to make some empty space on my bookshelves. Maybe if I finish weeding out the books I don't intend to reread, I can volunteer to work at the VNSA sale next year. The money from the sale goes to worthwhile causes, and the volunteers get first pick of the merchandise.
Today was the second and last day of the annual VNSA Book Sale, an institution in the Phoenix area. Held in a cavernous building on the Arizona State Fairgrounds, it's an opportunity to load up on used and remaindered books for very little money. The books are displayed on tables and shelves and in boxes, and the shoppers come equipped with bags and boxes and rolling carts and lists of things they're looking for. Shopping carts are available inside the building and many people fill them up. Particularly on the first day of the sale, the multitudes of book buyers are aggressive and acquisitive. The second day is slightly less crowded because the books have been picked over, but those that remain are half off the already low prices; this brings out the high-volume shoppers.
Attending the sale requires special defensive techniques. The ability to loom slightly can discourage crowding, but if that fails, keeping one's elbows slightly cocked can help defend one's feet and ribs. Today, however, even looming and cocking didn't keep an absent-minded woman from ramming me with a shopping cart in front of the science fiction section. Fortunately I had my purse on one side any my tote bag full of books on the other to act as bumpers. I ended the day unscathed with a mixed bag of hardcover and paperback books for only $19.50.
Only once did I try taking Barry with me to the sale. The huge building and determined crowds sent him into full-fledged Asperger mode. His initial panic attack turned into rage. I prefer to draw a veil over the remainder of the day, but I'm still surprised we weren't cited for reckless driving or killed on the way home. Now I go alone and try to bring back at least a couple of souvenirs for him. This time he graciously approved the Freeman Dyson book I bought for him, although he was less pleased with the only calculus book I could find. Ah, well, it only cost me a dollar - a small price to pay for peace on the home front.
In any case, I have a sack full of new books to explore. Good thing I've managed to make some empty space on my bookshelves. Maybe if I finish weeding out the books I don't intend to reread, I can volunteer to work at the VNSA sale next year. The money from the sale goes to worthwhile causes, and the volunteers get first pick of the merchandise.
“Reading is a means of thinking with another person's mind; it forces you to stretch your own.” ~Charles Scribner, Jr.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
The Scales of Judgement
Last night I felt really depressed. It was one of those days when all the little things piled up.
The holiday season is well over and I still haven't put away all of the decorations. Ghosts of Christmas Past, anyone? Plus, during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas I ate too much and too much of the wrong stuff, so my pants are getting tight. I knew I should have taken those goodies to work a little earlier... I went a month without stepping on the scale because I knew the news would be bad. As if avoidance solves anything.
On the job front: Lately the automatic scheduling software at the school I teach for has been doing odd things. Part-timers like me are supposed to be limited to 4 classes at a time, but I was up to 5 for a while. Now it wants me to teach grammar classes (which I don't enjoy) instead of web design (which I do). Boo, hiss. And speaking of web design classes, two sections of mine ended on Sunday so I have all their gigantic final projects to correct this week plus the usual weekly assignments from the other classes still in progress.
Relationship issues: Bear-y (I'm using that spelling on purpose) has been very grouchy for the past few days. He fell and bruised his tailbone on the tile in our bathroom. Now he's acting as if the sky has fallen because he didn't feel fine the next day. Even though he admits it only hurts when he sits for a while, he's outraged that he still feels any pain at all and is using this as an excuse to avoid most of his usual chores and be waited on hand and foot. I was horrified when he fell and I sympathize with his pain, but nobody cut me any slack after I cracked my tailbone in a skiing accident; I borrowed a rubber doughnut to sit on for six weeks and sucked it up. This snarly attitude on his part may be partly responsible for the next incident in my litany of complaints.
Normally Barry and I take group dance lessons on Monday. We've been taking them for several years from the same teacher, so we're repeating some of the sessions. Because I follow well, the teacher usually uses me as her partner to demonstrate steps for the others. Yesterday a new student told me that I dance beautifully. Before I could even open my mouth to say "Thank you," Barry said, "We've had the class before." Thanks for the support, cupcake; would "Yes, she does" have been too much of a stretch? Okay, this is probably just one of those Asperger things, but that doesn't make it feel any better.
And, of course, this is the anniversary of my husband Tom's death.
The responsible adult way to have coped last night would have been to cook an excellent low-calorie meal, jolly Barry out of his bad mood, post something on my blog and then settle down to correcting that mountain of homework. Instead I spent the evening ignoring Barry, playing mindless video games, and inhaling an entire bag of chips. Can you spell "self-destructive?" (At least it was a small bag of PopChips instead of a giant bag of Doritos with extra cheese, and I did the laundry in between games.)
So today, in a fit of remorse, I stepped on the scale (up, of course), ate a Spartan breakfast, and started grading final projects. I'm a fourth of the way through them and taking a break to decide what kind of a salad to make for lunch. This afternoon, if I'm feeling really masochistic, I may balance my checkbook.
I'm feeling a little better after venting, but venting won't make those extra pounds go away. I'm hoping at least part of the weight is water retention due to the salt in the chips. Back to the daily weigh-ins, at least for a while, I guess. Maybe it's time to re-read Pollyanna, too.
"Concern should drive us into action and not into a depression. No man is free who cannot control himself. " ~Pythagoras [Just like a man to offer unwelcome advice!]
The holiday season is well over and I still haven't put away all of the decorations. Ghosts of Christmas Past, anyone? Plus, during the stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas I ate too much and too much of the wrong stuff, so my pants are getting tight. I knew I should have taken those goodies to work a little earlier... I went a month without stepping on the scale because I knew the news would be bad. As if avoidance solves anything.
On the job front: Lately the automatic scheduling software at the school I teach for has been doing odd things. Part-timers like me are supposed to be limited to 4 classes at a time, but I was up to 5 for a while. Now it wants me to teach grammar classes (which I don't enjoy) instead of web design (which I do). Boo, hiss. And speaking of web design classes, two sections of mine ended on Sunday so I have all their gigantic final projects to correct this week plus the usual weekly assignments from the other classes still in progress.
Relationship issues: Bear-y (I'm using that spelling on purpose) has been very grouchy for the past few days. He fell and bruised his tailbone on the tile in our bathroom. Now he's acting as if the sky has fallen because he didn't feel fine the next day. Even though he admits it only hurts when he sits for a while, he's outraged that he still feels any pain at all and is using this as an excuse to avoid most of his usual chores and be waited on hand and foot. I was horrified when he fell and I sympathize with his pain, but nobody cut me any slack after I cracked my tailbone in a skiing accident; I borrowed a rubber doughnut to sit on for six weeks and sucked it up. This snarly attitude on his part may be partly responsible for the next incident in my litany of complaints.
Normally Barry and I take group dance lessons on Monday. We've been taking them for several years from the same teacher, so we're repeating some of the sessions. Because I follow well, the teacher usually uses me as her partner to demonstrate steps for the others. Yesterday a new student told me that I dance beautifully. Before I could even open my mouth to say "Thank you," Barry said, "We've had the class before." Thanks for the support, cupcake; would "Yes, she does" have been too much of a stretch? Okay, this is probably just one of those Asperger things, but that doesn't make it feel any better.
And, of course, this is the anniversary of my husband Tom's death.
The responsible adult way to have coped last night would have been to cook an excellent low-calorie meal, jolly Barry out of his bad mood, post something on my blog and then settle down to correcting that mountain of homework. Instead I spent the evening ignoring Barry, playing mindless video games, and inhaling an entire bag of chips. Can you spell "self-destructive?" (At least it was a small bag of PopChips instead of a giant bag of Doritos with extra cheese, and I did the laundry in between games.)
So today, in a fit of remorse, I stepped on the scale (up, of course), ate a Spartan breakfast, and started grading final projects. I'm a fourth of the way through them and taking a break to decide what kind of a salad to make for lunch. This afternoon, if I'm feeling really masochistic, I may balance my checkbook.
I'm feeling a little better after venting, but venting won't make those extra pounds go away. I'm hoping at least part of the weight is water retention due to the salt in the chips. Back to the daily weigh-ins, at least for a while, I guess. Maybe it's time to re-read Pollyanna, too.
"Concern should drive us into action and not into a depression. No man is free who cannot control himself. " ~Pythagoras [Just like a man to offer unwelcome advice!]
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
We'll Be Sitting Pretty
The first year Barry and I were together we bought each other the traditional "surprise" gifts. This bombed big time. For instance, on one occasion, knowing how much Barry admires Fred Astaire, I gave him the DVDs for Broadway Melody of 1940 (ending in the amazing "Begin the Beguine" number with Eleanor Powell) and You Were Never Lovelier (with Rita Hayworth, Adolphe Menjou, and Xavier Cugat). His reaction? "We could have ordered them from Netflix." Never mind that we've watched them about a thousand times since - in his mind that money would have been better spent on something useful, like maybe pool toys. Even worse was the time he gave me a heart-shaped box of candy the week before Valentine's Day. I decided to wait until the actual holiday to open it; he thought this meant I didn't want it and gave it to someone else. After a few such misfires we agreed to buy each other only items the recipient explicitly asks for, and if a gift is a consumable, warn the giver if it won't be used immediately.
This year we've decided to buy a reasonably attractive and well-sprung futon as our joint Christmas present. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that this summer we disposed of the bed in our spare bedroom and turned it into a combination exercise and TV room. Unfortunately, we've been without seating in there ever since (at least, I don't consider a pile of spare cushions and the orphaned pillows from the vanished bed to constitute seating for anyone over the age of 16), and our tailbones are starting to feel the strain. In addition, we no longer have anywhere for guests to sleep. Barry rather churlishly suggested that anyone who wants to visit us can bed down in a nearby hotel, but I don't think this is a practical solution when our most frequent visitors are his daughters, neither of whom is independently wealthy. We had looked at a few sofa sleepers and talked about a wall bed, but the futon is both easier to convert into a bed and more convenient to reposition if we are seized by the desire to play tennis or bowl a few games with our WII.
We ordered the futon online this weekend and received an e-mail saying that it's been shipped and will be delivered some time between tomorrow and Christmas. I'm glad that we bought it when we did, and not just because it will be here for the holiday. When we were placing the order the retailer's website said "Limited Quantities Available," and when I went back there just now to get the link so you could view it yourself, all mention of the futon had vanished. We may be getting the very last one they had in stock.
I'm not sure I'm going to mention this to Barry. If I do, he'll immediately start worrying about what will happen if it's damaged in shipment. Or maybe not. When he insisted that we have it shipped rather than pick it up at the store, he apparently didn't realize that this means we'll have to assemble the frame ourselves. Oh, well - as I've said before, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. At least I'm pretty sure this is one present he won't give away for lack of use.
"The perfect date for me would be staying at home, making a big picnic in bed, eating Wotsits and cookies while watching cable TV." ~Kim Kardashian
This year we've decided to buy a reasonably attractive and well-sprung futon as our joint Christmas present. If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that this summer we disposed of the bed in our spare bedroom and turned it into a combination exercise and TV room. Unfortunately, we've been without seating in there ever since (at least, I don't consider a pile of spare cushions and the orphaned pillows from the vanished bed to constitute seating for anyone over the age of 16), and our tailbones are starting to feel the strain. In addition, we no longer have anywhere for guests to sleep. Barry rather churlishly suggested that anyone who wants to visit us can bed down in a nearby hotel, but I don't think this is a practical solution when our most frequent visitors are his daughters, neither of whom is independently wealthy. We had looked at a few sofa sleepers and talked about a wall bed, but the futon is both easier to convert into a bed and more convenient to reposition if we are seized by the desire to play tennis or bowl a few games with our WII.
We ordered the futon online this weekend and received an e-mail saying that it's been shipped and will be delivered some time between tomorrow and Christmas. I'm glad that we bought it when we did, and not just because it will be here for the holiday. When we were placing the order the retailer's website said "Limited Quantities Available," and when I went back there just now to get the link so you could view it yourself, all mention of the futon had vanished. We may be getting the very last one they had in stock.
I'm not sure I'm going to mention this to Barry. If I do, he'll immediately start worrying about what will happen if it's damaged in shipment. Or maybe not. When he insisted that we have it shipped rather than pick it up at the store, he apparently didn't realize that this means we'll have to assemble the frame ourselves. Oh, well - as I've said before, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. At least I'm pretty sure this is one present he won't give away for lack of use.
"The perfect date for me would be staying at home, making a big picnic in bed, eating Wotsits and cookies while watching cable TV." ~Kim Kardashian
Saturday, October 16, 2010
It's My Blog and I'll Whine If I Want To
Earlier this week I was distressed by a nasty comment that accused me of being totally self-absorbed. I deleted the comment and then had second thoughts. I'm sure that I do come across in this blog as extremely self-centered because this is the only place I have to put myself first.
I've mentioned several times that Barry, my partner, has Aspergers syndrome. Aspergers is an autism-spectrum disorder; the symptoms are enumerated in this list from the Aspergers Society:
Living with someone who has Aspergers demands a lot of patience. I am his support system and his social buffer. When we were first together, I handled all of our travel arrangements, home repairs, shopping, and anything else that required dealing with other people because these tasks flustered and angered him so much that he would verbally assault the other party. After years of work and some help from an excellent therapist he has started to take care of more of these things himself, but he can still abruptly collapse or kick into a rage if things don't go exactly according to his mental vision.
In addition, Asperger individuals are neurologically unable to understand other peoples' feelings. Barry loves me and says he wants to support me, but he doesn't really get what that means. I tell him as clearly and as explicitly as possible what my needs are, but there's about an 80% chance that he won't believe me. Why should I want a silly thing like that?
Barry is a bright and sensitive person and I love him very much, but I doubt that I would have become involved with him had I known about the Aspergers from Day 1. (He wasn't actually diagnosed until we had been together for several years.) In many ways he is more like my child than an equal partner. Navigating the rocky waters of his quirks, neediness, and anger some days takes all I have to give, or even a little more. On the days when things go really wrong for him, I feel as if I am living with an emotional vampire, because by the time he is calmed down and functional I am totally drained.
So, this blog is where I go to talk about me. If the individual who left me the nasty note doesn't like it, he or she can go read something else. If any of the rest of you would like further information about Aspergers syndrome, I would suggest these online resources:
"I see people with Asperger's syndrome as a bright thread in the rich tapestry of life" ~ Tony Attwood.
I've mentioned several times that Barry, my partner, has Aspergers syndrome. Aspergers is an autism-spectrum disorder; the symptoms are enumerated in this list from the Aspergers Society:
- Social awkwardness / no friends
- Obsessions / focused on one subject
- Lack of eye contact
- Sensitivity to noise / touch / feel of clothing
- Odd speech / extreme logic / very proper speech
- Anger / aggression / hitting others
- Craves ROUTINE!
- Appears lost / in own world
- Communication problems or motor skills problems
- Stimming behavior [self-stimulation movements or tics, like rubbing the face or flapping hands]
Living with someone who has Aspergers demands a lot of patience. I am his support system and his social buffer. When we were first together, I handled all of our travel arrangements, home repairs, shopping, and anything else that required dealing with other people because these tasks flustered and angered him so much that he would verbally assault the other party. After years of work and some help from an excellent therapist he has started to take care of more of these things himself, but he can still abruptly collapse or kick into a rage if things don't go exactly according to his mental vision.
In addition, Asperger individuals are neurologically unable to understand other peoples' feelings. Barry loves me and says he wants to support me, but he doesn't really get what that means. I tell him as clearly and as explicitly as possible what my needs are, but there's about an 80% chance that he won't believe me. Why should I want a silly thing like that?
Barry is a bright and sensitive person and I love him very much, but I doubt that I would have become involved with him had I known about the Aspergers from Day 1. (He wasn't actually diagnosed until we had been together for several years.) In many ways he is more like my child than an equal partner. Navigating the rocky waters of his quirks, neediness, and anger some days takes all I have to give, or even a little more. On the days when things go really wrong for him, I feel as if I am living with an emotional vampire, because by the time he is calmed down and functional I am totally drained.
So, this blog is where I go to talk about me. If the individual who left me the nasty note doesn't like it, he or she can go read something else. If any of the rest of you would like further information about Aspergers syndrome, I would suggest these online resources:
- http://www.aspergersyndrome.org/
- http://www.aspergers.com/
- http://www.wrongplanet.net/article112.html
- http://www.aspires-relationships.com/
- http://www.autscape.org/
"I see people with Asperger's syndrome as a bright thread in the rich tapestry of life" ~ Tony Attwood.
Monday, October 11, 2010
When Two Rules Collide
I loaded the dishwasher after supper yesterday but didn’t start it. The bottom rack still had room for the breakfast dishes, so running it last night would have violated one of Barry’s cardinal rules: You should not waste water.
This morning, though, when Barry realized that yesterday’s dishes were still filthy, he blew up. Apparently I had violated another rule, the one that says I should do things when he expects them to be done. After a brisk discussion, he agreed the “save water” rule trumps the “keep on schedule” rule. We live in the desert, after all. Conservation is important.
I think we all harbor fuzzy, unspoken sets of internal “shoulds,” and when one of those “shoulds” is violated, we are angrier than the situation really calls for. I was much less aware of this before meeting Barry. Asperger’s sufferers have more rules than most people and are very dedicated to defending them. Living with someone so bound by internal dictates has made me stop and consider what contradictory or dysfunctional rules may be cluttering up my own brain pan. Here are a few I think I should throw overboard, or at least stop stressing about:
- Everyone around me should be reasonable and good-tempered at all times. Only I am allowed to have snarky moods.
- I should be able to eat anything I want to without exercising or gaining weight.
- I should not even try to do something unless I’m sure I can do it perfectly.
Yes, and the tooth fairy should pay me the quarter she still owes me.
These are bad rules that limit my pleasure in my life as it is by holding out for impossible can’t-bes. Jettisoning them and others like them will not be as easy as deleting unwanted files from my computer’s hard drive, but I think I need to try. Otherwise, I will be endlessly disappointed that the house needs cleaning, my bank account is empty, and Barry continues to be upset with me for breaking his rules.
“If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun.” ~ Katharine Hepburn
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thar She Blows
You may have noticed that the tagline for this blog is "venting random thoughts before they injure my brain." I'll bet you think that's supposed to be a joke, right? Well, not really.
I used to think I was a pretty funny person. That was before I met Barry.
Don't get me wrong; Barry has many wonderful qualities. That's why we've been together for almost 6 years. However, he has two characteristics that make him an unsatisfactory audience for witty remarks: damaged hearing and Asperger's syndrome. For those of you not familiar with Asperger's, it's an autism-spectrum disorder; without a lot of work, the sufferers never pick up the social interaction skills that most of us acquire naturally in childhood. Because of his hearing loss, Barry frequently can't hear my attempts at humor, and because of the Asperger's, when he does hear them, he usually doesn't understand why they're supposed to be funny. I think his sense of humor stalled at about the third grade. I hadn't known him for very long before I just gave up trying to tell him jokes; few things are more deflating than laughing wildly at your own remarks while your audience stares at you in total bewilderment.
Unfortunately, this is also the first time in my life that I haven't had at least one kindred spirit among my co-workers, or a funny female friend that I spend a lot of time with one-on-one. This means a huge backlog of sarcasm has been building up inside my head and I've begun to worry that one day soon it will spontaneously erupt and spew forth in a torrent of malice that will ruin my home life or my job or both. Hence this blog. Hence my recent frantic spate of daily postings. Maybe I can bleed off the pressure gradually before my head explodes like Krakatoa.
"Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it." - E. B. White
I used to think I was a pretty funny person. That was before I met Barry.
Don't get me wrong; Barry has many wonderful qualities. That's why we've been together for almost 6 years. However, he has two characteristics that make him an unsatisfactory audience for witty remarks: damaged hearing and Asperger's syndrome. For those of you not familiar with Asperger's, it's an autism-spectrum disorder; without a lot of work, the sufferers never pick up the social interaction skills that most of us acquire naturally in childhood. Because of his hearing loss, Barry frequently can't hear my attempts at humor, and because of the Asperger's, when he does hear them, he usually doesn't understand why they're supposed to be funny. I think his sense of humor stalled at about the third grade. I hadn't known him for very long before I just gave up trying to tell him jokes; few things are more deflating than laughing wildly at your own remarks while your audience stares at you in total bewilderment.
Unfortunately, this is also the first time in my life that I haven't had at least one kindred spirit among my co-workers, or a funny female friend that I spend a lot of time with one-on-one. This means a huge backlog of sarcasm has been building up inside my head and I've begun to worry that one day soon it will spontaneously erupt and spew forth in a torrent of malice that will ruin my home life or my job or both. Hence this blog. Hence my recent frantic spate of daily postings. Maybe I can bleed off the pressure gradually before my head explodes like Krakatoa.
"Analyzing humor is like dissecting a frog. Few people are interested and the frog dies of it." - E. B. White
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