These Dreams ...

... are about to drive me up a wall.

WHY did I dream about Day Girl last night? I should have known something was up when it started in my office, which had a big picture window and was beige, and had a couch. Exactly what my office does not have.

Day Girl came into the office looking like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. She had makeup on and contacts, instead of her regular glasses. She ushered in her small son and they had a seat on my couch. Before I had a chance to ask her if she had received any of my notes, she told her son to "Say hello to Alan, honey! He's going to be your new Daddy!" And as I studied this child who was going to be installed into my life, I began to notice the telltale signs of developmental disability. That's when she took out the pamphlets and literature about autism and how there's new treatment for hopeful moms ...

And there I sat thinking, "Well, yeah. This is about normal. Most women my age are single parents with as many, if not more issues than I do. I might as well get used to that. In fact, I might as well just go ahead and take the offer, because ..."

And I couldn't fully form the "because ..." I didn't know why I thought I should. (Mind you, I don't know if the real Day Girl has any kids at all, healthy or otherwise). It just didn't feel like I had any other options. Or that I ever would have any. In my most confident moods, the world seems spread at my feet. But like in the dream, reality seems a lot less optimistic.

Lara, I am content. Too content. I don't mean to stir it up just to keep the drama going, but honestly my happiness keeps me isolated. These are the times when I suspect that I'm somewhere on the autism spectrum. Four days passed with me having my head buried in my laptop screen and earphones plugged into my ears, happy as a pig in poop. Not even motivated enough to make a new friend with an open, friendly, FELLOW WRITER WHO LIVES IN MY FAVORITE NEIGHBORHOOD, not twelve inches away from my nose.

The plusses of happiness is ... well, it feels good. The minuses are that I'm in my forties and alone. Double-edged sword. What do I want more? Happy alone contentment, or the challenges of navigating a relationship? The ups and downs of the ill-thought comment, the apologies, the regret of being imperfect, the one spot I can't reach, the one pain I can't manage to heal for her, the desperation, the interdependency, the responsibility ...

Can I hear a little more from you guys who are in relationships? Tell me about your good times with your Significant Others. And for those who are not in a relationship at the moment--can you tell me what it is about being with someone else that you miss? And I guess "sex" is the obvious answer, but we all know that you don't need someone else in order to have an orgasm -- so can you be specific? Wax poetic, even.

I need some motivation to come back out of my shell. It slipped back around me without my even noticing. :-/

Adventures at Barnes & Nobles

I am enjoying my time at B&N. And I'm absorbing people again. Taking in all their habits, and flaws, and quirks, and patterns. It's how I navigate--by understanding the human landscape so that I can manuever my way through it. (My own landscape--well, that's a horse of a different color)

There are at least a half a dozen customers in the B&N cafe that were regulars back when I used to work there on the first go 'round. Creatures of habit. And I tell you, they come and sit for hours. Nightly. It saves them LOTS of money, not having to buy all that material they read.

But it makes me realize that I'm not alone in my propensity to isolate myself. These folks aren't at the cafe with partners--they are alone. They dig into a book and that's all she wrote until their coffee runs out.

And then, there are the employees. Another half-dozen quiet people who have been working at the store for years.

Asperger's Disorder, I tell you! George claimed that he and his son had it, but they were embarassingly shameless and pushy. These quiet folk at B&N are more like my style of Asperger's. (Style as in preference. I'm still debating whether I have it or not.) These B&N type of folk are the folks I would be glad to number myself among.

One Dragon, Slain. Sideways-Eight To Go...

I had another all-day training to give today, and with a training partner this time. And I only stressed about it this morning, instead of all last week. So that dragon is slain.

Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.

But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.

George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.

What the hell..?

For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.

But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.

I'm sorry, George.

PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.

And Here's Why

(Originally 11/5/06)

Because I felt trapped and powerless. Because I had expectations that got snatched away. Because he intrudes in on my personal space without a care (he's incapable of caring about it; he's autistic, or so he claims, and his life is all about himself).

So I hope you guys had a nice time %$*6ing yourselves. That's what seems to motivate us all anyway, right? I once said I'd make no more apologies, but I think I can afford this one.

Sorry.

Yesterday while looking in the full length mirror, I developed a theory as to why I was still dissatisfied with my weight loss. Lately I've been weighing at 187-190lbs, which would be a max of 25 lbs gone since March. But here's the Weight Chart I keep finding everywhere for men;

5' 7"
(Small frame)138-145
(Medium Frame)142-154
(Large Frame)149-168

My goal is 175, but apparently that is still going to be overweight. I've seen ideal weight on a muscular guy my size (recall Tanny at the gym) and it does look perfect, but I think I'll survive if I'm a mere 7 lbs over. Or, when I hit 175, I might just keep going because I could.

Still, for 190, something still seemed off and I realized, I'm still wearing size 36 pants! I had to buy them at the start of the year because I was starting the new job and I needed to look sane. But I've been losing weight! So, I went to Macy's last night and tried on some smaller pants. I slipped into two sizes of Dockers and two sizes of jeans.

My waist size is now a 33! I tortured the size 32s, but I could still breathe in them.

I am SO going to keep going until I make my goal. This is SO possible.

I feel a little better now. Thank you for indulging.

Was It Inevitable

(Originally 11/2/06)

That My Benefactor would relapse? Yesterday I came home, he wasn't here. He had his car and took it somewhere. He didn't return all evening and stayed gone all night. Then this morning when I searched for the cat food he bought, I found an empty Hennessey bottle (or however its spelled). It could be old but I'm going to go with my first impression.

This morning I answered his house phone, which I try never to do because his loony ex-wife might be calling, but I did and it was his loony ex-wife, Then I made a serious mistake. I gave her my cellphone number. She asked for it and what was I supposed to say? I know that I am the only live conduit she has to this man. When I'm ignoring the phone upstairs, I still know that. But I slough it off and say to myself, 'She can leave a message'. And sometimes I know that his answering machine is full (yes, he has a machine--not a calling plan with voicemail).

And don't think that after the first time she calls my cell that I won't identify her number and commence to ignoring her calls from then on. Because I DO have voicemail. She can leave a message. I'll call her back after 9:00PM. Because she won't be paying my cellphone bills. And she won't be paying for the therapy she seeks from me. And I never wanted to get sucked up into this constellation in the first place.

It's time to start an exit strategy. My conscience be damned. This is how my life was for the first 30+ years until my father was found emaciated on the city streets, too drunk to ever recover. Why do I need to repeat this thing? For money? For closure? I think not. I think that part of me that needs to care for addicts ... no, that's not even true what I was about to type. I was going to say it was cauterized and long dead, but that's not true. At that meeting the other night, I was as alive and empathetic as I've ever been. And if My Bevefactor stumbled through the door right now, I'd try to help. And when his crazy-ass ex-wife calls me, and it's after 9:00PM, I will try to help. And I guess that the way it is.

But I still don't have to live in this house to do all this. I still think I need to leave, for my own emotional health. Plus, my being here is enabling him to go relapse. As long as he knows the cats are taken care of, he feels free to go into his 30+ year habit of chucking responsibility, taking nothing seriously, excusing his behavior because of 'learning disabilities' and burning out his mind. I don't even like the guy, so why do I need this?

I wish I could do it today, but I can't. I'll need to really start saving money now. I'll have to set a target date and use my pathetic math skills to plot what I can afford and what I can't.

Just when things were going so well. I should have known.

But I am still a writer, and I'm My Hero's friend, and other people's friend too. And all that part is still alright then.

And Sometimes, You Get A Love Letter From God

Tuesday night, it was arranged from my Benefactor to stay here overnight. He knew I was going to go to Times Square Church that evening and he decided to give me one of his timeshare nights to save me a late night trip back to Paramus. Crazy, right? After getting exiled from NYC, out of the blue, I get to spend a luxury night back there.

My Benefactor, like most people with money, downplays his wealth. Fact is, he is one of the many US citizens (maybe world citizens) who was born to the right people. Within himself, there is very little financial redeemability skills. No, I mean it.

He doesn't pay his own bills. He does not understand how to bookkeep. He cannot navigate through the internet. He inadvertantly turned on a shower/sauna function the other night in his bathroom, and called 911 as a result. This man is a pure wreck.

Due to his genetics and parental example, however, such a man caught enough values and had enough financial cushions that he could make some rudimentary investments while working at the Post Office and accumulate some money. Then of course, a parent dies and he gets several buttloads of money deposited into his account with which to re-invest in this house and stocks. And one of the chief reasons he invited me to live here was to watch his cats for him when he goes on binges and overnight weekends with his ladyfriend, and to be a live-counselor to help him kick his addictions and also help him with the above mentioned stuff. (Oh it was just a crash-bang party at 2:00am trying to calm him down while his shower was innocently hissing.)

You'd think he was enviable, but you would not want his life. He self-diagnosed himself as having Asperger's autism, as the professionals did for his son. His ex-wife, his son's mother, has a physiological mental illness but is functional (I spoke to her the other afternoon, and this is what she told me. She is not much different than she was when I knew her 15 years ago).

Having money is sooooooooo not the end-all and be-all to happiness. It's so crazy to be told this and never really believe it until you see it. In the absence of things, all you ever know is the ache of not having them. Are we destined to only learn lessons by experience? Is the alternative only to bear a hunger and longing that, by definition, can never really be satisfied? Which in turn means that we are insatiable happiness addicts. Insatiable because no matter what state we find ourselves in, there's always something else we think we need to make us happy. Just ask Paris or Jennifer or Brad or The Donald or Renee and her country singer.

Or just ask me.