I've been afraid of the bathroom for as long as I can remember. I'm sure Freudian scholars could trace it back to potty-training trauma--something gone terribly awry during the anal stage. But as far as I'm concerned, it all began when I first heard the legend of Bloody Mary. It was in the early years of elementary school and different versions came from different sources. A friend at school claimed that if you chanted "Bloody Mary" three times as you splashed water on the bathroom mirror the murderous bloody witch would appear to torture and kill you. As my cousin told it, you were to flush the toilet one-hundred times in the dark. My sister's version seemed to be a combination of the chanting and toilet flushing in the dark. I didn't know which one to believe so I believed them all (not believing any of them was not an option because then I would have to find something else to incomprehensibly agonize over). I actually sort of combined them all, but invented my own torturous twists. The one thing all the stories had in common was the eventual-victim's intent--one had to actually summon the spirit in order for her to appear; but I neglected this detail. As far as I was concerned, a blood-soaked woman was likely to materialize in the bathroom at any given moment if she got a hankering for some child-killing fun. This left me on edge anytime I needed to use a restroom. This was only made worse when a girl in my second grade class performed the chanting/water-sprinkling ritual during recess one day and was sent home early, traumatized and claiming she had seen the witch. I tried to avoid the bathroom where the sighting had taken place, but it was a small school with few restrooms. And anyway, my fear was not isolated to that one particular facility. No matter where I urinated--school, home, a friend or family member's home--I honestly believed that Bloody Mary would come for me if I wasn't careful. I would conduct my business, pull up and button/zip my pants, unlock the door, and then flush the toilet and run out of the bathroom as quickly as I could. After waiting a few seconds to ensure that it was safe, I would cautiously walk back in, wash my hands, and then run out again. Then return a third time to quickly turn the lights off. What if someone had flushed the toilet 99 times and my flush was the 100th? Or I accidentally splashed water on the mirror while washing my hands and my mere fearing her was enough to summon the ghastly apparition? I knew it was ridiculous and would laugh at myself as I ran from the room after each flush, but I couldn't help it, I was seriously scared. This was something that plagued me for years, far longer than it should have. But somehow I finally convinced myself to get over it, I was really getting too old for such a silly fear--I mean, I couldn't be running in and out of the bathroom in high school now could I?
This fear of Bloody Mary was quickly replace by another, possibly more absurd bathroom phobia. At least with my childhood fear there was actually something to be afraid of, but now it seems I am afraid of the actual act of of urination...well, when in the vicinity of others. Public bathrooms are hell for me! If I hear footsteps or voices as I'm sitting on the toilet I immediately freeze up. It doesn't matter how badly I have to urinate, or even if I'm incredibly drunk, my bladder simply stops working. Even if I'm using a private restroom I can't go if I know that someone is waiting on the other side. For reasons that I do not understand, girls like to go to the bathroom in packs. When I'm out with friends or even at work and I ask that they excuse me to use the bathroom, by biggest fear is that one or more will respond with, "Oh I have to go to, I'll go with you!" as though they are doing me a favor. So I allow them to accompany me knowing all the while that I will not actually be excreting anything on this trip. It really is an irrational fear and completely inconvenient; as a result I've had countless awkward bathroom experiences, but none so terrible as the drug testing procedure that I was subjected to before starting work at a health center.
When I moved to New York I couldn't start my job right away--as I very soon came to know, when you work in health care, especially for a non-profit, you face many hurdles. Of all the bullshit bureaucratic red tape I had to go through, the drug screening took the longest and was the most difficult. First, I had to schedule an appointment the day prior to when I wanted to go in. As the center got booked quickly, I was required to call at 8am when they opened each morning. It took nearly a week before I successfully made an appointment. And that ended up being the easy part. Being well aware of my urination issues I wasn't expecting things to go smoothly, but I also knew the measures I would have to take so that it would go as smooth as possible. I had submitted urine for drug screening in the past and provided I drank water for several hours beforehand without visiting the facilities so that my bladder was near the point of explosion, I had no problem filling their cup. So the morning of my appointment I purchased a large water bottle and hopped on the train. I arrived, checked-in (with the receptionist, foursquare did not yet exist), and then waited several minutes until my name was called. All the while enduring the painfully uncomfortable pressure the excess water had placed on my bladder. As I walked into the restroom I was appalled to find that the nurse followed me not only into the restroom, but into the stall. When I asked that she step outside and allow me to close and lock the door she refused, informing me that this was to be a supervised submission. Horrified, I laughed and informed her that I wouldn't be able to complete the task. Confused and embarrassed I quickly exited the health center and, as I tend to do anytime I'm confused or in trouble, I immediately dialed my mom. On the verge of tears I informed her of my dilemma and she calmly told me that I needed to walk back in and pee in the stupid cup. I was not a fan of this answer, so I hung up the phone, pulled out my Ipod (setting it to Bright Eyes) and decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood to collect myself. This was my first time wandering around the South Bronx and I feared for my life, yet a the same time, the melodramatic part of me hope that some crazy gangster would come out of nowhere and blast me to death so that I could avoid this damned drug test. Unfortunately, no such crazy gangsters were patrolling the streets that day and I was forced to walk to the subway station and return to my apartment. When I arrived my head was still reeling and I again called my mom asking that she make arrangements for my return to California--clearly this wasn't gonna work out (as mentioned above, I have the potential to be pretty damned dramatic sometimes). Again my mom told me to suck it up and I resolved to return the next day to give it another go.
After this failed second attempt, I got in touch with our group leader/support woman and informed her of the situation. I assured her that I would have no problem passing the test (though there was a slight concern I'd fail--I was fresh out of college after all), and offered to submit a blood or even hair sample (though I knew I definitely fail if this were the case). She promptly contacted the health center and asked about my options--I had none. Because news travels fast in my family I had been receiving several emails, text messages, and phone calls from my sisters, aunts, and cousins asking if I'd peed yet and offering words of encouragement such as "just freakin pee already you fool!" At this point I decided it would be far more humiliating to return home to their jeers than allow some strange woman to witness me urinate and I set a plan in motion. While the $2,000 Princeton Review MCAT course may not have gotten me a perfect MCAT score, it had efficiently drilled kidney physiology into my brain. Remembering that caffeine was an inhibitor of aldosterone, the enzyme whose action leads to water-retention among other things, I headed to the drug store to pick up some caffeine pills. I also decided it wouldn't hurt to purchase some diuretic pills while I was at it. My new purchases in hand, I headed home to spend the weekend agonizing over how this just had to work.
I awoke bright and early Monday morning and washed down a breakfast of 2 caffeine and 2 diuretic pills with a large glass of water. I then grabbed a 1.5 liter bottle of water and hopped on the train. Before entering the health center I stopped at the nearest food joint and purchased a large coke, because though my bladder was painfully full, I knew I needed all the help I could get. I would even have considered adding alcohol to the equation, had I not been afraid they'd be testing for that as well. When I checked-in at the desk the receptionist greeted me with "aren't you that girl who can't pee?" Jesus, was everyone talking about this?! When I told her that I was indeed that girl who can't pee, she asked what I was doing there. "I thought you couldn't do it?" "Well, It seems I have no choice," I responded, "I have to try one last time." So I sipped on my coke and waited until my name was called. I followed the nurse down the familiar path to the lady's room and squatted over the toilet. Several seconds passed. Then a minute. "Are you gonna go?" She asked. "Yeah...I hope. I just need a minute." That minute passed and still there was nothing. I shifted, closed my eyes and concentrated on the excruciating pain and how soon it would be over if I could just relax. And then, suddenly, the flood gates opened. I filled the cup far higher than they had asked me to, handed it to the nurse and asked that she allow me to finish. That was the longest, most relieving urination of my life! I proudly strutted out of the building and promptly sent out a mass text message to every member of my family, "Success."
30 September 2010
12 September 2010
Never Forget
When I was sixteen I watched the morning news each day for one reason and one reason only: to hear the weather report so that I could choose an appropriate outfit for the day. Not that I was particularly fashionable. I simply needed to know if it would be a jeans and t-shirt or jeans and sweatshirt sort of day. I didn't actually watch the news, so much as leave it on in the background as I wandered around the house and readied myself. The 5 day forecast was broadcast about every 15 minutes so I'd be sure to return to the room at the appropriate intervals to catch the day's temperature highs and lows. On particularly busy news days some of these abundant, repetitive weather reports were cut, in extreme cases they were all ignored completely. This angered me. So imagine my rage when one fall morning absolutely no mention of the days weather conditions was made whatsoever. Each time I entered the room to check the television all that appeared on screen were images of a smoke-filled sky accompanied by the utterly confused, appalled, devastated commentary of the newscasters, which I couldn't be bothered to listen to. "What the hell!!!" I bitched at the screen. "So a building is on fire somewhere, I don't care. Just tell me if its gonna be hot or cold!" I sat on the floor and stared at the screen in anger. "Just because some sort of "disaster" is going on doesn't mean we all have to stop our lives. We still need to know the weather forecast!" But the smoky footage continued, ignoring my demands. Angry and tardy, I finally just picked out some clothes and scuffed out of the house. When I arrived at school that day the classes and halls were ablaze with chatter. Were they all pissed about the lack of weather reports also? But I soon learned what was really going on. It turns out the newscasters had refused to tell me the day's temperature because they were covering the World Trade Center attacks. All of our scheduled lessons were canceled and instead we watched the news coverage in all my classes, which was on every channel. Apparently this disaster was cause for the halting of our regular daily activities. As he explained the magnitude of what we were bearing witness to, my U.S. History teacher said something that will forever stay with me; "Your parents and grandparents all remember exactly what they were doing when they found out that JFK had been shot. Future generations are going to ask you 'what were you doing when you found out about the September 11 attacks?'" All I could think of was how I would have to tell them that I was a self-centered teenager who was pissed because this massive attack and murder of thousands of people had forced me to miss the weather report. I may not remember what I wore that day or if it was appropriate for the weather conditions, but I will never forget what a total asshole I felt like when I learned the cause of my petty anger.
29 June 2010
Unfinished Business
My dad is infamous for not finishing things. One day he decided that our den needed a remodel, so he gutted it completely; had my mom move out all the furniture, pulled up the carpet, and took a hammer to the walls until the inside consisted of a concrete floor and exposed 2x4s. I was in 3rd grade at the time. After my sister and I set the house on fire my sophomore year of college he finally knocked down the unfinished room completely. And that was only one of the countless projects he undertook. Don't even get me started on the kitchen!
Perhaps even worse than his track record of half-finished undertakings is my father's habit of caving to his children's most ridiculous whims...several months after they have forgotten them. When I was 16 I visited a pet store and decided that I wanted a pet bird. I fantasized about it flying around my room and perching itself on my finger, softly serenading me as I awoke each morning. We would be the best of friends my bird and I. But my parents weren't so keen on the idea. They weren't going to pay for it and insisted that I was not responsible enough to care for yet another pet. I reasoned with them (begged) and then sulked for about a week until I got over it.
One Saturday morning, maybe 4 months after I had lost sight of my dream of owning a bird and had moved on to something else equally frivolous, my father arrived at home with a birdcage. He had found it at a yard sale for only $10 and excitedly handed it to me exclaiming that I could now get that bird I wanted. That bird I wanted 4 months ago! When I hesitantly informed him that my desire for a pet bird had long since subsided he broke out in a fit of anger. Immediately he began shaking his finger in my face, screaming about what a "goddamn ungrateful, spoiled brat" I was, as saliva flew every which way from his mouth. After he had gone to all the trouble of happening upon a super cheap birdcage, this is the thanks he got?! He ended his long-winded scolding with an ultimatum: either I go buy myself a goddamn bird, or I reimburse him for the cost of the cage and find something to do with it. I foolishly opted for the first choice. A few days later I went to Petco and picked out a lovely blue parakeet. It turned out nothing like my fantasy - that bird was a bastard! Every time I opened the cage door and gently attempted to coax him onto my finger he would bite me and then retreat to the furthest corner of the cage. He slept all day and then would make a terrible racket fluttering about as I tried to sleep each night. Worst of all were the terrible odor emitting from his cage and the constant whirl of sawdust flying about my room. After just a couple of months I had had it and promptly moved the birdcage outside to hang from a hook on our front porch. This way he could get some sunshine and I could rid my room of that awful bird smell. Now, I'm quite forgetful and irresponsible, and was even more so at the age of 16. By moving it from my room to the communal area of the front porch I felt I had been relinquished of all responsibility for the bird and quickly forgot that I ever owned such a creature. The fact that I did, however, was precipitously brought to my attention one morning by the screams of my mother, who had found the neglected bird lying, cold and hard, on its side in the middle of the cage. Its water bowl was completely dry and its food dish empty. How long had the poor thing been deprived of nourishment? Hadn't I been feeding him?! He was after all, my bird!
Perhaps even worse than his track record of half-finished undertakings is my father's habit of caving to his children's most ridiculous whims...several months after they have forgotten them. When I was 16 I visited a pet store and decided that I wanted a pet bird. I fantasized about it flying around my room and perching itself on my finger, softly serenading me as I awoke each morning. We would be the best of friends my bird and I. But my parents weren't so keen on the idea. They weren't going to pay for it and insisted that I was not responsible enough to care for yet another pet. I reasoned with them (begged) and then sulked for about a week until I got over it.
One Saturday morning, maybe 4 months after I had lost sight of my dream of owning a bird and had moved on to something else equally frivolous, my father arrived at home with a birdcage. He had found it at a yard sale for only $10 and excitedly handed it to me exclaiming that I could now get that bird I wanted. That bird I wanted 4 months ago! When I hesitantly informed him that my desire for a pet bird had long since subsided he broke out in a fit of anger. Immediately he began shaking his finger in my face, screaming about what a "goddamn ungrateful, spoiled brat" I was, as saliva flew every which way from his mouth. After he had gone to all the trouble of happening upon a super cheap birdcage, this is the thanks he got?! He ended his long-winded scolding with an ultimatum: either I go buy myself a goddamn bird, or I reimburse him for the cost of the cage and find something to do with it. I foolishly opted for the first choice. A few days later I went to Petco and picked out a lovely blue parakeet. It turned out nothing like my fantasy - that bird was a bastard! Every time I opened the cage door and gently attempted to coax him onto my finger he would bite me and then retreat to the furthest corner of the cage. He slept all day and then would make a terrible racket fluttering about as I tried to sleep each night. Worst of all were the terrible odor emitting from his cage and the constant whirl of sawdust flying about my room. After just a couple of months I had had it and promptly moved the birdcage outside to hang from a hook on our front porch. This way he could get some sunshine and I could rid my room of that awful bird smell. Now, I'm quite forgetful and irresponsible, and was even more so at the age of 16. By moving it from my room to the communal area of the front porch I felt I had been relinquished of all responsibility for the bird and quickly forgot that I ever owned such a creature. The fact that I did, however, was precipitously brought to my attention one morning by the screams of my mother, who had found the neglected bird lying, cold and hard, on its side in the middle of the cage. Its water bowl was completely dry and its food dish empty. How long had the poor thing been deprived of nourishment? Hadn't I been feeding him?! He was after all, my bird!
***
After returning home from a brief stint in New York I spent the spring broke and unemployed. To entertain myself I took up projects around the house. I single-handedly transformed the concrete swamp in our backyard back into a crystal clear swimming pool in just a few short weeks. In addition, I took to tending the family garden, picking ripe vegetables every so often for my mom to incorporate into our family dinners. The majority of my days were spent sunbathing and enjoying the pool I had worked so hard to transform. Spending so much time outdoors made me yearn for a beautiful, botanic backyard. i decided that a surefire way to get the yard looking more like a garden and less like a lumber yard would be with the addition of a pond. When I informed my parents of my desire to build a pond in our backyard they questioned my sanity. Did I know how much work it is to keep up a pond? And I was gonna build it myself?! No way! I must be crazy! I tried to paint for them the picturesque ambiance it would provide for our backyard picnics and barbecues - which we'd surely adopt once we had a proper setting; but they weren't having it. When I explained that a small lagoon would prove a lovely new home for the water turtles currently trapped in the small aquarium in my sister's room, they countered with the high probability that said turtles would make a lovely meal for local cats and birds. I assured them that I'd find a way to ensure the animals' safety and proceeded to show them the step-by-step pond building instructions I had found on the Internet. I could build it no problem if they'd only buy the materials. They didn't. I moved on.
Long after I'd forgotten my pond-building inclinations, my father randomly brought home a pond shell. I wasn't even living with them anymore! I had come over to visit one day when he called me out to the backyard, he had something to show me. I walked outside to discover my dad holding a large, awkwardly shaped, black plastic basin. Perplexed, I asked, "what the heck is that?" "Its a pond shell!" he explained. "One of my customers was getting rid of it and I remembered that you girls wanted to build a pond, so I took it." He smiled, proud of his gesture. Flabbergasted by this presentation of something that I once again did not remember I had wanted, I responded, "uh...thanks...but that was nearly a year ago..." Once again he was left astonished and angry, and I was lectured. To this day the pond shell remains in the garage, housing the pool cleaning equipment. It sits just next to the birdcage that was once home to the blue parakeet I killed, serving as a reminder of the caprice of both my father and I.
27 May 2010
The Suitcase Lady
Following a sub-par Broken Social Scene show at Coney Island, tired and still hung-over from the previous evening's festivities, a friend and I were at the 125th st. subway station waiting to catch the A train home. Having been standing on the platform for a significant period of time and out of conversation topics, I awkwardly gazed across the tracks toward the downtown side of the station when something caught my eye, "wow, that's a really large suitcase" I pointed out feigning interest. Suddenly, a frail woman emerged from the elevator with a second bag of equal proportion, "Oh shit there are two of them!" I exclaimed, actually somewhat intrigued this time. The woman then retreated back to the elevator only to return with a third. My friend and I turned to each other and laughed, inexplicably entertained by the three large bags. Upon returning our attention to the opposite platform we were baffled to see the three suitcases perfectly lined up with no sign of their owner.
"Is this a drug deal? Or maybe they're bombs!" my companion speculated.
"I hope she returns with more" I joked. "How awesome would that be if she has so many that she couldn't fit them all in one trip?"
To our delight this was exactly the case. We watched mesmerized and thoroughly entertained as the woman slowly made trips to and from the elevator with a new bag each time; slowly, methodically, perfectly lining them up along the yellow paint. Final count: 7 large to mid-size suitcases and a few smaller duffel bags. Once these had been nicely placed just outside the elevator, their owner began to move them toward the middle of the platform where the benches were placed; slowly, one-by-one lining them up once again. Grinning in amazement, now alongside other spectators, we watched her process. Finally, she settled on a bench surrounded by her bags and let several trains pass, giving rise to so many questions. Where was she going? How would she get all those suitcases on the train? How the hell did she get them in the subway station to begin with? She must have done this before!
Unfortunately our train arrived shortly thereafter leaving us with only wonder and speculation as we made our way home.
Several months later, that same friend and I, along with others, were on our way to the Apollo for a concert. A pre-show dinner of wine and cheese, followed by a dessert of wine-in-a-water-bottle that was consumed on the train, had left me feeling quite inebriated. As I staggered up the stairs toward the station exit I spotted three suitcases just inside the emergency exit and the same frail woman from before dragging in one more. Shocked, I excitedly turned to my friends and exclaimed, "Its the bag lady!" Not only was I lucky enough to see her again, but this time it was at a different point in her process. Yet, I still had so many questions: what about the bags that she had not yet brought in, were they safe? Was someone watching them? Could this really be a one-man venture? I wanted answers, but we were already running late. I was caught between staying in the station and watching her journey unfold or exiting to be sure I reached the venue in time for Jenny Lewis (and another drink). It was a tough decision, but Jenny (and alcohol) always wins.
It is just one short month later when my friend and I see her again. Due to weekend train schedules and too much alcohol, we had found ourselves at a gathering in Harlem, so we caught the A at 116 st. As I stumble into the car I immediately notice that the entire left corner has been overtaken by a mound of bags. My eyes grow wide with excitement as I realize that this is my third encounter with this woman and her many bags. A huge grin spreads across my face as I giddily make eye-contact with my companion, who, as composed as possible, whispers "just keep going" and leads me to the other side of the car. Speechless, I quickly follow as we search for seats as far away as possible. Upon sitting down we immediately burst out into laughter, once again inexplicably amused by whom we've now grown to refer to as The Suitcase Lady. I want to stay on the train and follow this woman; see where she goes and how she manages. However, it is late and I have to work in the morning. The train glides to a halt at my stop and she and her suitcases are not moving. Defeated, I exit.
Three encounters at three different stages; yet, I still have so many questions. I am intrigued. In fact, she has become a bit of an obsession. As I will be moving back to the west coast soon, I spend my last few days in the city seeking out this woman. I don't know why, but I must know her story, her process, before I leave. I begin to haunt the A line between Harlem and Washington Heights. On a few occasions I even stake out the 125th st. station for as long as I can manage (which if you're familiar with it, or any of New York's subway stations for that matter, you can imagine is not very long). I even consider foregoing a ride to the airport from a friend in hopes that I will run into the Suitcase Lady on my way there, or perhaps out of a strange desire to experience her odyssey myself. Alas, I must accept that some things are not for me to know.
"Is this a drug deal? Or maybe they're bombs!" my companion speculated.
"I hope she returns with more" I joked. "How awesome would that be if she has so many that she couldn't fit them all in one trip?"
To our delight this was exactly the case. We watched mesmerized and thoroughly entertained as the woman slowly made trips to and from the elevator with a new bag each time; slowly, methodically, perfectly lining them up along the yellow paint. Final count: 7 large to mid-size suitcases and a few smaller duffel bags. Once these had been nicely placed just outside the elevator, their owner began to move them toward the middle of the platform where the benches were placed; slowly, one-by-one lining them up once again. Grinning in amazement, now alongside other spectators, we watched her process. Finally, she settled on a bench surrounded by her bags and let several trains pass, giving rise to so many questions. Where was she going? How would she get all those suitcases on the train? How the hell did she get them in the subway station to begin with? She must have done this before!
Unfortunately our train arrived shortly thereafter leaving us with only wonder and speculation as we made our way home.
Several months later, that same friend and I, along with others, were on our way to the Apollo for a concert. A pre-show dinner of wine and cheese, followed by a dessert of wine-in-a-water-bottle that was consumed on the train, had left me feeling quite inebriated. As I staggered up the stairs toward the station exit I spotted three suitcases just inside the emergency exit and the same frail woman from before dragging in one more. Shocked, I excitedly turned to my friends and exclaimed, "Its the bag lady!" Not only was I lucky enough to see her again, but this time it was at a different point in her process. Yet, I still had so many questions: what about the bags that she had not yet brought in, were they safe? Was someone watching them? Could this really be a one-man venture? I wanted answers, but we were already running late. I was caught between staying in the station and watching her journey unfold or exiting to be sure I reached the venue in time for Jenny Lewis (and another drink). It was a tough decision, but Jenny (and alcohol) always wins.
It is just one short month later when my friend and I see her again. Due to weekend train schedules and too much alcohol, we had found ourselves at a gathering in Harlem, so we caught the A at 116 st. As I stumble into the car I immediately notice that the entire left corner has been overtaken by a mound of bags. My eyes grow wide with excitement as I realize that this is my third encounter with this woman and her many bags. A huge grin spreads across my face as I giddily make eye-contact with my companion, who, as composed as possible, whispers "just keep going" and leads me to the other side of the car. Speechless, I quickly follow as we search for seats as far away as possible. Upon sitting down we immediately burst out into laughter, once again inexplicably amused by whom we've now grown to refer to as The Suitcase Lady. I want to stay on the train and follow this woman; see where she goes and how she manages. However, it is late and I have to work in the morning. The train glides to a halt at my stop and she and her suitcases are not moving. Defeated, I exit.
Three encounters at three different stages; yet, I still have so many questions. I am intrigued. In fact, she has become a bit of an obsession. As I will be moving back to the west coast soon, I spend my last few days in the city seeking out this woman. I don't know why, but I must know her story, her process, before I leave. I begin to haunt the A line between Harlem and Washington Heights. On a few occasions I even stake out the 125th st. station for as long as I can manage (which if you're familiar with it, or any of New York's subway stations for that matter, you can imagine is not very long). I even consider foregoing a ride to the airport from a friend in hopes that I will run into the Suitcase Lady on my way there, or perhaps out of a strange desire to experience her odyssey myself. Alas, I must accept that some things are not for me to know.
28 April 2010
10 Reasons I don't have Asperger's
I recently watched the move Adam with my sister. The title character is a young man afflicted with Asperger Syndrome. After the movie my sister kept calling me Adam. A few days later a couple of my other sisters viewed the movie. Then on separate occasions they each referred to me as Adam. In college two of my roommates took a course on Autism. After one particular lecture they excitedly came home and diagnosed me with Asperger's. In order to help me manage/overcome my disorder they said they would issue me a card and each time I asked a question relevant to a conversation I would get a stamp; once I had filled up my card with stamps I would get a prize. I'm still waiting for my prize. Anyway, for some reason everyone likes diagnosing me with this disorder, so I did some Wikipedia research and found characteristics of the disorder that don't apply to me:
- Characteristic of Disorder: Failure to develop friendships
Explanation: okay, so I'm not good at making friends, but failure indicates, well TOTAL FAILURE, as in no friends ever. I have a few, according to facebook I have 150! - Characteristic of Disorder: Lack of eye-contact and facial expression
Explanation: I kick ass at eye-contact! I'm so good at it that I freak people out by over-contacting their eyes. Also I've been told that I have some pretty killer facial expressions. In fact, since I'm not a big fan of verbal exchanges I've developed the ability to carry on ENTIRE conversations with facial expressions alone. - Characteristic of Disorder: Awkward, but not withdrawn (will approach others)
Explanation: Yes I'm awkward, however, I would also consider myself withdrawn -- no way in hell am I gonna randomly approach peeps I don't know and try to start a conversation! - Characteristic of Disorder: One-sided, long-winded speech without noticing others' disinterest
Explanation: So when it comes to some things (i.e. wine and Jenny Lewis) I can talk forever, however, I know that no one else cares, I just talk about it anyway. - Characteristic of Disorder: restricted/repetitive routines Explanation: While I do like routine, I am not totally bound by it. For example, tonight I'm drinking Corona, last night I had hefeweizen, and the night before that I drank wine...would a person with Asperger's be able to handle such diversity? I think not.
- Characteristic of Disorder: specific/narrow/unusual areas of interest
Explanation: JL is probably my only unusual area of interest, plus I like other things...I'll let you know when I think of them. - Characteristic of Disorder: Atypical use of language/literal interpretations/difficulty with sarcasm
Explanation: I guess I use language atypically in that I use it correctly, while unfortunately most folks today don't. As far as difficulty with sarcasm, I have difficulty not being sarcastic...I'm pretty sure that's not what they're referring to. - Characteristic of Disorder: weakness in irony/humor/teasing Explanation: I like funny
- Characteristic of Disorder: Marked verbosity
Explanation: I rarely speak. Unless of course I'm drunk, but that doesn't count. - Characteristic of Disorder: Advanced abilities/"gifted" in a certain area
Explanation: I have little, if any, talent.
20 April 2010
Star Struck (Part 3)
Our third and final meeting occurred under different conditions. This time it was in Washington DC after a Jenny Lewis concert. I was living in New York at the time, and though she was playing there just two days later and I would be attending that show, I couldn't possibly wait that long to see her. So I purchased tickets and forced my roommate to accompany on the four and a half hour bus ride into DC. Some poeple may think it a bit ridiculous to travel 5 hours on a China Town bus just to watch a lady sing for an hour, especially when she will be playing much closer in only a few days. In fact, this sentiment was expressed to me by several people. But this is Jenny Lewis we're talking about, so I grabbed a couple wine-filled water bottles and my reluctant roommate and hopped on the bus.
We arrived in DC around 4pm. The bus station happened to be right next-door to the synagogue where the show would be held so we headed over to see if a line had begun forming. There were no patrons in sight and the box office was not yet opened so we wandered around the city for a bit. My roommate wanted to explore, but I wanted to be sure to get a good seat so didn’t allow us to venture far. We returned to the venue at 4:30 and were informed that will call would not open until 6:45. To kill time we entered a nearby diner where I proceeded to consume one of my bottles of wine. Then we headed back to the venue about 6ish. This time when we arrived there were the beginnings of a line, so we got in about 10 people back. While there I consumed another half bottle of wine...a good buzz, feeling alright. We finally entered the venue at 7, sat in the center of the second row, and enjoyed a FANTASTIC show. Once the band left the stage I fought my way to the front, begged for a set-list, and some how actually got one.
We arrived in DC around 4pm. The bus station happened to be right next-door to the synagogue where the show would be held so we headed over to see if a line had begun forming. There were no patrons in sight and the box office was not yet opened so we wandered around the city for a bit. My roommate wanted to explore, but I wanted to be sure to get a good seat so didn’t allow us to venture far. We returned to the venue at 4:30 and were informed that will call would not open until 6:45. To kill time we entered a nearby diner where I proceeded to consume one of my bottles of wine. Then we headed back to the venue about 6ish. This time when we arrived there were the beginnings of a line, so we got in about 10 people back. While there I consumed another half bottle of wine...a good buzz, feeling alright. We finally entered the venue at 7, sat in the center of the second row, and enjoyed a FANTASTIC show. Once the band left the stage I fought my way to the front, begged for a set-list, and some how actually got one.
The show ended a little after 11 but our bus tickets back to New York
We had been waiting for about 20 minutes when a guy (I'm assuming her manager or something) came out and said, "Just to let you know I've been told that Jenny is not signing things tonight." A couple of people left after this news, but I and a few others decided to wait it out anyway. Sure enough, only 15 minutes later Jenny came out of the bus and walked right up to us. Still drunkenly effusive I remarked, "that was an amazing show!" To which she graciously responded, "Aw, thanks. It was fun. Thanks for coming." Then the girl standing next to me asked her to sign her set-list. After signing it Jenny grabbed my set-list, signed it, and suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, you didn't even ask me to sign this! I just assumed…I'm sorry..." as though she had somehow ruined it. Surprised and amused by her humility, I awkwardly answered, "no, thanks...sorry for not asking...?" then she went on to sign stuff for other people, leaving me intoxicated by our encounter. Contented, I shuffled into the bus station, where I sat smiling, staring at my signed set-list for the next hour until the bus came to take me back home.
We had been waiting for about 20 minutes when a guy (I'm assuming her manager or something) came out and said, "Just to let you know I've been told that Jenny is not signing things tonight." A couple of people left after this news, but I and a few others decided to wait it out anyway. Sure enough, only 15 minutes later Jenny came out of the bus and walked right up to us. Still drunkenly effusive I remarked, "that was an amazing show!" To which she graciously responded, "Aw, thanks. It was fun. Thanks for coming." Then the girl standing next to me asked her to sign her set-list. After signing it Jenny grabbed my set-list, signed it, and suddenly exclaimed, "Oh, you didn't even ask me to sign this! I just assumed…I'm sorry..." as though she had somehow ruined it. Surprised and amused by her humility, I awkwardly answered, "no, thanks...sorry for not asking...?" then she went on to sign stuff for other people, leaving me intoxicated by our encounter. Contented, I shuffled into the bus station, where I sat smiling, staring at my signed set-list for the next hour until the bus came to take me back home.
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