Forgiveness

It's hard to believe that I haven't posted in two and a half years. Reading through my old posts, it's hard to believe that the same exact things have been occurring over that same time period. I remain positive, however, that there has been change.

Within me.

A little over three years ago I opened a business in our local town in a field that I had participated as a consumer but never a merchant. In that time I was able to expand my business into a second location. Our youngest was off to college, so I filled my empty nest with busy-ness in my business.

My aspie hubby seems mostly unaffected. I do long for more time with the kids and their families, and try to make more time for my friends.

About the only thing that has changed for The Hubster is that after twenty plus years of marriage, he had to step in and be responsible for a majority of the housework, which he has.

Kind of.

He vacuums every second or third month. He still won't vacuum under furniture, insisting that dust falls straight down, not sideways. He won't vacuum baseboards because "My god, who cares, what does it matter?" He won't dust furniture because of the previous 'reason'. I do a minimal amount between his whirlwind quarterly activities. Mostly I just don't have people over. 

He was doing most of the grocery shopping, until the fridge and pantry were full of unwanted or unusable items because "it was on sale", and the food budget had become twice what it was when we had a teenage boy living here.

Daughter Dearest, I am not complaining. I am just stating fact.

I offer apologies. To my Spouse for my irritation with your behaviors. I have studied enough to know that your mind-sets are just part of your nature and not intentional towards me.

To my kids, kids-in-laws, and grandkid. You do not understand how this syndrome affects a "loving" relationship, nor can you as I have probably sheltered you from too much.

To my readers for my absence. I will try to be more diligent in my postings. We need to support each other. I did join several Facebook groups that cater to partners of Aspies. I try to commiserate, uplift, and share experiences.

To myself for being caught up too often in my own hurt feelings. I always have a choice in how my reactions affect my life. Aspergers Syndrome has once again been reclassified by the medical community. If I look at my husband and remind myself that he is Autistic, I am more able to detach the "why is he doing this to me" component.

Aspergers Definition 

I remain confident that I will watch for ways that I can change as I know that the Aspergers traits won't change. My husband can no more eliminate aspie traits than a diabetic can wish away their condition. It is what it is. 

My coffee cup next to me says it all.

Today is a Good Day for a Good Day.

I can always make more coffee, lol.

Darned if I Do / Darned if I Don't

Okay dokey. That dead mouse had now grown another coat of hair. It had been left in the mousetrap in the basement behind my laundryroom door that long. Why didn't I remove it myself? Because I immediately start projectile vomiting the moment my latex gloved hands reach for the trap. I can clean up dog poop, change nasty diapers, and deal with the middle of the night kid vomit across bunk beds. I can't do dead critters.

My Asperger husband is suppose to check the traps every morning and every night as he takes our dogs' large water bowl into the laundryroom to fill with fresh water. For some odd reason, after twenty some years in this home, he often forgets. Now I'm really in a quandary.

Herein lies the rub. If I remind Steve, he will become angry with me for "nagging" him. If I don't remind him, he becomes angry that I didn't remind him.

How do I win?

I've tried to gauge his mood first. That is hard when his stoic face is unchanging. I've tried watching his body language for stress, frustration, anger, or tiredness, but that can be deceiving as sometimes he stomps around for no other reason than he likes planting his feet "firmly upon the floor". I guess that he doesn't want to fall off. If the Hubster is dwelling on a specific train of thought, he will become oblivious to the world around himself and become angry at being interrupted. His world is as confusing to me as the NT world is to him.

What to do?

As I was perusing the net on AS forgetfulness, I ran across this thread in Wrong Planet. Extreme Forgetfulness

Whoa Nellie! That's my spouse! One of the comments mentions the term 'executive-function impairment'. I don't remember reading about this before. (Ha! Now look who's forgetting!)

In The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome, Tony Attwood defines executive function as a term that includes the following skills:

* Organizational and planning abilities
* Working memory
* Inhibition and impulse control
* Self-reflection and self-monitoring
* Time management and prioritizing
* Understanding complex or abstract concepts
* Using new strategies

Attwood goes on to say that most people with Asperger’s Syndrome have some level of executive-function impairment (Attwood, 234).

This is it! I can ask Steve if I can assist with his executive-functioning! No accusations about his forgetting something, just an offer to help. No wondering if he is purposely trying to upset me, or is trying to hurt me in some way (I can sometimes take his actions or lack of actions as personal slights, allowing myself to become hurt at his "insensitivity". Since I am in control of my reactions, I can choose to not take things personally.)

Now that I possess this knowledge, I am anxious to discuss this with my esteemed mate.

Hopefully I will pick a good time/day to do so, and the traps will be empty!

Carrots AREN'T Cookies!

One of the most challenging things for me in dealing with my Asperger's minded spouse is following his "logic". Hence our discussion about dog cookies/biscuits/treats.

We live on acreage. We have two large dogs. Sadie we've had for ten years, Finn for nearly five. Finn is a German Shorthair Pointer; a breed that is extremely active and very, very fast. When we first took him in, he did not have much training and would run off. We had a heck of a time keeping him around our home. He would mow people over as they came in the door, and we'd spend hours looking for him. I finally bought invisible fencing which I was able to train both dogs to. One problem, however, was letting the pups out early in the morning. 

Since it is usually dark when I wake up around 5 a.m., there are night critters still moving around when we'd let the dogs out. The dogs would relieve themselves, then run around within the parameter of the electric fencing barking and chasing animals, which was bothersome to the neighbors. I was able to train the pups to come straight back to the house by having dog "cookies" ready in my hand as they headed out. They'd do their thing, and run right back into the house for their treat.

Last summer Finn began biting holes in his paws and legs. I first suspected fleas, but Steve insisted that he had treated both dogs for fleas and ticks, so then I eliminated wheat from both dogs diets. I got rid of the milk bone type dog cookies/biscuits, substituting baby carrots as treats as both our dogs love veggies. I would ask the pups if they wanted a "cookie" and feed them a carrot. It only took a few days for them to run to the refrigerator at the word "cookie" instead of the broom closet where we had kept the dog biscuits in the past.

Herein lies the problem. I am not allowed to call a carrot a cookie. 

Or so saith my husband.

"THAT'S NOT A COOKIE, THAT'S A CARROT!" my esteemed mate would thunder. 

"I know it's a carrot, Dear," I would answer. "However, the dogs think anything called "cookie" is a treat, regardless of what the food actually is."

"BUT IT'S NOT A TREAT! IT'S A CARROT!" He, keeper of the Ultimate Rule Book, proclaimed.

"Steve, come watch this," I insisted.

I strode passed the sleeping dogs who were firmly planted in front of our warm fireplace. Each opened an eye as I asked them if they wanted a "carrot", then they went right back to sleep as I stood in front of the fridge. Neither one twitched as The Hubster followed me.

We stood in front of the fridge as I once again offered the dogs a "carrot". No movement from either dog.

I then said "Cookie" in a normal tone and there was a whirlwind as both pups came running full speed to the refrigerator, sliding to a stop at my feet. I hadn't opened the fridge, I hadn't clapped or whistled or done anything else to indicate that I would reward them with a carrot. They knew "cookie" to be a carrot. 

As the dogs watched expectantly, Finn salivating on my foot, I did indeed open the fridge door and grab a baby carrot for each of them from the vegetable drawer inside. Each dog sat as I had taught them until I flipped said carrots into the air so they could catch them and run off to devour their treat.

The entire time Steve stood shaking his head, glowering, and insisting that carrots can't be cookies. I remained in front of the fridge, arms crossed. 

"Well, Dear, as you can see the dogs disagree. They love their treats no matter what I call them."

"But you CAN'T call them that!" 

With that proclamation, my Aspie spouse stomped off, still muttering and shaking his head. 

To loosely quote Shakespeare, "What's in a name? That which we call a carrot, by any other name would taste as sweet..." 

But what would I know? I'm just an NT, lol

Not Funny

As Uncle Albert sings in the old Disney movie "Mary Poppins", I love to laugh.

Loud and long and clear. 

The difference in laughing matters in our household can vary widely.

For instance, I think that this cartoon is hilarious. My Aspergian husband thinks it's stupid. He doesn't understand why I would make fun of people who have real problems.

However, if the dog lying under the dining room table suddenly passes gas, the Hubster will laugh himself silly, and still be laughing two hours later.

Distasteful, if you ask me.

I love puns and word twists. Steve loves rude body function noises and gross remarks. 

To be fair, when the kids were young, my Hubby was a great pal to sit and watch SpongeBob Squarepants with, along with Dumb and Dumber. I loved Uncle Buck, What About Bob, and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. 

When we were at one of the kids' school programs, one of the performers tripped on stage and my differently minded Spouse nearly split his side laughing. Can you imagine the glares we received from the parents around us?

"Sweetie!"  I hissed. "Shhhhhhh!"

"But I love slapstick routines," Sweetie voiced loudly.

"It wasn't part of the show! She's embarrassed! BE QUIET!" I whispered back.

Later, when I tried to explain it to him in the car, he just sat shaking his head. He didn't understand why the girl would "perform" a stumble if it wasn't part of an act. As much as I tried to get him to recognize his social gaffe, he kept insisting that it was the highlight of the show for him.

*Sigh*

I ran across a asperger site with some pretty interesting comments online the other day. It really stopped me to read how very complicated my husband's life can be. One Aspie said that the first time her fiance asked her out, she thought he was joking. She says that she will never live that down. 

I bet.

Steve and I are still working on ways that I can "signal" him to hush when he's being inappropriate in public. I still occasionally get a very loud "WHAT?" out of him. Generally I just have to say "shhhhh" and shake my head. 

But sometimes I just have to sit on the other side of the room and wonder out loud who that guy is, lol.

Birthday Grump

It's The Hubster's birthday.

The half century one. One that most people celebrate with gaiety, frivolity, merry making and friends.

Not at our house.

Wildly barking dogs woke us up at 3:30ish this morning. Our dogs. Hubby's dogs.

"Steve, please shut your dogs up. It's too early, even for me!" I mumbled, trying to nudge the incoherent snoring form beside me.

"Hmmm, mmehhnnmmm, frummm ummm," grumbled my husband.

But wonders of wonders, he arose and sleepily wandered down the hall to the door to our basement. His deep toned, rumbled "command" echoed down the stairway. Dog nails clicked along the hallway as Spouse came back to bed, bedroom door slamming behind him.

More crazed barking ensued from regions below.

"STEVE!" I spoke sharply. "I thought you were going to stop the dogs from barking!"

Now I am sitting straight up in bed. The clock steadily glowed 3:42 a.m.

In the morning.

It was still pitch black outside.

"Sadie didn't want to stop," replied groggy Mate.

"What?" I demanded. "She's a DOG! Make her stop!"

 "I CAN'T!" proclaimed Steve.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and vaulted upright into my slippers. Grabbing my robe I headed out the bedroom door. Swinging the basement door open, I demanded Sadie to "come".

She did. I then put her in our room with Steve and our other dog Finn, and went into the kitchen to make coffee. I'm one of those people who, once awake, find it impossible to go back to sleep.

At 4:21 a.m. The Hubster's alarm for work goes off. Yah, I know. Weird time. But hey, he has Asperger's Syndrome and it makes sense to him.

As he enters the kitchen to put together his lunch, I wish him happy birthday. I then ask some sort of question for which I simply need information in order to figure out our plans for later on.

"Why are you ALWAYS complaining?" demands the Birthday 'Boy'. "For every seven words you speak, you are complaining about something with six! EVERY TIME!"

Whoooooaaahhhh! Say what?

"Steve, don't people at work ask you about your schedule at work in order to plans meetings and stuff?"

He grudgingly admitted they do.

"That's all I'm trying to do! I am trying to plan our day!"

He huffed and gruffed, and ambled away. Stomping, of course, to the shower where he proceeded to raise a total ruckus by dropping the bar soap, slamming his elbows into the showerstall walls, and other assorted bangs and crashes that resounded throughout the house.

On his way out the door I told him that Manlet and I would be gone, and stay out of his way tonight. He said "fine" and slammed the door.

Happy Birthday, Sweetie. Can I shove your cake in your face?

Quick Energy

The large aerospace company where the Hubster has worked for the last thirty years is notorious for trying to keep their employees happy and health. They constantly offer health evaluations, including blood pressure checkups, cholesterol and triglyceride testing, and monitor blood sugar levels.

Steve returned home a few weeks ago downcast. His blood pressure is up a bit, his cholesterol and triglycerides are skyrocketing, and his blood sugar is astronautical - yes, straight into outer space. The health professionals told him to lose weight and cut down on fats, sugar, and carbs.

Ummm hmmmm. Boy doesn't my spouse love doing those things.

Our daughter is getting married next week. I have been able to shed a few extra pounds myself using a seventeen day diet. You basically eat salad. A rabbit diet. Not fun, but it works.

Manlet finished his select baseball season the end of July. Since he is going into his final year of high school next week, we booked some college tours with baseball tryouts on the east coast. We live on the west coast. Manlet also plays high school football, American version, and needed to be back on the 18th in order to start practice on the 19th. Manlet flew to Ohio to visit a friend, then I met him in Georgia the following week. We traveled up to New York and back down to Florida. I was gone just a week.

Just before we left, I went grocery shopping. I bought a ton of veggies and fruit, chicken and fish. Easy things for Steve to fix himself since he had the diet book full of meal plans and recipes. Our market had a sale on peanutbutter, so I purchased two 18 ounce jars, one smooth and one chuncky, for Manlet when he returned home. At seventeen he's 6'3", 217 pounds and still growing. He probably consumes 4,000 calories a day, which he burns off immediately. PBJ sandwiches are a quick, simple snack for him. He eats a lot of them.

Hubby, on the other hand, shouldn't eat food high in fat, calories, or carbs. He knows it.

After Manlet and I returned from our trip I was putting granola bars away in the pantry and noticed that one of the peanut butter jars was missing. I picked up the remaining jar and saw that it was darn near empty. There was approximately a quarter of a teaspoon left.

"Sweetie, did you eat all of Manlet's peanut butter over eight days?"

Sweetie fidgeted and mumbled.

"Seriously? Those two jars contained 34 servings! Almost 900 grams of fat and 3200 calories! Really?"

More mumbling and some toe scraping accompanied by a backwards shuffling of feet, his, towards the front door.

"Why" I queried, trying hard to keep my voice down and calm.

"Because I need quick energy!" yelled my illustrious mate as he turned to flee.

*Sigh* 

All I could do is shake my head. I sometimes grow weary of being married to an eight year old. After a seven hour trip, including plane changes, I was too tired to laugh, so off to bed I went...

Trapped

"BUT THAT'S NOT WHERE IT WAS BEFORE!" came the bellow from my esteemed mate as I showed him where our toaster was.

*sigh*

We remodeled three and a half years ago. I had my construction guys gut my kitchen. I eliminated the doorway from the livingroom to the kitchen, moved the doorway from the hallway over about four feet to center on the main hallway, juggled all of the original cabinets around and added to them, and built a walk-in pantry. I also revamped our old china hutch to make a lovely wet bar at the end of the new kitchen/diningroom.

Yes, everything was moved around. However, for the most part, all of our kitchen items were in the same exact cabinet that they had been in prior to the remodel three years ago! Including the toaster. The cabinets were just in a different place.

The Hubster still can't remember. He seems to have no short term memory.

"Why can't I put something in the dishwasher and you leave it there!" yelled Steve.

I was rearranging the contents of the aforementioned appliance.

"Sweetie, this little glass custard cup is tiny. When it is placed in the bottom of the dishwasher the jets from below blow it upside down, it then fills with dirty water, and I have to rewash it. If you put it up here in the top rack it doesn't do that." I tried to remain calm, as we had just gone through this two nights ago. "Besides, I'm always rearranging things as the washer fills so that everything fits! I move things that Manlet and I put in too!"

It's baseball season. My husband is most definitely not a fan, but he is a huge fan of sunflower seeds. which I keep in abundance this time of year for our Manlet who is a baseball player. The Hubby gets two custard cups out, fills one with seeds and spits the discarded shells into the other cup. If he attends one of Manlet's games, he uses plastic beer cups as he's seen on major league games. I haven't told him that the players spitting into cups are actually spitting tobacco. He doesn't need a new habit.

"Why do we ALWAYS have to do EVERYTHING your way?" blusters He of Hurt Feelings.

*sigh*

He simply doesn't seem to remember.

We have a huge basement in our house. We live on acreage. A fact of country life is that we get mice running around inside. I strongly dislike folding clothes in our laundryroom and having those little critters scurrying across my feet.

The Hubster is good about setting traps. Mainly, I suspect,  because he uses peanut butter on them. He loooooooves peanut butter. A dab goes on the trap, and a gigantic scoop goes into him just to make sure it's still fresh, says He. 

Like a mouse wouldn't touch a bit of stale peanut butter, lol.

The only problem about this whole scenario is that I will not touch a mousetrap with a critter in it. No way, no how, nada, uh uh. Never happen in a billion years. Yuck!

So, my Spouse forgets to check them. I will text "mouse in trap" for days in a row. Sometimes "mice in the TRAPS". Still no response. I will ask when he is home. I only receive a "DON'T NAG!" from Him of the forgetful mindset.

Last week the mouse in the trap had completely grown an additional two inch coat of fuzz. Double and triple yuck.

"Steve, will you please remove the dead mouse?" I begged. "It must be toxic by now! Would you like me to call an exterminator instead?"

The only thing my Aspie hates more than (in his perception) nagging is spending money. Unless of course he's spending it on tools or cars or car parts.

At the threat of me paying someone to do what he himself could do for 'free', Steve stomped off. Ensuing door slams ring through the house, followed by his re-entry through our front door.

"WHERE'S THE PEANUT BUTTER?" yells He of limited memory.

"In the pantry, Dear!" I call back.

"WHAT PANTRY?"

Oh my gosh, was he mad at me as I rolled on the floor laughing like crazy!

Eye of the Beholder

It's been a tough month in our household - at least for me. I am trying hard to stay positive. I am trying to be happy and up beat. I am trying to view my "tree" (aka Aspie hubby) in a non-condemning light, but I'm close to failing. (see post 'Trees')

Our anniversary started out good. He let me sleep in and left me freshly brewed coffee. There was an envelope address to me by the knife block on the kitchen counter and flowers laying by it. I poured a large mug of coffee and arranged the flowers in a vase.

Thrilled that Steve really did remember our anniversary, though I had steeled myself for the inevitable "Oh, is it really?" question, typically followed by the "My god, who cares, what does it matter?" question, or "If you need something, why can't you buy it yourself?" question, I opened the card with joy.

Flowers matching those he had purchased graced the front of the card, along with a lovely verse saying how blessed he was to have me in his life and how wonderful I was.

I actually  teared up a bit, until I opened the card to continue reading. More thankfulness for me, followed by his wishes for me to have a "Happy Birthday" and his signature.

Say what?

I stood there sipping my coffee, trying to figure out how to spin it.

Perhaps it was on the discount aisle at the store. Perhaps The Hubster was was planning on saving the card to reuse in June for my actual birthday. Or, most likely, he didn't take the time to read the card. I thought and thought. I decided to not mention it.

Manlet had a baseball game scheduled for that afternoon at 4 p.m. As it turned out, it was rained out as happens often in the greater Seattle area.

Just prior to Hubby's arrival home, I contacted our oldest son to see if we could dump Manlet there for dinner so that we could go out for our anniversary and not have to feed him. Eldest son, who's own son is just four years younger than Manlet, was thrilled.

"Sure!" he responded enthusiastically. "Bring him right over!" Oh how I love our kids. Our daughter is just as accommodating. Our three kids are truly a blessing.

Over protests from Steve about the change of plans, off we went. Manlet duly dispatched to be fed, we settled in to a booth at a favorite steak house. I chose to ignore my spouse's drooling.

Knowing that Steve can be overwhelmed by public eateries, I kept quiet while he acclimated himself. The waiter people brought us water, bread, coffee, and took our orders.

As they left, I folded my hands around my cup of joe, and benignly asked The Hubster how his day went.

"Fine," he barked. Heads turned from across the aisle.

"Shhhhh," I warned. "It sounds like you had a bad day. I'm sorry."

As Steve's facial expression contorted, his vocal pitch increased. "WHY would you say that?" he demanded. "I had a GREAT day!" Heads again whipped around.

I decided to let him digest some food before I commenced any more conversation. He steadfastly refused to meet my eye, which sent up huge warning signs to me. Still, I kept my mouth closed.

Our meal was served. We ate in silence. I finished about half of my plate's contents and waited for Steve to come up for air.

"Anything exciting happen today? Hear from any of your family or friends? Anyone stop by your desk to chat?" Since my Hubby works for a very large aerospace company and changes jobs or areas within the company every so many years, he often has former workmates stop by to say 'hi'.

"No."

*sigh*

I gave up. We ate our meals, ordered dessert, finished that, paid and left in silence. Picked up Manlet, drove home in silence. Gosh how I struggled to contain my excitement. Not.

Once inside the house, Manlet headed off to bed as he had baseball early the next day. I grabbed my card from where I had it displayed and asked Steve to read it to me in the bedroom.

He looked at me quizzically, but complied. When he got to the "Happy Birthday" part, he stopped and looked at me dumbfounded.

"But it's in cursive!" he exclaimed. "Cursive that says 'Happy Anniversary"! How did you change it?"

I burst out laughing at last. He hadn't read the card at all! He saw the beautiful pink flowers, the flowing cursive writing, and made another assumption.

I told him how much I loved the verses, and the flowers. Then I folded the card into it's envelope and asked if he would give it to me again on my birthday. He visibly brightened and enthusiastically agreed. Oh how he loves a good 'deal'.

What a life! The next day, not so much....

Trees

Where Is My.... ahhhhh....

The older I get, the more I have stuffed in my brain to forget.

The worse is walking into the kitchen to fill my coffee cup, setting it down somewhere, then spending the next twenty minutes trying to figure out where I put it. I will usually find it after I've poured a fresh new cup.

My dear Aspie Spouse has no rhyme nor reason to his forgetfulness. He remembers the name of some random person he took a class with ten years ago, but can't remember the names of the couple we go to bible study with weekly.

He remembers the size of every engine ever built by Ford, Chrysler and Chevy, gear ratios for all rearends, torque numbers for various heads, model numbers for all of his larger tools, but he can't seem to remember birthdays or anniversaries of his immediate family.

He can't remember I told him we have our youngest son Manlet's high school baseball games  this week on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Today is the first day of spring, and our 22nd anniversary.

Yes, I know - I do deserve a medal for bravery and endurance.

I received a text from The Hubster yesterday saying that he would be heading to Manlet's high school when he got off from work.

"when?" I texted back.

"From work now?" he replied.

"i don't understand" I shot back since I was on a call as he was texting me.

"What time is Manlet's game today?" was the texted response.

"what game?" texted I as my call ended. The heck with this. I called Steve.

"What game are you talking about?" I asked.

"Isn't there a baseball game today?" answered The Hubster quizzically.

"Ummm, no," I said. "He has a game tomorrow, which is also our anniversary."

"Do you want to go out to a nice dinner?" It was thoughtful for him to ask, but I didn't.

"No, Steve. I want to watch Manlet's game. It starts at 4:00 p.m. and will probably finish around 7:00 p.m. We might want to join the other team families at Ixtapa's in town afterwards." We often do this, especially after a win. We love our local Mexican restaurant.

"But it's our anniversary and you get mad when I forget," reasons my puzzled mate.

"I appreciate that you haven't forgotten, Dear, but we won't be able to do anything 'special' tomorrow. I'm okay with that." I try to explain.

I could hear the gears in Hubby's mind grinding away. I gave him a few more minutes to think, and then after continued silence I said goodbye and hung up.

He's probably still trying to figure out his next move, lol.

Meanwhile, I shall strut about today congratulating myself for my stick-to-it-tiveness and laughing when I finally find my coffee cup that I set down somewhere...

Oh Crap

What a weekend. Mid 60s, clear blue skies, tree blossoms and flowers erupting everywhere, birds and bees busy doing their spring things.

To me, absolutely glorious.

Hubby must not have hibernated long enough this winter. He was unbearable the last few days. Even though official spring is still a couple of weeks away, daylight begins is sooner and dusk is later. All reasons for me to rejoice, but not The Hubster.

Saturday he was able to work on his various car projects all day uninterrupted. I would have thought that he would be happy. Not even close.

When he came in at 6:30 I started to suggest we go out for dinner, but the rumbling growl that emanated from him squelched that idea immediately. I jumped in my car, and dashed to the local market.

On my way home I texted said Spouse, asking he turn on the bbq for our beautiful 8 ounce rib eye steaks.

No reply. I sent a second text. Nada, nothing, zilch.

I called. Not once, not twice, but three separate times.

No answer.

When I unlocked the front door, juggling my various bags of groceries,  he remained glued to his chair in the livingroom totally unresponsive.

"Sweetie, where is your phone? I tried to get hold of you for you to start the barbeque for me. I have steaks! "

He barely acknowledged my existence as I proceeded to deposit my acquisitions noisily on the kitchen counters. Oh, no problem Dear, I'll get the doors myself.

"I'm charging it," grumbles He.

"We've talked about this before, Dear. I need to be able to contact you when I'm gone. We haven't had a land line in years. Can you plug your charger in here by your recliner?"

After a long silence, Hubby finally admits that he never thought of that.

"But what if I forget that my charger is here in the livingroom, so when I to bed tonight I won't be able to charge my phone and it will be dead in the morning?" worries He of limited memory.

"I have faith in you," I said quickly. "I bet you will look at that empty space on the vanity where you normally have your charger plugged into your phone each night you would say 'Gosh, where is my charger?'. You would then respond to yourself, 'Oh yes, I left it in the livingroom.'"

(Aforementioned conversation would be verbal, of course.)

"Hmmmm." was his hesitant response. It was not a positive sound.

Our bbq was started, dinner was made and served, the end result consisting of contented rumblings from the Head of the Table.

I can live with this.

At least today, lol.

Are You Listening?

Hubby is home from work. I know this for a fact since the house, blissfully peace-filled just a few moments ago, now reverberates with crashing doors, foot stomps, slammed lunch box on counter, angry/anxiety ridden inhales and exhales, and a barely masked growling.

Hmmmm.

"How did your day go, Sweetie?" I ask benignly. 

There was an almost inaudible rumbling from my deep voiced Mate, but due to the thunderous storm clouds surrounding said mate's countenance I decided to pass on asking him for a more distinct repeat. It's odd how my Aspie demands that we speak slowly and clearly to him with our mouths directed towards him, but he usually mumbles his responses to us while facing away from us. 

"Ah hah," I respond. 

I wait for a few minutes as he empties his lunchbox, wipes the interior, then puts it up in it's place in the pantry.

Funny thing about this ritual. Steve often takes something out in the kitchen to use, but steadfastly refuses to put it back where it had been. He insists that the kitchen is his too, and he should be able to keep things wherever he wishes.

I have no problem with that, except that he never puts something away in the same place twice, with the exception of his lunchbox. Which I never need to locate. Therefore I spend an inordinate amount of time searching for gadgets and gizmos that I need for meal preparation. Occasionally so much so that I forget what I was there for!

"Do you have plans for this evening?" I ask, trying to determine the best time to have supper ready. 

There is no response from The Hubster. Instead he heads over to our pellet stove to check if it needs filling. This is a mandatory, just returned home from work chore that must be completed within four minutes of arrival. I haven't actually noticed it in The Rule Book, but I've been assured in the past that it's there.

"Manlet is at baseball practice which should end about six. I have to be at school by six for a spring sports parents meeting. I'm trying to figure out when I should make supper," I said as I follow him from the kitchen through the dining room.

Still no answer from Steve, though he seems puzzled that the pellet stove seems as full today as when he filled it up yesterday. Since he is just standing and staring, I decided to enlighten him.

"I haven't heard the stove kick on all day. Perhaps it needs cleaning." 

Our pellet stoves, this one on the main floor and the one in the basement, occasionally need ashes removed and a quick vacuuming in order to run properly. Apparently this need for cleaning would hold true for today, as Hubby slams down the hopper lid, turns on his heel nearly bowling me over, then stomps off to retrieve the shop vac. The very vacuum that has "shop" in it's name but that he refuses to keep in his shop, insisting that he has to keep it in the basement next to that level's pellet stove in case he needs to clean one of the stoves, which in turn requires him to run from the shop to the house when he needs to use it in the shop, then necessitates his running it back to the basement when he is done with it in the shop of which it was named for. 

Which makes no sense to me.

I go ahead and begin meal preparation, thinking that I can grab my supper before I leave, have it ready for Manlet when he walks in the door starving, and The Hubster can help himself to whenever he is ready.

As the banging and clanging has ceased by the pellet stove in dining room, I deem supper done. I turn to see Steve standing like a deer caught in headlights behind me.

"Oh good, you heard me! Why didn't you answer?" I asked.

"Of course I heard you!" said The Hubster gruffly. 

I laugh. "Well, I don't know if you did or not when you don't acknowledge or answer."

"Why would I have to do that?" blurts my Aspie. "I just don't care!"

Ah hah. Exactly. Now why didn't I know that, lol.

Same Old Same Old

A little over three years ago I began blogging about my marriage to a (mostly) wonderful man who has Aspergers Syndrome.

My first post was an eye opener for me. To set my thoughts and feelings down in black and white was a process that was scary, enlightening, thought provoking, confusing, amusing, and downright fun.

Coffee And Bagels was written on Valentines Day 2012. Off I went from there.

I've slowed down a bit on my posting as I felt that I was being redundant. I keep having the same situations, deal with the same headaches, have the same frustrations.

Looking back through old posts, I can't help but think that nothing at all has changed. My Hubby still doesn't communicate well. He still tries to guess future actions, events, and conversations. He still zones out or zones in, forgetting the world around him.

My husband still has Aspergers Syndrome.

My life, however, is different and I am different.

I have read hundreds of books, articles, blogs, emails, threads and posts. I have learned that I am not alone. There are so many people around the world that experience the "same old" situations that I have, and are also able to work through them, control their emotions, and (yes indeed), laugh about them!

I love you guys.

I am back. I am counting my blessings. I am writing.

Add a couple of good belly laughs, and we are ready to go.

Look out world, another Aspie lover is vocal again!

Excuses

"Has anyone seen the Christmas Cake?" I ask as I shove stuff around in the fridge.

Our youngest son and our grandson were playing a video football game, The Hubster was reading on the couch, eldest son and daughter-in-law were in another room watching a movie.

I waited a couple of minutes, looking in a few cupboards just in case someone hadn't realized it needed refrigeration, then asked again.

Youngest son suggested that perhaps oldest son had finished it off. I was just about to walk down the hallway to see if there was any left when I glanced at my spouse's face.

It was twisted in a grimace that could only be guilt or shame.

"Sweetie," I inquire as gently as possible, "Did you eat the rest of the cake?"

Sweetie's foot at the end of his left leg perched across his right knee began to flap furiously. He steadfastly stared at his book and remained mute.

"Steve!" I spoke more sharply. "Do you know what happened to the rest of the cake?"

"Yes!" he barked. "I ate it! I didn't get any last night!"

"We had brownie sundaes for dessert last night, Dear, not cake."

"Well, I didn't get any and I should be allowed to eat anything I want!" insisted He of imagined dessert deprivation.

"But Sweetheart, there were two big pieces, or four small pieces left!" proclaimeth I, growing aggravated. "We could have each had a piece as well as the two kids. I wish you could have checked with me before eating it. It was there when I put our dinner leftovers away a little while ago!"

"You told me three weeks ago that I talk too much and you didn't want to hear me speak again!" blurts Hubby.

My exasperation was growing.

"True, but that was in response to your third day of yabbering on and on about something that was done and over. I told you that we couldn't go back and change that situation, so we just had to live with it. It had nothing to do with the cake tonight!"

"Well, but you once said..." He seemed preparing to launch into other situations and excuses. 

I held up my hand to stop him. "Never mind. I'm going to bed."

I grabbed my phone and book, and I did exactly that.

With no excuses, lol.

Holiday Angst

Mele Kalikimaka!

Yes, Merry Christmas from the shores of Oahu in Hawaii. This year's holiday giving is a trip for us, all of our kids and their families to this tropical paradise. No shopping, no wrapping. Simple.

This is a tough time of year for my Aspie Hubby. Christmas is full of rituals and traditions that seem silly or make no sense to him whatsoever. He resists gift giving. He says he should be able to give gifts just because he wants to, not because he is 'required' to.

Steve hates the decorating. He refuses to participate in any way, shape or form. If we have a tree decorated, lights up or stockings hung, you can be sure that it was done by moi.

I have to admit that The Hubster whole heartedly embraces the baking end of Christmas. He will devour every last cake, pie, cookie or candy that I make, or that we are given. Often in the middle of the night, so that when I get ready to head off for a get-together or party the next day not a morsel can be found. He is really good at quoting, generally in an abrupt, loud voice, "First come, first served!"

Yah, right.

With the exception of fruit cake. Thank you, dear Lord, for allowing me to be the sole lover of that tasty confection in our household. I have strived over the course of my adult life to share my passion of this holiday treat with my family members, as well as mince meat pie, but to no avail.

Long ago I realized that if I have absolutely no expectations for the holidays, I will never, ever be disappointed. I suppose that works for any situation over the year, for that matter.

I figured out years ago that I can alleviate much of Steve's holiday angst by purchasing my own gifts and checking with him a week or two before Christmas Day to see if he wants to wrap them himself. His preference is not consistent from year to year, nor from day to day for that matter.

I made the mistake of letting him 'do' my stocking for Santa the first year after we were married. Santa brought everyone else candy canes, chocolates, pocket games, cute little toys and gadgets, travel sized toiletries for an upcoming trip, and a personalized beanie baby peeking out of the top of each stocking.

Except for mine. My stocking had two mandarin oranges, a handful of almonds and walnuts in shells, and an ink pen. Black ink, of course.

My two oldest kidlets looked at me in horror.

Daughterlet burst out in tears. "Momma, you were NAUGHTY this year!" she wailed. Eldest sonlet hung his head in shame and refused to look at me the rest of the day. At the tender age of twelve, I can just imagine the 'naughty' connotations he was envisioning. I was rather embarrassed myself.

"What? What's wrong with that?" bellowed our Santa stand in, thoroughly perplexed. "Oranges and nuts are good for you!"

"Exactly Dear," I flung over my shoulder as I headed to the kitchen to refill my coffee cup and dry my tears.

I went off to calm Daughterlet, and then spent the day trying to figure out what I had done wrong to 'deserve' such treatment. As you may guess, Steve was utterly at a loss to figure out where he had 'gone wrong'. Fruit and nuts are healthy. A naughty person receives coal. He was certainly happy with his stocking, but refused to share a bit with me as by the time we were able to discuss the matter he had consumed every morsel.

He did give Daughterlet his beanie baby.

Santa has taken total responsibility for all stocking filling ever since, and everyone is happy, although I've heard from reliable sources that there has been some contemplation over the years to just put a few lumps of coal to someone's stocking, lol.

The Color of Love...

is rain.

Yep, I know that rain is technically clear, but in this photo I can see how much my husband loves his son.

Steve is not a sports orientated guy. If he had his druthers, Super Bowl Sunday would consist of table laden rhapsodies of food and snacks, with nary a sign of the infamous ball game in sight. All of the TVs in the house would be tuned in to the History or Military channels. 

Preferably both on split screen.

Our youngest kidlet is the d end on strong side. He is in the foreground on the right side of this photo. The funny thing is that I didn't even notice Steve at first.

In the background, in the bright orange Carhartt raingear he received from his parents as a birthday gift, holding one of the side markers, is my husband.

In between the two are hot, sweaty football players and hundreds of millions of gallons of skin soaking rain. 

Even as cool and wet as it was, the players are still steaming.

I hate being cold and wet, so I was safely tucked away in warm layers of clothing, swaddled in a waterproof fleece blanket, perched under the massive roof above our high school's wonderful stadium on a canvas stadium seat that keeps my 'seat' warm and dry.

Go team!

Frankly, I don't know how Steve can stand out there hour after hour in the deluge. I would be a whining, sniveling mess. When I, and others around me in the stadium, thank Steve during half time for volunteering on the team's chain gang, he simply shrugs and says, "No problem".

Uh huh.

After we got home that night and The Hubster had changed into dry clothes, I asked him how he endured the nasty weather.

His answer humbled me.

"I love Kidlet," he mumbled hesitantly.

Now that I have this photo, I can clearly see that.

Well done, Sweetie!

Go Left

My dear husband, with his Aspergers Syndrome, is most definitely inflexible in his rigid thinking. Once his mind is made up, there is no changing it. Cast in stone, cemented in, absolutely no reconsideration. Period. End of discussion.

Sometimes he recognizes obstacles, sometimes not. 

He gets things mixed up. He won't admit it. Nor will he own up to making mistakes, or misunderstanding directions, or having mis-remembered conversations, or just plain old forgetfulness.

I forget things. I misunderstand. I get things mixed up. But I'd like to think that I own up to them.

I tend to point at objects in our house, asking the kids to go grab me that 'thingamajigger'. It can take me a while to remember the names of common household items like 'pen', 'cup', and the kitchen 'whatchamacallit' - I mean 'towel'. By the time I come up with the correct noun, they've already delivered the requested item and are long gone.

Kind of like my short term memory.

Steve, however, can't seem to remember the names of our bible study leaders, whose home we go to weekly, the kid's various schools or sports teams, or where the scissors go after he is done using them. We end up buying him new tools regularly because he doesn't put them back as soon as he finishes with them. And we have to endure his wrath as he is convinced that one of our kids or myself have taken the specific tool and hidden it from him.

The Hubster has occasionally taken steps to try to break out from his single mindedness. He comes back hours, or sometimes even days after a blow up and tries to figure out where things went sideways. Then he attempts to rationally, and calmly, approach various differences in the future. 

I truly try to remain impassive as he 'sounds' these things out loud to me, being as non-committal as possible on my own views. After all, my spouse is convinced that I am always right, so who am I to disillusion him?

LOL - not! Sometimes it's me that has to go left! Or just leave, in which case he is left talking to himself - or the dogs, whomever is left last!

Dogs rule...

At least in our home.

"Steve, why is the front door open? It's only 47°F out!"  

"I think that they might have to go do their business," answers my Aspergian Husband of many years.

"But Sweetie, there's a dog door in the basement for them to use," I respond, as a cold breeze flails the curtains of the livingroom.

"They might have to go too badly to run all the way downstairs. I don't want them to have an accident in the house," rings a slightly irratated voice from within the depths of our home.

"When is the last time they had an accident in the house?"

I stand near our front door and wait for an answer.

And I wait.

And wait.

I look at my phone. It's been five minutes since The Hubster's last response. I walk towards the kitchen where I believe Steve's voice had been coming from with a strong north wind buffeting me along the hallway.

No Hubby.

I check our bedroom and bathroom. 

No Hubby.

I run down stairs. No Hubby, no dogs, but the dog door is indeed open and it's access flap  is ready and waiting for canine egress and ingress.

I run upstairs, calling for my spouse. I try to keep a neutral tone and refrain from puffing. Those stairs must be steeper than they were last year. Hmmm.

Back in the main entryway with no spouse or canines in sight, I shut the front door and head off to do the never ending laundry.

"WHY IS THE DOOR SHUT?" comes a furious bellow followed by a crash as the freshly closed door now swings wide open and smacks against the shoe rack behind it.

"Sweetie, the dogs aren't even in the house!" I proclaim. "They are already outside, as were you!"

"Well they might come in and have to go out quickly!"  protests Steve. "Why do we ALWAYS have to do EVERYTHING your way?"

*Sigh*

Just wait until next week when I have to go buy another ton of pellets for our pellet stoves that heat our house. Then someone will be screaming bloody murder because we went through the current ton too quickly.

It really is a dog's life, lol.