Category Archives: Me: Work in progress


…don’t worry, I haven’t written one. I had to write a journal entry in my English class about my favorite book, short story or poem; an easy assignment because of all the ones I love, I immediately knew which one I wanted to write about.

My favorite poem is The Barrel-Organ by Alfred Noyes. I first came across this poem in an English Lit textbook I bought at a garage sale (I snap up any old literature textbook I come across). It was written in 1958 and it is long – 135 lines. Its length is why I can never convince anybody else to read it. A poem that long requires a certain amount of commitment, even to a poetry lover. The first few lines, though, reveal an irresistible rhythm that pulls you through the rest of it. It’s easily the most musical poem I’ve ever read; it has an unusual rhyme scheme and the tempo changes several times when the focus shifts.

There’s a barrel-organ carolling across a golden street

In the City as the sun sinks low;

And the music’s not immortal; but the world has made it sweet

And fulfilled it with the sunset glow;

And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the pain

That surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;

And they’ve given it a glory and a part to play again

In the Symphony that rules the day and night.

The poem is set in London and describes the inner lives of people on the street within hearing distance f the organ. It speaks of the influence of music on humans. It illustrates the timelessness and necessity of music – how it shapes our actions and then sings of them after they’re done. It bears witness to all of humanity’s triumphs and follies. It cheers us, comforts us, rocks us to sleep and jolts us awake. The Barrel-Organ is glittering, gritty and beautiful, just like the city in which it is set.

This thing makes me so happy that if I had the brain space to devote to it, I’d spend my life trying to memorize it. I absolutely adore it.

Take the epic-poem challenge. Read the bitch. If you like poetry even a little, you won’t regret it.



I lost my job last week, and I miss it.  Well, that’s not entirely true; my job was something of a clusterfuck, and the company I worked for was the Walmart of the industry.  I miss my field, though.  I heard someone on a TV show mention an unusual diagnosis, and I got a little pang.  I’m hopeful that I’ll find something else in the field soon.

In the meantime, though, I’ve discovered something shocking; I’m not nearly as lazy as I like to think I am.  This is breaking news to me, because it seemed like I spent at least 50% of my work hours wishing I was taking a nap, fantasizing about all the nothing I could be doing at a given moment, and planning weekends filled with glorious idleness.  Today marks 1 week jobless, and I’m going spare over here.  It seems a body can only stalk Facebook, make lyrics videos, listen to music and nap so much before it loses its charm.  I need to be doing something.

That’s another thing that has come as a bit of a shock.  I’m not nearly as good at sitting around as I thought.  I was sitting around on Facebook and my ass yesterday, and realized I needed to go clean something.  Quelle horreur!  I, voluntarily doing housework?!

Don’t get me wrong; I’m delighted to find out I’m not quite as worthless as previously imagined.  They say job loss is a time for self-reevaluation.  I guess I’ll have to cross “full-time hedonist” off my list of ambitions.


I got me some badly-needed perspective today in light of another blogger’s tragedy.   It’s her story and I won’t tell it, but suffice it to say that it made me look at my own circumstances with a new mind’s eye and be thankful, truly grateful, for everything I have.   How long has it been since I took stock of all the things I take for granted and realized how unbelievably blessed I am?

Peace to you, Tashi, and Godspeed to Wash.


Everybody has those few moments of shining brilliance that stand out like beacons in their memory; even I do.  What I also have, though, are equally clear memories of epic derpitude.

Second grade:  Miss Martin crawling my ass because of the way I put the rick-rack on my pantyhose-egg Easter project.  I liked my egg; I hadn’t realized there was a right or a wrong way to put rick-rack on a pantyhose container; guess I was mistaken.  The term “absent-minded” was used.

Fifth grade:   Gazing out the window on a balmy spring afternoon, only to be record-scratched back to the present by the dread sound of my name being called.  For what?  To answer a question?  Was it a fire drill?  Perhaps my hair was on fire?  My panic was equal to any of the three.

Eleventh grade English:  I trudged to Mrs. Little’s desk for a book report.  The look of brow-raising contempt on her face as I held the book out to her was my first indication that I’d done something wrong.  She took the book gingerly, like a foul thing, and for the first time I was introduced to the concept of class reading lists.  My classmates had evidently been aware of this since the beginning of the year.  Suffice it to say, my book wasn’t on the list.

Eleventh grade English, part II:  We’d been studying haiku, a lesson which terminated with each of us standing and reciting one of our own composition.  I was chosen to follow Rusty, a rough country boy who’d just delivered an unexpectedly delicate and lovely haiku.  I don’t remember mine, but the subject was dawn and the feeling when one witnesses the birth of a new day.  As I finished, Mrs. Little, evidently still annoyed by the book report, said, “You’re never up at dawn, are you?”  Honesty compelled me to admit I never had been, and I was allowed to retake my seat.

Eleventh grade English, part III:  We were called upon to grade each others’ assignments by passing them back one seat.  Billy got mine.  Now, Billy was a smart guy and, I thought, a stand-up guy as well.  Therefore I couldn’t understand why he felt the need to clarify with Mrs. Little that it was unacceptable for me to have responded to the short essay question with dialogue from the previous night’s episode of Miami Vice.   (I still have no idea how that happened.)

My mother had long since resigned herself to my average and below-average grades (though a memorable reaction from her when I brought home my first failing report card stays in my memory) and bewildered reports from teachers mentioning my potential if I would only apply myself.  Apply myself.  I had no idea how.  I wasn’t even sure what that meant.  As early as seventh grade, some of my classmates already knew where they were going to go to college and what they wanted to study.  I could barely keep track of assignments due the next day.  I tried to pay attention in class, but very little held my interest.  My mind drifted and I would savagely yank it back, only to find it drifting again.  I floated through school, very much on a day-to-day basis.  I doodled.  I’m sure I daydreamed.  One teacher told my mother that I hid a paperback inside my textbook, but I can state that that never happened.  I’d have been far too afraid to try something like that.  That was too … premeditated, and none of what I did was premeditated.  I didn’t act, I reacted.

The teachers eventually gave up.  I’d been in a gifted and talented program in elementary school, due, I guess, to a small talent with drawing, but it ended and was never mentioned again.  Within a couple of years, my difficulty with mathematic concepts landed me in what I now realize was a special ed class with two boys.  We didn’t do anything (literally, we did nothing.  The teacher was an elderly woman and rarely showed up.  We drew on the board, mostly).  I transferred the next year and found myself…floating.  Even if I’d realized I needed help, I wouldn’t have known where to turn.  I thought my experience was normal, and that my difficulties were because I was stupid.  Hell, that’s what my teachers thought, and I had no better explanation.   I had no choice but to go with it.  I muddled through my classes, sporadically turning in assignments (one teacher showed my poor mother columns and columns of assignments I’d apparently just ignored.  I probably tuned out the class instructions).

Despite these lowlights, I managed to graduate from high school and on time, though I was nobody’s idea of a scholar.  College never crossed my mind, though I attempted trade school for a semester.  I left to go work and then got married.  My husband, a born educator, helped me to realize that the problem was not low intelligence (that’s another post!) but that assurance was empty.  I remembered the helpless feeling of my mind drifting away, and the problem had hounded me through my work life.  I’d lost jobs because of it, and had never been able to even hang onto a hobby.  The thought of having children and all that goes along with it was quite out of the question.

Twenty years went by, and a chance conversation on an internet forum flipped a switch in my mind.  I’d heard of attention-deficit disorder, but I’d only applied it to little kids.  When I read a list of symptoms and tendencies, though, I realized that nearly every one of them described me, for as far back as I could remember.  I read more about it, and it explained everything.  To say it was a revelation is a hilarious understatement.  It was as though someone had written an article with the express purpose of explaining me to myself.

That was five or so years ago.  I’d love to report that everything has changed, that I immediately began to apply myself and got a better job and a better house and a better car and an education.  None of those things has happened.  I struggle every day.  I take Adderall when I can afford it, and it helps.  I use the coping mechanisms that I spent my life unwittingly developing.  I ask for understanding and sometimes I get it.  The main change is that I go easier on myself now.  I’m not stupid; I never was.  I know my limitations and how to work around them, and I’m a lot more comfortable asking for help.  ADD explains me, but it doesn’t define me.

Damn ADD

I had an idea for a blog post.  I composed it in my head while I was in the shower.

I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen, trying to re-trace through all that to get to the original point.  FML


I gave up hope the other week.  I accepted that life was never going to improve, and as a result I feel better than I have in a long time.

It sounds counterintuitive, so let me explain.  My husband has Asperger’s syndrome.  We only realized this a few months ago, after another lost job.   Our two decades of marriage are littered with lost jobs, short friendships, and aborted projects.  I’ve long known there was something about Kelsey that didn’t fit the expected mold, something that keeps him from living according to the life script that most people happily and mindlessly adhere to.  I’ve never minded that; in fact, I celebrate it.  His oddness is what makes him who he is, and I love who he is.  I joke that he’s dragged me kicking and screaming into some of the best experiences of my life.  Not all of those experiences have been so positive, though, and we find ourselves in our 40s still living a lifestyle more common among people who are just starting out.

I’ve had countless conversations that revolve around trying to solve the mystery.  “There’s got to be something I’m missing,” I’d say after he would come home, having quit or, more frequently, been fired from a job that he’d been good at and even having earned glowing reviews.  I knew he was good at most types of work.  I knew he wasn’t lazy or afraid of work.  He’s highly intelligent and his coworkers typically like him.  The only thing I could think of was his awkwardness in social situations, but I never considered it seriously because work =/= socializing.

On hearing of Asperger’s, I’d researched it a bit, wondered if he might not have some of the tendencies, and promptly forgot about it.  After he lost his last job  over an utter triviality, I remembered some of the hallmarks of the syndrome and blurted out a diagnosis, “You know what you’ve got?   You’ve got Asperger’s!”  I was kind of mad and immediately ashamed of myself for phrasing it as an accusation.   To his credit, he wanted answers as badly as I did, and he threw himself into research.  Within a short time he’d found a therapist and got an appointment set up for testing, and weeks later had a diagnosis in hand.

There’s no cure for Asperger’s, and no medical treatment.  It’s on the autism spectrum, though there’s some debate as to whether it really belongs there.  It’s neurodevelopmental in nature and is characterized by significant difficulties in social interaction, alongside restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests.  Like autism, it presents differently in different patients and is present to varying degrees.  As the saying goes, “if you’ve met one person with Asperger’s, you’ve met … one person with Asperger’s.”  High intelligence is typical, as is stilted, formal behavior and speech and a narrow focus of intense interest (to the layperson:  Monologues about weird obsessions).

In addition to this, Kelsey has what we call “trouble switching gears.”  He has the ability to multitask but has tremendous difficulty switching between tasks.  Asking him to stop doing something he’s engaged in and do something else is akin to shifting your car into sideways.  The gear doesn’t exist.  This peculiarity has been the cause of more trouble than any other thing that most couples argue about – maybe any two.  One would think that, now that I understand this quirk of his nature and have accepted it, that it wouldn’t frustrate me anymore.  One would be wrong.  If I’m in the wrong mood, it can still very much send me into orbit.  I was in the wrong mood the other day.

I noticed evidence that a task I’d been asking him to do for days was still undone, despite numerous assurances that it would be taken care of.  I, if I may be indelicate, flipped my shit.  I stormed; he defended.  I raged; he raged back.  I escalated and he began to retreat, and that’s when realization broke over me.  My anger drained away, replaced by weariness and a tentative light of hope.  I asked him, “is this as good as it’s ever going to get?”

He was mistrustful.  “No,” he replied.  “I’m trying.  Can’t you see that I’m trying?”

I told him that I knew he was trying, but that it wasn’t going to get any better.  I could see that it hurt him, but I had to keep going.  I asked him again and said that he needed to admit that the current state of affairs was the best I could expect.  He didn’t understand.

“Can you honestly say that I haven’t improved at all?  If you can, then I’ll tell you anything you want.”

I thought about backing down.  I did – I could see that he was confused and hurt, and I didn’t want to prolong it or cause any more, because, in fact, he has improved.  He truly is trying, very hard, to improve himself and his habits all the time.  I have always been careful not to squelch this.  I had to, though.  Something had to give, and unfortunately, it was this.  I said yes.

He mumbled, “Then things are never going to improve.   This is as good as it gets.”

I explained what was happening and he nodded.  The next morning, I could report to him that it had worked.  The symptoms of the terrible stress I’ve been under for months had already started to lift.  I had slept better.  My jaw wasn’t sore from clenching it all night.  I had no headache, either that morning or in the evening, and I didn’t feel sore all over.  Within the week, I had stopped clenching my jaw during the daytime too, and other nagging little issues that had been plaguing me resolved.  My mood was much lighter and I stopped feeling persecuted by life (back to my usual level, anyway).

It sounds like I gave up on my husband, but all I did was manage my expectations.  I had to stop expecting him to perform at an unreasonable (for him) level, and in doing so, I’ve gained the ability to really see and appreciate the great strides he’s making.  Losing hope was one of the healthiest things I’ve ever done.