Falling UP stairs

I was halfway asleep on the sofa when the fire alarm went off. Thankfully, it’s half as shrill as 301 because my sandals (which are hard enough to put on without the pressure of noise/flashing lights) and (allegedly) noise-cancelling headphones were in the other bedroom.

Navigating stairs have been a problem for me since the accident in 2018, but, since the elevators were effectively out of commission, they were my ONLY option of escaping this sensory hell. I’m on the fifth floor and there’s sirens, flashing lights and people running all around me.

I got downstairs just in time to see BCFD amble up to the building, stroll rather nonchalantly into the building and disappear inside with absolutely zero urgency. Good grief, if this was an actual emergency, we’d all be dead. Several minutes later, they just let us back in the building as if nothing happened.

Unfortunately, I got dizzy and tired on the way back up and ended up collapsing in the middle of the stairs somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor unable to get up again. Like I wanted to, but my legs were suddenly made of jelly.

No-one stopped to help me (even though I was clearly in their way), but I eventually climbed my way to the hallway terrified of being trampled and getting on my feet just long enough to get the door open before falling on my knees again next to the hall table which at least gave me something to hold onto until the building stopped spinning and even then, I was too weak/wobbly to walk straight.

I could hold onto the wall, but I had to navigate the open elevator lobby to get there first – which isn’t easy to do since my vision is essentially 30% of what it normally is as if someone replaced my normal glasses (which already need replacing) with those cardboard “cataract” ones.

Thankfully, I (barely) made it to my sofa, so I can sit and rest for a while… once the noise/flashing lights stop.

Update: Someone mentioned it could be “low blood sugar” which makes sense given my previous post as all I had to eat yesterday was a single coffee and bag chips around 2:30pm… but not dinner (because of the emergency drill).

However, I think it was a combination of exhaustion and over stimulation. Plus, I had a headache from wearing those TIGHT, bulky “noise-canceling headphones” that don’t do a very good job of blocking noise.

New Year, same me: Part 2

I exit the Circulator across from what used to be McKeldin Fountain (soon to be part of a soulless waterfront development), cross Light Street and drop into the Starbucks midblock, not to “people watch” (as I can’t sit down/get up without pain since the accident in 2018 anyway), but because it breaks up my walk back and, as it turns out, reminded me that I was out of cash (spent the last of it on a popcorn and a drink at the movies).

Cross Calvert Street is the vacant shell of what used to be The Gallery, followed by a parking lot and a half-used block with a Chik-fil-a and a Shake Shack before getting to the little patio connecting Capital Grille’s valet station to Chipotle and Fogo de Chao (and very likely a headhouse for the “Marketplace/Aquarium” stop for the upcoming Red Line).

More importantly to this story, at the end of the block is the world’s most conspicuous ATM. Definitely use at your own risk, as there’s (almost) always someone shady camped out there.

“Hi,” the random guy said intercepting me the second my foot touched the curb. “I’m asking everyone a question: What is the average weight of an adult polar bear? Go on, taigga guess, on behalf of ADF and International Autism Day!”

I shouldn’t HAVE to “guess.” I follow various environmental and zoological blogs – including Polar Bears International – but the best my brain could come up for this basic trivia item was “300-600lbs” which is obviously too small to be a serious guess, but more importantly…

“You mean ‘WORLD Autism Awareness Day’ which is April 2nd. I’m Autistic, and I follow various Autism blogs in the US, Britain, and New Zealand and this is my first time hearing about an ‘awareness day’ in January or – and I’m not suggesting anything untoward – whatever ‘ADF’ is. Autism Day Foundation? Autism Diag…”

It didn’t matter. He was gone, left to retrieve his supervisor to educate me on my condition. Sure, I’ll wait right here in the middle of the sidewalk so I can continue a “conversation” I never asked to be in… or I can continue on my way and hope they don’t follow me (which wouldn’t have been hard to do as the valet and I were the only other people on this normally bustling corner).

Anyway, the homeless person “guarding” the ATM remained asleep during my transaction. That marble wall can’t be comfortable, but I can’t afford another guilt trip about carrying around money while she melodramatically “starves to death” in front of me due to situations beyond my control.

Speaking of which, I am kinda hungry (as I only got a small popcorn at the movie, and it was empty before the previews ended). Conveniently enough, there’s an IHOP literally three feet from the machine. Being directly across the street from the city’s largest tourist attraction should be a major boon for them, but only a handful of tables were occupied.

I enter the revolving door to find three bored-looking waitresses milling about the Maitre’d stand. One of them reluctantly turns around, looks me over with an audible scoff before asking if I was eating in or picking up. Her exasperated sigh when I told her “eating in” sounded almost defeated as she picked up a menu and an insert and asked if I wanted “counter or table.”

“Table. I don’t want a booth,” so she took me three, or was it four, steps before tossing the menu/insert unceremoniously into the first flat surface she came to.

“Excuse me,” I said politely. “I asked for a table. This is-”

“This IS a table. Geez,” she snapped, turning around to glare at me, while rolling her eyes so I knew how stupid my question was.

“Actually, it’s a booth. I already know what a table is.”

“WHAT WAS THAT,” she roared loud enough for the entire block to hear her.

This a trap.

Answering this “question” leaves me open to a potential macing and/or physical assault (so I learn my lesson on not doing anything wrong), but NOT answering is worse because it “confirms” I’m “too cowardly” to defend my incendiary positions… whatever they are.

“You’re mad at me because you insulted me,” I said, determined not to turn into dad (who would have gleefully ripped her a new asshole with the entire restaurant watching AND gotten her fired for the privilege).

“Fine,” she seethed, collecting the menu/insert off the booth’s table, spinning around 180 degrees and throwing them angrily on the even smaller table to my left. “Now,” she snapped. “What do you want?”

“I’d like to sit down.”

Well, I thought that was funny.

“I meant drinks or appetizers! Argh, how do I always get the dumb ones?”

“Ice water and-”

“They’re listed on the menu.”

“I know. I said, ‘ice water’ and-”

“Back page.”

I take a deep breath, which worked as well as her “suggested sell.”

“What da hell is wrong with you?”

“EYES…WAD…TUR… AND… MOZ-”

“Ice water and Mozza Sticks? Got it,” she said in a normal tone. “I’ll come back later.”

Nothing else to report here other than my appetizer and main course (a simple cheeseburger) coming out at the same time. Oh, and it’s “350-700 kilograms [700-1500lbs],” so I was sorta right… just got my measurement system wrong. Speaking of wrongs, I didn’t have any $1s for a tip, and I’m probably more broken up about it than she was.

Don’t worry, because the 7-Eleven around the corner was already out of milk – and snacks! Instant karma… or was it slightly delayed karma from the ADF guy? Maybe, I shouldn’t have been so hard on the movie… or, maybe, it was just the regular pre-storm rush.

An imperfect errand

Literally, every time I leave my apartment, I end up either getting my ass handed to me in an argument I didn’t start (but am at fault for anyway) or “causing a scene” (that I really, REALLY don’t want to be in, but somehow can’t get out of), but trying to explain this to people always makes me sound crazy.

This effectively limits where I can go in the city for both safety and, um, traumatic memories (only phrase I could come up with). In fact, it’s one of the reasons I moved back to Maryland – I was out of places on International Drive that I felt comfortable going back to.

I’m not sure if I really am the “arrogant, self-centered narcissist who only cares about themselves” (so far from the truth it isn’t even funny) that I’m often accused of being by people who’ve known me for all of ten minutes… or as they call themselves “experts” because they “know a thousand people exactly like [me]” yet can’t seem to name three.

As I said, this happens every time I go out, so I have too many to cite. I know they aren’t taken seriously because even my mom refused to believe my “exaggerated stories” or what my aunt calls “outright lies that never fuckin’ happened.” I even had a college professor write on a journaling assignment that “this isn’t my assignment – this is just you being a jerk for five pages.”

Technically, his assignment was to “spend a week chronicling every interaction you have with someone with a retail or food service job” with the presumed intention of showing how much we rely on them and leading to some sort of obvious epiphany about empathy or whatnot (which spoiled Miami students clearly need). Sorry, for taking your assignment seriously.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve worked BOTH jobs, so I get working with the public is hard, but I suspect that there’s something that makes retail and restaurant employees take their frustrations out on me. It’s literally how this blog got its name… but I’m writing around my subject. Whether I like it or not, I should probably be more specific as to what I’m talking about.

Which brings me back to my title, it was mid-afternoon on Saturday and I wanted to get milk and maybe some snacks as I’d accidentally skipped lunch. So, I decide since it’s 90 degrees outside I’ll just risk my life going to the sketchy 7-11 across the street (which the leasing agent actually called a “major selling point” during my tour!).

The second I leave the ornate century old building; I am hit with a massive jolt of humidity and the homeless guy parked outside the store immediately starts harassing me – doesn’t even wait for me to get to the crosswalk – shouting at me nonstop until I finally entered the tiny, wedge-shaped store… just to find out they were completely out of milk.

Okay, so it’s probably not the worst karma ever, but it is certainly inconvenient – especially since the next store is four blocks away, uphill both ways. Baltimore hills are no joke. Fortunately, I only have to deal with two of them in my unplanned urban odyssey. At least, it gave my headache time to dissipate.

I arrive, navigate the small, crowded, and awkwardly laid-out store to find that they indeed had milk, but I’d have to wait in line to navigate around the cashiers to get to snacks (which thankfully dissipated once I found my snacks from the far side of the store).

I got my milk, my bottled coffee, and a bag of chips, put them on the counter, opened my reusable bag for them (as I’ve been told that doing it themselves was a “hygiene issue,” though I’m not entirely what that means) and took my wallet out, trying to signal to her that she can start packing it while I fish out the appropriate bills.

She didn’t. She took my bills and gave me $0.35 change… but left everything on the counter. I get convenience store clerks are stereotypically lazy, but this still irritates me. Yes, I know it shouldn’t, but it does anyway. When I point this out to her, she looks at me blankly and then turns to signal another cashier for help.

“It’s yo bag,” another cashier snapped, leaning in threateningly from the counter she was hidden behind (making it intimidation and a jump scare). “YOU pack it yo self.”

I’m just a half-second from the perfect bon mot (as I get this line a lot – even though the city banned store bags late last year), which is unusual for me… when I feel a tap on my right shoulder instantly derailing my train of thought.

“Face it, Buddy,” the otherwise adorable Black guy in his late-20s (possibly a JHU student as they have a student housing complex on the other side of The Monument). “You lost. Move on.”

“Wait, what? Who are… how am I ‘losing’ when I’m not arguing with anyone?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged, “cuz you already lost. So, just pack it up and move on, Buddy. I’ve got places to be, and there’s no way you are winning this.”

“HA, see,” the second cashier taunted.

At this point, I know I have to say SOMETHING… but I have no idea what, and, thanks to my super convenient 2.5 second sensory processing delay, I don’t have the luxury of either thinking or filtering before I say things (because I know some invisible timer is running) …so I invariably make things worse.

This was no exception, and, frankly, I’m too embarrassed to post it here as, suffice to say, his bug-eyed reaction with full on neck retraction said more than I ever could. Otherwise, he handled it like a champ (as I was reacting the cashier not him, I just happened to still be facing him).

“It’s your stuff,” he replied, recovering enough to roll his eyes at me, “and it’s your bag. It’s not hard. Literally EVERY store in the city does that. ALL of them. So, put the stuff in the bag and then leave. It’s that simple.”

I hate when people say that, but he didn’t injure or kill me (yah for breaking one of our city’s worst stereotypes), so all of my wounds were self-inflicted. He may be condescending, but, frankly, I’m still recovering from my supposed “buddy” taking the rude cashier’s side (some buddy you are, pfft). Now, I really have lost, there’s a confirmed witness and there’s zero way to save face. None.

Packing my own at the point is basically tucking what’s left of my tail between my legs and squeaking “hehe, I’ve been cowed. Here’s my dignity, feel free to stomp all overit.”

If the first cashier had just packed my bag when I asked her too, this whole scene could have been avoided, and I’d already be gone. Unfortunately, I’m still ranting like a lunatic (despite my best efforts to stop myself), but my stuff is on the counter until I pack and leave. Because fuck me, I lost, hahaha.

Remember, the cute guy behind me has “places to go,” and I’m making him late to them. I’m also making it so I can’t shop here again, as I begin the long, slow trek back to my apartment with shoddily packed groceries in tow. On the plus side, I actually don’t have anywhere else to go this weekend…

Summery Autism memes

So, today is officially the halfway point of the year, and to celebrate I’ve collected a sampling of sizzling summertime memes with a touch of the ’tism.

Not so fun in the sun

I arrived in North Carolina yesterday afternoon, and spent this morning at the Wilmington Railroad Museum, and the afternoon cruising the Cape Fear River. So, I should be having “fun,” right?

Um, no. I was so focused on getting usable photos for this blog (this is an AUTISM blog, it’s a slam dunk) that I wasn’t paying attention to the museum itself. I was so involved in doing a Facebook LIVE of the “World’s largest model railroad” that I forgot to take in its details until I realized I wasn’t recording and just decided to switch to my camera.

Of course, the museum itself only had four rooms – the entry/gift shop, the museum gallery, the Children’s Room, and the Model Train Room. There are some larger pieces outside – mainly a locomotive and a caboose. That’s it. It’s small, dated (and not in a historic way) and unimpressive. Seriously, how is the Anthracite Model Railroad in Shamokin TWICE the size of the “world’s largest layout?” Heck, my dad had a more impressive display in our basement (yes, he’s the main reason I visited today)!

Next up, I decided to walk down the Riverwalk towards downtown. Unfortunately, it was blocked off along with the adjoining Water Street due to construction. I considered strolling through Cape Fear Community College Bookstore, but I have no reason to, so I walked around to a coffee shop at the Cotton Exchange on Front Street (which was ALSO under construction, but the sidewalk was still mostly open).

As I approach Bijou Park (barely passable due to the aforementioned construction work), a woman stops me in the bottleneck. I can’t really understand what she’s saying not sure if because of her accent or my Auditory Processing Disorder, but she’s giving my puppy dog eyes and not letting me pass her until she gets what she wants. The cynic in me says it’s money as it’s literally impossible for me to leave my apartment in Baltimore without someone stopping me dead in my tracks and insisting I give them money.

Thankfully, Wilmington isn’t Balt- Oh, she DOES want money. The reason she’s so insistent is because I’m still holding the half-finished coffee from Java Dog. Yep, as my mom would say, “what did you expect” and then say I “brought this on myself.” According to her, I create intentional accidental drama. That doesn’t mean I gave her anything, but it does mean she caught me lying so my 2-star review on Facebook stands.

Anyway, once that was over, I tucked into a gift store selling UNCW and One Tree Hill T-shirts (plus some pro-Biden shirts near the back because, hey, it’s a college town). Nothing for CFCC, this is the how it was with Gateway College when I was in New Haven last month, so they’re in good company.

I come out of the store (empty-handed) and find myself on Market Street, so I wander around for several minutes trying to find lunch. There’s plenty of good restaurants in the immediate area, but I’m not interested in either table service or window service, so my options are somewhat limited off the bat. But I make it work, and finish with over an hour to kill before my river tour.

I eventually find out, said cruise is from the Chandler Wharf dock, so I take a water taxi to that stop (as there’s only three of them – Market St, USS North Carolina, and Chandler Wharf – the one at the Convention Center/Railroad Museum is apparently discontinued (even though it’s their only route listed on Google Maps). The best part is, since the water taxi and the sightseeing cruise are run by the same company, I was able to pay for both trips at once.

The cruise itself was mildly interesting. The scenery wasn’t all that impressive – at least from the water. I’m sure if I was seeing it in-person it would be different, which is an option they offer… just not on the trip I was on. And every time the program got mildly interesting, they turned around and went in the opposite direction as “this is only a 50-minute cruise.” And when I got off, the same water taxi was sitting in the dock and offered me a ride to back to the “main dock,” but I turned them down because I was determined to see the “Country’s Best Riverwalk,” and less then two blocks later, I was back at Market Street.

I approach the slate blue public restrooms when an older in a white tank top cuts me off with his bike blocking the path. “You seen my wife,” he said, determined to keep eye contact with me.

“Um, no. I haven’t seen anybody along this path except for a few joggers.”

“She’s trying to get sum’tin to EAT.”

“Okay, I just said ‘I haven’t seen her.’”

“I’m HOMELESS,” he said frustratedly. “I need you to give me MONEY so I can get my wife sum’tin to EAT! Damn fool.”

“Bless your heart,” I said trying not to look irritated (because insulting me is not going to make me open my wallet), and he shot off into the distance looking for his next vic- the White woman who cut me off near Bijou Park. How did I not think of that before now? *Facepalm*

Anyway, I find a stool along the water and open my Uber app (as, like Sarasota, Lyft isn’t really viable option in this area) and 30 minutes later, I was back at my hotel. My day of “fun” was over, and it wasn’t even 4pm yet…

The exasperating silence of being

I embarrassed myself yesterday, when a Deaf panhandler cornered me coming back from lunch, he came up an inch from my face loudly grunting “NUM NUM. NUM NUUM” while quickly shoveling imagine airy food in his mouth.

He was so close to me I honestly thought one of his gestures was going to hit me in the face. I can’t GO anywhere because he has effectively blocked me in… but I don’t know what the hell is going on or what I’m supposed as I don’t know sign language and I’m ten seconds from a shut down which pisses HIM off more because I’m apparently SUPPOSED to be like:

“Oh, you want money for food? Of course, I instantly understood that without context. Here let me get it out for you. Here take ALL of it. No, no, no. I insist. You DESERVE it. I don’t because, haha, fuck me. Oh, and feel free to corner me and gesture (sign) threateningly an inch from my face next time you need money!! I don’t mind. It’s the least I can do for you.”

I didn’t say that. Instead, I’m trying to figure out some way – ANY way – to get out of this situation, but he has me trapped and my not knowing what or how to communicate with him (I’m not allowed to show frustration here because that makes me an ableist asshole).

I was eventually able to get past him… but I was literally up all night thinking about this. Maybe, it was the pizza I had for lunch…

Whale waylaid at Wal-Mart: Part 1

I’m leaving now for Walmart to return the things that I didn’t WANT to buy but *HAD* to because I lost the argument that I didn’t want to be in about whether I wanted them or not. Yes, I know, it looks strange written out, but here we are…

As many of you know, I don’t have a car. That’s not a huge deal in places like Baltimore, Orlando or even Myrtle Beach. Unfortunately, as my failed trip to Hershey Park last month demonstrated, not all areas are serviced equally – and that lesson hits especially hard in Central Pennsylvania where rideshare is literally NONEXISTENT. I’m fully dependent on the whims of others to get around.

And just like riding with strangers is risky, riding with people you actually know has its drawbacks as well. This is definitely one of them…

One more piece of exposition: My older brother and I are not on the best of terms, BUT he heard I was in the area and invited me, our eldest brother and his family along with our aunt and her BF to his house for an afternoon pool party/cookout while his wife was at a conference in DC. I was planning on going to Allentown anyway during this trip (to go to Dorney Park), but said aunt was like “are you kidding me? Not with gas prices like THIS,” but had no problem accepting this invitation because “he’s your BROTHER. It’s different” (which made me think there may have been an ulterior motive at play here, but, hey, free food).

That was the plan on Monday, by Tuesday it was my SIL hosting since she and the kids (11 and 9) were home for the summer but my oldest brother still had work and my middle brother was shuffling his teens (13, 15 and 17) between their various events. So, a somewhat neutral venue, and my aunt’s boyfriend dropped out to cover his worker’s shift so he could attend a family cookout. Proof that good bosses DO exist.

However, my oldest brother ALSO has a pool (no shade though), but my head isn’t the only part of me that’s “thicc,”so if I was planning to go anywhere near the water, I’d need better than the XL swimsuit I’d brought with me. And where do I get a replacement at 4pm on a Tuesday afternoon?

My aunt agreed to take me to Wal-Mart for ONE ITEM. I repeat ONE ITEM, and then we were going to pick up her boyfriend to go to Knoebels (a fine trip, but it was too late in the day to really take photos – especially since the park closes at 7pm due to staff shortages). As I said in my intro, it was more than one item. A LOT more….

Anyway, first order of business: Find out what size I actually am. She pulls a pair of heavy cotton shorts off the rack, a pair of athletic shorts (because obviously I’m an athlete), a pair of “dress shorts” and a t-shirt and then tells me to “try them on” to see if they fit.

Never mind that none of them are actually swimwear, this was just a “starting point.” No commitment or anything, just a “rough idea of sizing.” Period. Nothing more. Why was I stupid enough to believe that?

Anyway, ever since the accident a few summers ago, I have been having trouble getting dressed and undressed – especially pants and shorts. Heck, it takes me four minutes just to get shoes on. Thankfully, I was wearing sandals (which are slightly easier to put on/take off). Anyway, I barely get the shirt over my armpits and because it’s the middle of July they’re immediately sweat through, then as I’m balancing on one foot trying to get the left foot through the leg hole, I’m nearly knocked to the floor by:

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM

“OPEN UP, RIGHT NOW,” she shouted (as her normal voice could be heard in the next county, but apparently not through an inch of plywood). “I NEED TO SEE IF THEY FIT!”

As much as I wanted that noise to stop, I couldn’t actually go out there until I was fully dressed and she wouldn’t stop banging until she saw the door open.

“So,” she said with her normal voice as I ventured out in my new outfit. “How do they fit?”

“I dunno. Not only did you nearly give a heart attack, I couldn’t concentrate with all the rack-”

“’Concentrate,’” she scoffed. “What the hell is there to ‘concentrate’ on? They’re CLOTHES. They fit or they don’t. Which one is it?”

“The fabric on this shirt is too thin.”

“It’s SUMMER – that’s a good thing, but I asked ‘how it FITS.’”

“I guess. I’m not really a fan of the des-”

“Good. That means you’re getting it. What about the shorts?”

“The fabric is uncomfortable.”

“WHY is it ‘uncomfortable?”

“Because it’s too heavy.”

“Use fabric softener. Duh. That’s literally what it’s for.”

See how helpful she is. I have a problem that I don’t view as a “problem” (because it’s not), and she immediately has a solution for it. She’s basically a human infomercial. 😮

“Now, go back in there, change out of those clothes, and I’ll put them in the cart. Oh,” she said grabbing a ton of hangers from the side of said cart and dumping them into my hands unceremoniously. “And I found a buncha other stuff in your size to try on.”

Great. A bunch of other shirts I have to get all gross and sweaty and thus forced to buy them too.  

So, I didn’t. I quickly took off the wet shirt that was already stuck to my back (okay, so “quickly” is probably the wrong word) and, as expected, by the time I almost had my original shorts back on, she was pounding on the door again. I strapped my sandals back on, grabbed the clothes off the hook and went back outside.

Whale waylaid at Wal-Mart: Part 2

I left the changing room, handed the black, sweat-through shirt to my aunt, telling her to put it in the cart.

“Well, what about the others? How do they fit?

“Well, they’re all the same size. So…”

“Good,” she said snatching them from my hand. “That means you can get them.”

“I don’t want to get them. Especially since you’re going to make me pay for everything myself.”

“I’ve done hundreds of things I ‘don’t wanna do,’” she scoffed. “Besides, they are $8 and $15 each, you aren’t gonna get a better deal anywhere else” (no, the Walton family wasn’t paying her to say that). “So, unless you can give me a REAL reason why, then you have no excuse NOT to buy them.”

Argh. I hate when she does this. No reason is good enough, she just makes me come up with more and more reasons off the top of my head – all of which are instantly shot down (because I have a sensory delay and she doesn’t) until she loses her patience and gets completely “pissed the fuck off” at ME for arguing with HER (whereas, I’m not allowed to show her the slightest tinge of frustration).

And I can’t refuse to play her game because if I try to tell her that “I’m not up to arguing with you about it,” then I have to go through a string of “WHYs” justifying it. Other people have conversations, I get cross-examinations.

Either way, I lose a game I never wanted to play in the first place. However, since I’ve already been drafted into it…

“Fine,” I sighed. “IF I buy all this shit I don’t want with my own money, then I not only have to figure out how to get them INTO my bag, but I’m the one who has to CARRY it all day on Thursday.”

“Is that all you got? Jeez, that’s easy: All you gotta do is put it on a CREDIT CARD, then you go back and you PACK your bag and then you LIFT it. Congratulations! You’re now ‘CARRYING’ your bag. See how easy that is? So, that means you have no argument. Therefore….”

“No. I gave you THREE arguments – which is three more than I need to give you – that you simply dismissed out of hand to get me to buy shit that I don’t want to buy.”

Finally, as expected, she loses her temper completely, staring me coldly in the eye, throwing the items into the cart defiantly and them lunging at me snarling “What are YOU going to DO about it, huh? HUH?”

Oh, don’t worry. There were no witnesses, so she can – and has – claimed it “never actually happened.” Just a realistic hallucination, a bad fever dream or… whatever, the point is she sounds bad therefore I must be “FAKE NEWS!!!”

“Ha, that’s what I fucking thought. Pfft. You ARE getting them. PERIOD. End. Of. Diss. Fucking. Cussion.”

Not quite, she did give me her completely 100% legit, airtight reason why I should buy all this shit: “I’m sick of seeing your fat ass gut hanging out over your shorts. It’s fucking disgusting.”

As I said, inarguable (and totally not a knife twist).

Three feet away from the employee I returned the key to – literally on the opposite side of the partition – was Men’s swimwear. Finally, the one and ONLY thing I can in here for. I find an 2XL yellow and orange one just as my aunt (who seems to have calmed down a bit) finds a red and navy one – which she immediately puts back before picking up a blue camo shorts… that were the exact match for the ones I was wearing, so she quickly put them back.

I don’t have time to try them on since we’re already late for picking up her boyfriend at the shop, so she rushes over to the checkout… just to veer off at the last second to goto Health/Beauty. Wait, what happened to “being late?”

“You need deodorant,” she said coldly (also not a knife twist).

Technically, she was right. Unfortunately, since the accident, I haven’t been able to lift my arms above my shoulders (which means I get both shouted at AND a free “verification pat-down” at the airport for “not lifting my arms above my head”), so it’s something I tend to forget about… except in Summer.

Then, it’s back to the checkout area (for real this time). She goes first, loads her two or three items onto the conveyor belt, and the cashier looks at me expectantly.

“No, no, no,” my aunt told her. “Ring this up. The rest of that shit is HIS and HE’LL pay for it.”

See? I was right. She turned around and made me pay for the items SHE wanted me to buy with my own money that I don’t want to spend because I lost the argument I didn’t want to be in about whether I wanted to buy them or not. Yes, it still looks strange written out.

Then it was off to pick up her boyfriend in town, so I could go to Knoebels. If you’re wondering why I don’t have any photos up, it’s because we got there after 5pm so the majority of that time was spent eating… or waiting to eat (as the restaurants were too busy shutting down to prepare food). I wanted to go the park first and THEN go to Walmart on the way back, but, again, I’m not the one with the car.

As for the “cookout,” the suit fit and the warm water made it easier to move my arms/shoulders. Also, the food was good for what it was, but according to my aunt the whole day was wasted:

“You didn’t talk to your brother once,” she complained on the way back. “The whole point of bringing you up here was to have you talk to him… and you fucking didn’t.”

That’s the second time I was right in this post, but, to be fair, he didn’t talk to me either. As for the clothes, my aunt promised to “take them back” for me on her back from the train station just to pull my duffel and messenger bags out of the trunk… as well as – wait for it – the bags for Walmart.

“Well,” she shrugged, leaving me standing there awkwardly. “It’s your shit. You can take care of it…”

Moving diaries: Ableist Assholes: Part 1

The dispatcher yesterday said that the movers would arrive in a “standard-sized” moving truck – “NOT A SEMI” – anywhere between 1-3pm. So, at 5:23pm as I was nearly asleep on the sofa, I was awakened by a loud “BLERT! BLEEERT!! BLERT!!!” coming from directly outside my balcony.

What’s that semi-truck doing outside on the circle? I just hope that isn’t… so, of course, two seconds later my phone rings.

“Holla,” a male voice said, as if I needed reminding I was still in Florida. “Somas los recogida para Alliance Van Lines.” [poorly reconstructed from Google Translate]

“He said ‘we’re from Alliance Van Lines,’” a second, slightly gruffer voice cut in. “We need you to open the damned gate. We can’t get through.”

Suddenly, I could hear a loud slamming from the other end of the phone and the property manager shouting “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?! THIS IS A-”

“No habla Inglis,” the first guy stated a little too casually — but she was having none of that as she deftly tore into him for several minutes in his native language.

Most likely telling him exactly what I told Alliance’s Sales Agent Sean J. (who assured me they were sending a “smaller truck” to my complex) when I arranged for the move: The internal street was too narrow for a truck of that size and the turns were too sharp to accommodate their turning radius.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a tall, thin man with light brown hair and a blue uniform shirt standing at my door. “Are you Jonathan? Check.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one who confirms my identity?”

“No,” he said looking at me impatiently. “I said ‘check’ as in we can’t start until you give it to us.”

Not the friendliest guy in the world (as that would be the trash hauler from yesterday), but, at least, his priorities are in order. I go into the kitchen, get his check off the counter and give it to him. In return, he shoved some papers in my hand and barks “sign them. We’ll be back in a minute.”

As I’m recovering from that, I can hear a loud “DEE–DEE–DEE” in the parking lot outside my building and see (from the landing outside my door) the tall man guiding his coworker tail first into the handicap space airport style.

They did it. I don’t know how, but they somehow got a semi down Sea Coral Drive!

This was the highlight of the experience with them. Yeah, I may be moving North, but my experience with Alliance Van Lines was about to go south…

Mid-month memes