sensory processing disorder

“Buddy, ya mad psyc elf”

Did that headline make sense to you?

Good, that makes TWO of us. I was thinking of that annoying Will Ferrell movie, but, sadly, it had nothing to do with that abomination.

I was going out to buy milk from the 7-11 catty-corner from my apartment. That was my only intention for this humid fall night – nefarious or otherwise… and, yes, I’ll get to that later in this essay, but first some context…

It was 7:45pm, and, due to the quaint anachronism known as “Daylight Saving Time,” it was practically pitch black out there save for oncoming traffic (which are extra dangerous for me due to my having a 1.5 second processing delay – which can be absolutely deadly as a pedestrian), a couple of flickering/sparsely placed streetlights and the signs on top of the two hotels – plus the aforementioned convenience on the other side of the extremely busy intersection.

That is stressful enough for me under normal conditions (but is far better than being out in the day’s heat), but did I mention that I also had to deal with the deafening noise of a rapidly approaching fire truck with horns blaring and sirens at FULL VOLUME.

I get it – it’s an actual emergency, but it doesn’t have to stop an inch behind me blaring said horns directly into my ears while I’m in the middle of a busy intersection with the pedestrian signal up (it was also the very thing I was trying to avoid so, congrats, mission accomplished).

This caused me to jump 3 feet in the air and freeze temporarily while their sirens were still going and now they were shouting “MOVE YOUR (horn)ING ASS (double horn), YOU (horn)ING RETARDED ASS(horn)!!!”

“Shit. God damnit, that hurts,” I said holding my ears in pain as I tried to continue crossing the street while the fire truck nearly clipped me as it shot off behind me.

“Buddy, up ya mad psycic elf,” this guy in a black and grey hoodie said passing me from behind, I could barely hear over the ringing in my ears.

“HEY, BUDDY,” he said repeating it for me impatiently. “I SAID ‘YOU’RE OFF YOUR MEDS AGAIN, YOU FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!!!’”

That is both helpful and not helpful at the same time – especially since I once again only caught half of it.

“God damnit,” I said stepping onto the sidewalk, “that horn was loud and an inch away from my ear. What the hell is wrong with them? Fu…ow. Seriously.”

“I SAID ‘SHUT UP, YOU ARE A FUCKING LUNATIC! GET IN THERE (pointing to the CVS on the corner), BUY YOUR MEDS AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY TOWN, YOU RETARDED ASSHOLE!!”

That I sort of understood, but as I tried to work it through in my head, I didn’t realize I was repeating everything I was saying out loud.

MASS SHOOTER!”

“MASS SHOOTER?!! WHERE,” I shouted looking around frantically for a place to hide. Of course, there wasn’t so much as a bush in a 100-foot radius, so I looked like a madman to 100s of oncoming cars.

YOU ARE,” he said flipping me off as he finally disappearing somewhere into the darkness.  “YOU GOD-DAMNED RETARDED LUNATIC!”

Sure, he was gone… but what if he came back later in my trip? I wondered as I continued to walk towards my destination, my body still shaking as I entered the convenience store, but, hey, at least, my hearing was starting to come back…

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Categories: adventures, Advocacy\volunteer, Autism, florida, Orlando, sensory processing disorder, Williamsburg | Leave a comment

Autism with a second side of… something

I was having a rather dull dinner with my mom and her friends in a restaurant I’d never been to before. As we sit down, my mom points out that they have “mozzarella sticks” here (because I apparently can’t read menus on my own) and how terrible the ones we had the night before were.

As I’m looking over the underwhelming menu, a harried waitress comes up from one side of the table and a woman I’d never seen before comes up the other: “Oh, hi, Liz.” “Linda, hi, wonder seeing you here, how are…”

JONATHAN,” my mom’s friend Barb shouted to get my attention and successfully scaring the living crap out of me. “YOUR turn to order!”

“JONATHAN,” my mom snapped at me for dropping my phone on the table. “That is completely unnecessary! Just tell her what you want to drink and be done with it.”

So, now, I’ve got my mom, her friends, the waitress and half the restaurant staring at me. No pressure.

“We’s got Coke, Diet Coke, Ginga-hale…”

“Water,” I replied only hearing the first three.

“All this shit,” my mom said exasperatedly, “and you’re ordering WATER? Jesus-fucking-God. Anyway, Linda, did you hear about…”

“What ’bout you, ma’am?”

“Um, water with lemon… Wait, Jonathan, you said wanted the mozzarella sticks.”

“Um, no, you asked me about them.”

“So, he wan’s the mozza sticks,” the waitress asked from three tables away.

“No”

“JONATHAN, do you want the mozzarella sticks or not?”

“NO”

“Yes, he does. Thank you.”

Wait, WHAT? I literally just said “no” three times.

“Okay, I’ll put d’em in with ya order.”

A few minutes later, she returns with Barb’s soda, my water and my mom’s water with lemon, and immediately proceeds to take our orders. It’s now, 45 seconds before I’m expected to make my order, that Barb points out that there is a “special board” behind me that I missed before I sat down. Mom is still talking to that lady so, congratulations, it’s bumped up to about 35 seconds.

“Honey dipt [sic] chicken with fries”

“Fries, coleslaw, side salad, apple sauce, corn, lima beans…”

“I said ‘fries.’”

“I know d’at, but ya need a SECOND side.”

“Why? I don’t need a ‘second side.’”

“Ya meal comes wit a second side.”

“And I’m telling you, I don’t want a ‘second side.’”

Why is this so hard to understand?

“So, ya want TWO plates of fries?”

“No, I want one plate of fries. I’m telling you I don’t wa-”

“Give him apple sauce and be done with it.”

“And you ma’am?”

“Um, yeah… I’ll have… um, I’ll have… whatever he’s having, but with lima beans instead of apple sauce.”

Then Barb starts on some meandering story about a feud she was having with one of her neighbors who had allegedly called cops the on her “out of spite – TWICE.” The kind of story that was extremely hard to follow unless you knew what was going on (who they were, what happened and how did it escalate so far). She gets about 2/3 of the way through her story when the waitress unceremoniously plops a plate of bland looking mozzarella sticks in front of me.

“Here ya go, buddy. Enjoy.”

What the fuck is this? When I order it? What am I supposed to do with them, and, more importantly, who the fuck is “buddy?”

“Jonathan,” my mom asked. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you eating the mozzarella sticks you ordered?”

“I didn’t order them.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t want them, and I still don’t.”

“Then why the hell did you order them?”

“I DIDN’T. YOU did because YOU wanted to know if they were ‘any better than the ones we had last night.’”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just eat the damned things.”

So, basically, I’m now forced to eat bland mozzarella sticks I don’t want and didn’t order because I did order them and do want to eat them solely to satiate my mother’s mild curiosity. Neuro-typical logic at it’s finest, folks.

After a long tangent about how much money she’s make “inventing a phone [cord] that don’t get all tangled like the ones we got at work” (man, she’ll be disappointed to find out cordless phones have been around since at least 2001 – if not earlier), she finally gets back to repeating the second half of her story for us. I still have no idea what’s going on other than this neighbor lady is (allegedly) “psycho” or something, and worse, nothing was going on on Facebook or Messenger and I had zero new e-mails.

An excruciatingly long time later, the waitress returns and once again plops our food down with the enthusiasm of an abnormally excited rock. Barb got the fish with corn. My mom got fried chicken with fries and lima beans, and I got fried chicken with fries…and a humongous bowl of apple sauce.

Once again, I have no clue who’s eating it, but, my god, that’s a LOT of apple sauce. Meanwhile, the lukewarm fries were undercooked, but the chicken was actually pretty good.

By the time we were ready to leave, it was already 7pm. Mom wanted to get some ice cream t Mauer’s a few blocks away on Market Street, but one of the ladies loitering on the porch of the building next door rather curtly informed me was “closed” (no details, just “closed”). In the car, I made the mistake of asking what Barb’s rambling neighbor story was about.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” my mom replied.

“What was Barb’s problem with her neighbor and the police coming to her house?”

“Who’s house? What neighbor? Who’s calling the police for what? I have no clue what you’re asking.”

“Augh, that’s what I just asked YOU. Essentially, you want me to know the answers to the questions I just asked you so you can repeat the answers back to me in which case I wouldn’t need to ask them to you in the first place”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ, Jonathan, what the fuck are you talking about? God, ‘houses,’ ‘neighbors,’ ‘police?’ I have no clue what the hell you’re even talking about?”

“What the hell was Barb talking about in her long rambling story about having her neighbor call the police on her twice in the past week?”

“Thank you, Jesus, THAT I understood. It wasn’t a ‘neighbor,’ she was renting a property she owned out as apartments, and the current tenant was three months behind in her rent so Barb was forced to evict her, but she refused to leave so…”

Bo ring. See? I knew asking was a mistake.

Now that I’ve “stressed [her] out,” she decides to go to Weis to pick up a gallon box of ice cream leaving me in the car as she shops. It’s not much, but it’s a break…

Categories: adventures, Autism, coal region, family, Pennsylvania, sensory processing disorder | Leave a comment

Norfolk: Day 4 – Portsmouth and other disappointments

It’s just after 10am, and I am standing on the dock outside the newly renovated Waterside Marketplace waiting for the ferry to cross the Elizabeth River to Portsmouth. The weather app on my phone says its 65 degrees and cloudy, but the chilly ocean wind makes it feel colder than that.

The small paddleboat arrived around 10 past the hour, it dropped off about a half dozen people and let the three of us who were waiting on dock onboard. The inside had a rusted floor with benches along the sides. Apparently, there were more benches in the center of the boat at one point, but they were removed, possibly to make room for the three beaten up fare boxes. The bench wasn’t all that comfortable, but it didn’t matter since it was only a 10 minute ride across the river to High Street landing.

Portsmouth is a charming, quiet town that kind of reminded me of a cross between Federal Hill and Fells Point. Unfortunately for me, I was visiting on a Thursday morning so nearly everything was closed: The Naval Shipbuilding Museum (for refurbishment until “early 2017”), The Lightship Portsmouth (open weekends only), Virginia Sports Museum (permanently closed) and a half dozen “historic homes” (also open weekends only).

That left the Arts & Culture Center (which was “between exhibitions”), the Virginia Children’s Museum, the TCC (Tidewater Community College) Gallery and the exteriors of various buildings. Oh, and I could purchase cheap looking, neon colored t-shirts at the visitor’s center which is coincidentally where I had to go anyway to get the ferry back to Norfolk – and it was only 12:30 (it would have been noon if I hadn’t stopped for lunch at Jimmy Johns on High Street).

I arrived back at downtown Norfolk around 1:25 where it was a balmy 69 degrees with partly cloudy skies, and I was nowhere near ready to pack it in for the day so I walked over to Nauticus (though most of the parks were closed off due to construction of the various tents for next week’s Harborfest). I walked up the ticket counter and the somewhat disinterested cashier sold me a normal base ticket for $15 (included a movie and a limited tour of the attached battleship). I couldn’t decide if I wanted a snack or to just upstairs to see the exhibits on the 3rd floor first so I chose the latter.

The museum itself is hard to quantify. It has some exhibits that are geared towards kids (like the entry on port Norfolk, the touch a shark tank or the small “aquarium” area – which makes the former National Aquarium in DC look HUGE by comparison), but the majority of the labyrinthine museum space is ship life, Naval history, Naval recruiting and the nearby Naval base – not many of which would be of interest to the 3-12 set.

The exhibits are small, superficial and dated with broken or worn out “interactives” and little to no flow between the tightly packed exhibits – which you can’t really skip as there is only ONE path through the exhibit area (as I found out when one of the barely crowded rooms was too noisy for my tastes). The only place in the gallery that wasn’t claustrophobically small was the end where the theater, the NOAA exhibit and the stairway to the actual Hampton Roads Naval Museum\walkway to the USS Wisconsin (which were both on the second level). Though I didn’t partake in either this time as I fell asleep in the 3d movie and took that as a cue to head back to the hotel… at 3pm in the afternoon.

Not yet, first I stopped into their gift shop (my favorite part of their museum), and then I went into their café next door… but they were closed so I looked around thinking I might be able to take some snacks back to the room with me. Then a black man in black shirt hauling a large trash can behind him comes up behind me:

“Ya know,” he said. “We got a full menu.”

“Yeah, thanks, but it’s closed. There’s no-one back there.”

“What was that? I said look up there. We got a full menu up there,” he said pointing up to the large black and white sign hanging from the ceiling that I’d have to be blind to miss (I couldn’t read it with my crappy vision, but I couldn’t miss it when I came in).

“And it doesn’t do me any good if it’s CLOSED because there is NO-ONE back there.”

“’No-one back there?’ I work the café. I’D be the one ringing you up. Now, if you want to order something. Order it.”

With that said, I immediately turned around and decided to get dinner in the hotel and then get a start on my packing. It’s going to be another long day of traveling tomorrow – and my toes aren’t even remotely healed yet…

Categories: adventures, Advocacy\volunteer, Autism, entertainment, ferry, museums, Norfolk, sensory processing disorder, transportation, Virginia | Leave a comment

Photo: The power of “awareness”

Categories: Advocacy\volunteer, Autism, cartoons\memes, sensory processing disorder | Leave a comment

Photo: Please be understanding

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Transit troubles

Note: These are some actual updates from my Facebook page of the same name about my day going to\getting back from seeing the new exhibit at Orlando Science Center (a traveling one at that). Some of said stats have been edited to fit a more detailed narrative timeline.

 

10:56am – Chased out of the apartment by the obnoxious noise the landscape crew was making with their mowers and whackers. I got everything together to go out… just in time to see them packing up as well. Maybe a little adventure will give this headache a chance to go away…

11:35am – Disembarked at Lynx Central Station and immediately traded my transfer pass for a Sunrail card as I figured (wrongly as it turned out) that an 11-minute train ride would be easier than a 25 minute bus ride… or it would have been except the last morning train left six minutes ago…and “mid-day” trains come at TWO HOUR INTERVALS?

11:55am – I am strongly considering opening my Lyft app and requesting a fricken ride. The only problem is the battery on my phone is running out so I shut it down for the remainder of the afternoon to conserve power.

12:25pm – I am hungry, and decide to go into the actual station itself to get something to eat. It turns out, the building itself is pretty bare bones with restrooms (complete with not-at-all-creepy “these restrooms are being monitored…” sign #eww), vending machines and a rack of schedules across from the entrance (which was closed due to maintenance).

12:47pm – I just finished lunch at their tiny in-station café. No menu, no tables and the cashier tried to rip me off, but it filled 15 minutes so whatever. Yeah, meanwhile, I am sitting here realizing how noisy it is out here: birds, buses coming\going, station announcements and guys with leaf blowers (because someone hates me today).

-1:13pm – Only fifteen minutes to go. ^_^

-1:28pm – After watching two Amtrak and one southbound Sunrail train zoom past me, the Northbound train to Orlando Health finally arrives.

-3:38pm – On my way back from Orlando science center. I was there to see their temporary exhibit #AstronautOSC. I haven’t decided if it is worth writing a review of or not. I like space stuff, but this exhibition was kind of #meh.

-5:04pm – Got on at the wrong bus at the transfer so the driver rudely threw me off at the last stop. He did begrudgingly let me back on 15 minutes later with a condescending lecture about it being “YOUR responsibility to make sure you get on the right bus.”

Sorry, I keep forgetting I CHOSE to have a brand-new car totaled by a teenager I never saw coming. The best part, the state rewarded my pain and suffering by revoking MY license forcing me to deal with assholes like this. 😡

-5:21pm – Thanks to that blunder, I arrived at The Florida Mall about 40 minutes later than I planned. I have less than 20 minutes to get dinner on the opposite side of the mall before my transfer pass expires (as he refused to issue me a new one). Fortunately, it’s a food court, so it shouldn’t be too hard.

6:20pm – On my way back now, I had to use my last remaining ones as my transfer pass expired just as I was leaving the food court… but I still haven’t decided if I’m doing a full write-up my visit to OSC. Fortunately, I have just over a half-hour to make up my mind…

Categories: adventures, Autism, florida, LYNX bus, Orlando, sensory processing disorder, Sunrail, transportation | Leave a comment

Valuable information

Great news – the receptionist said the insurance company declined my doctor’s visit this afternoon. You know what it means when the doctor can’t help you: I’M CURED…or not. The truth was, I had zero interest in or need to see said doctor – especially on such a cold, miserable and rainy day.

In fact, I spent the entire morning on the phone with the insurance company making sure I wasn’t wasting my time going out to this appointment and then calling the primary physician to confirm it with their office to recall the insurance company… and at that point I was going through with this regardless.

Keep in mind, I can’t just hop in a car and drive there. Unfortunately, I had to anyway just so the driver can literally pass right by me without stopping and report me to the app as a no-show. I was literally exactly where I said I was standing, and with waiting for a new driver (who the app assigned 5-stars on my behalf) very nearly made me late for my appointment.

To be fair, it wasn’t his fault I was an hour late leaving the apartment for my errands. For instance, I couldn’t find the deposit slips for the bank, and the line inside was at probably 15-20 minutes so I had to use the ATM outside which worked reasonably well and got me on my way relatively quickly. I had a disgusting lunch, checked the times for the trolley to Sand Lake Road and opened my transportation app. I already gave you the non-story there so I’ll just say that I arrived with less than six minutes to spare before my appointment.

“New or returning patient,” the receptionist said barely looking up as I entered. I couldn’t tell if the receptionist was bored, uninterested or both. “Here, give me your insurance card and fill these forms out. You’re lucky we aren’t busy right now, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to help you” (an ironic bit of foreshadowing).

As I said above, I have no “need” to see this doctor and filling out the four page packet made that painfully clear to even the most uninterested reader (seriously, it’s like that nurse when I had my EKG in October said “if you aren’t having heart trouble, why the hell are you getting an EKG?” “I don’t know. I didn’t schedule it.”)

Finally, after 45 minutes, she calls “Mr. Twaaaygeer” up to the counter and tells him that he will not be seeing a doctor today. He, sorry I lack permission from the insurance company because I lack a Primary Care Physician – “You’re supposed ‘Primary’ has never heard of you, and your last visit there was with a Nurse Prac back in OCTOBER and the doctor who sent you down here doesn’t count – only a PRIMARY can make a referral. You need to make sure you get all your things in order BEFORE you make an appointment!”

“Thanks for the lecture. I wasn’t the one who made this appointment, the doctor I saw earlier this month did. I knew this was a huge waste of time. Congratulations, I’ve just proven RIGHT!”

“No, you haven’t. You have gained valuable information and now have explicit instructions on EXACTLY what you have to do to move forward with your care. See your primary, get a referral THEN come back, we’ll save the paperwork you just gave me to your file. Have a nice day, and we look forward to seeing you again, Mr. Twaaaygeer.”

Disappointed AND humiliated – burn! But, hey, at least, she cares what kind of day I’m having, even if its in the least sincere tone possible.

It’s just over a half-mile from the hospital to the Dunkin Donuts on Sand Lake Road where I usually stop on my way back from appointments like this as it’s roughly halfway between the hospital and the trolley stop I need to take back to the apartment. It’s a long walk (“35 minutes” according to Google Maps), and I spent the duration of it trying to convince myself I was in a better mood than I obviously was, and when I got to the plaza it was in, I stopped in front of a menu board on the sidewalk contemplating if I should take a sandwich home for dinner (as it was already after 4pm) when I hear:

“Hi, I’d like to talk to you about investing with Primerica!”

Great, as if I wasn’t already feeling bad enough, he effectively has me cornered. He’s standing less than a foot away from me and making direct eye contact with me so I can’t escape. He’s caught me looking at the menu board so I can’t say I “don’t have time” and, frankly I have ZEROS excuses to give him on why I can’t listen to his sales pitch. Literally none are coming to my head – I love when I do that. I need my brain to work, and it doesn’t.

Yep, once again, my “flight” response is triggered with no escape routes (why can’t it ever kick in when there IS one) so my brain just shuts down instead. It’s a perfect defense mechanism as it leaves me utter defenseless. When I finally get away, I’m too anxious to order coffee (what if he’s waiting outside the store?) which I guess is good as coffee\donuts are bad for me.

I continue on Sand Lake Road to the trolley stop on I-Drive. The rain has mostly stopped, but the sky is still dark and cloudy making it feel later it really was (the relatively cold wind wasn’t helping). Fortunately, said trolley arrived within three minutes of me arriving at the stop.

I decide maybe getting some food would make me feel better so I hopped off the trolley near a chain restaurant and proceeded to prove my theory wrong. I also used my return fare for the trolley so I had to take the balance out of my server’s tip (which I really didn’t want to do). At least, I have lunch for tomorrow.

I leave the restaurant to find the last vestiges of sunlight burning in my eyes. It was a hopeful sign (kind of like a blindingly bright rainbow), and I hope it foretells good days to come… as the rain is coming down again as I’m typing this.

Categories: adventures, Autism, florida, Health, healthcare, insurance, Orlando, sensory processing disorder, Williamsburg | Leave a comment

Friday morning ranting

I was going to post today about an underpaid cashier outright refusing to help me, and while I’m told that “writing is therapeutic” and such, the truth is it only makes me feel more angry and frustrated which is why it generally takes me 2-3 days to write a post like that and once it’s posted the world has a record of me looking like an asshole.

Yep, that’s the way it works: someone does something to me, I get mad and my brain conveniently kicks into LOW gear when the person I’m forced to argue with has their adrenaline kicking in which means I’m forced to work twice as hard to come up with things to say in real time so I don’t look like an idiot when I know full well I’m going to sound far worse and then, helpfully enough, come up with a litany of things to say after the fact.

Trust me, if the people I deal with think I’m “exasperating,” they should try having that happen to them every time they go out and then coming back and writing about it. It’s fun – especially when I once again realize that “hey, I’m the villain on my own blog – again.”

It’s depressing, like when my so-called friend from Chicago said I “wasn’t smart enough” to be an Aspie and a few months later I see a chart on “Brian’s Asperger’s Advocacy” page on Facebook about “the differences between ASD and Asperger’s.” Guess who got 5/5 in the “ASD” column and 1/5 on the “Asperger’s” column? Is it a definitive diagnosis? No, is it still depressing? Yes, given the erroneous statement at the top of this paragraph – remember he IS an Aspie… and I’m apparently not. Remember, “there is no greater authority on Autism than someone WITH Autism.”

That’s enough for today. My brain woke me up at 6:45 this morning insisting I tell you all this. Maybe now it’ll let me get back to sleep…or just replay all the crappy things that have happened in the past six months. As tired as I am, I strongly suspect the latter…

Categories: Advocacy\volunteer, Autism, Chicago, Illinois, sensory processing disorder | Leave a comment

Running out of Ikeas

Woke up, checked out of Saratoga Springs, and my mom drive me to Costco on Waterbridge Boulevard…just to find out that it’s a “Business Costco” now and doesn’t carry food (“except,” as their greeter pointed out, “for restaurant, food truck or vending machine routes” – none of which do ME any good).

I told her that we should’ve gone back to the condo and dropped off my luggage first so we had space to put stuff in, but nooo “oh, what are you talking about?” (waving towards the full trunk with both of our luggage in it).

“I’m talking about the fact that there is no more room back there for groceries and whatever else you end up getting.”

“There is PLENTY of room for stuff in this car. Now just get in the car, we still have to check out and find this Costco.”

Apparently, a 2015 Honda Civic and a 2009 Chrysler Town & Country have the exact same storage capacity. How did I not know that?

Come out of the store nearly an hour later and – surprise – there’s no room in the trunk so we have to cram everything into the back seat so it doesn’t fall over or roll under the front seat. Once again, it’s my turn to “navigate.”

Get back to the apartment, unload the car, mom opens my freezer and declares: “Oh my God, it’s EMPTY. Get in the car, I am taking you to a ‘real’ Costco, and we’re not coming back until you fill this fridge up…”

I get in her rental car, buckle my seat belt (safety first) and as soon as she gets in the car she asks:

“I’m starving. Where’s a restaurant we can eat at?”

“You mean like the immediate area, on I-Drive or near the mall?”

“The mall – and it has to be something GOOD. I don’t care where we go, but no fast food or food courts – I want a REAL meal.”

I’ve been to the Mall at Millennia exactly three times so I’m obviously an expert on this. Did I mention, it’s 2:38 in the afternoon?

“Let’s see there’s a Cheesesteak Factory inside the mall.”

“Eh, no.”

“There’s also a Johnny Rockets.”

“I said ‘no fast food.’ Maybe, I’ll just get meatballs at Ikea…”

Ikea? I thought this was a FOOD run.

“Oh, yeah,” she continued. “That means you have 8 minutes to figure out which furniture you want.”

I don’t recall even asking for furniture. Oh right, SHE said I “need” a “pull out sofa” for my “guest room.” I lived in Baltimore for SIX YEARS without one, and not one of my zero “guests” complained about it.

So we go up the stairs to the café, and walk around the side to the entrance just to find out that side is “closed” and we pretty have to go all the back around. I look at the menu hanging behind them, I want the Swedish meatballs, but not the mashed potatoes as a side (so I never liked mashed potatoes, sue me). I ask the young woman behind the counter if the sides are “set” and before I can ask the second part of the question she answers “yes.”

Not happy with her answer but faced with no other choice, I order a bland chicken tender meal (which is apparently part of their “Kid’s menu,” but that doesn’t make me feel better about it). I had to wait for a new batch so at least it was hot, and as I picked up my tray, I saw a sign advertising different sides for your meal.

After finishing our meal and bussing our own table (not sure why that surprised me), mom circles around the cashier lines and heads towards the exit to the showroom. She walks ten feet into said showroom, looks around bewilderedly saying:

“What the…? Why are we in the Children’s section? Why is this arrow pointing away from the furniture?”

“Because this is the ‘exit,’ the ‘entrance’ is back that way.”

“No, it’s not. That’s the way we came in.”

“I know.”

“Fine, you lead,” she said shoving the cart towards me exasperatedly.

Somehow, I suspect that was goal from the onset.

Anyway, Ikea sofas come in three styles: Ugly, uncomfortable or both. Oh, and you can choose any of a half dozen garish slip covers to make it look like a Swedish hipster threw up all over your living room.

I wasn’t sure if I should tell this part or not. I’m not even sure HOW to tell this part…but I’ll start by saying that Ikea is a big store with rows and rows of every unpronounceable furniture and textiles running along both sides of their bright white corridors.

As much as I tried to focus on JUST sofas or just TV stands, it was just too much of too much. Hundreds of sofa, loveseats, futons, and chaises sometimes rows of them hanging on the wall. Suddenly my mom appeared directly behind me and asked me if I decided on a new sofa yet.

“No”

“What do mean ‘no?’ You’ve been farting around in here for the past twenty minutes.”

“I mean ‘no,’” I said. My voice broke. It’s a reaction to stress, and I do anything to avoid that happening in public so of course my mom alleviates it the only way she knows how:

“What the hell is WRONG with you? Why the fuck are you talking like that? God, do you know how embarrassing that is?”

No, why don’t you draw attention to it so all the other shoppers can stare at me too. Not like that would make the situation harder – especially since she refuses to take a squeaky “I don’t know” as a serious answer.

“You CHOSE to talk like…um, whatever the hell THAT is, for a REASON. That means you can chose to STOP doing it.”

Um, no. The only way to “stop” talking like that is to keep talking until my body or brain or whatever is in charge of that sort of thing decides to sort it out. Yelling at me in public over it does not move it along any faster.

Finally, she throws her hands up in the air and storms off exasperatedly. After a minute or two of chattering to myself my voice returned to “normal” (which I’m told is like that of a GIRL 25 years my junior).

It was already after 4pm when we left Ikea. Fortunately, the next stop was only a five-minute drive away. Even better – it was a “real” Costco. Aside from a medical-office sized cup of some bland so- I mean “Sparkling Water” and a cracker with salmon dip – there was nothing remarkable about the experience.

We leave the second Costco, and it’s pitch black and raining. Just as well, I wasn’t planning on going to the parks tonight anyway…

Categories: adventures, Autism, family, florida, holidays, Orlando, sensory processing disorder | 1 Comment

Photo: More of this, please

texas_mosque_primary

Categories: Advocacy\volunteer, Autism, Gay rights, photography, protests, sensory processing disorder | Leave a comment

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