Wisdom of the Apple Pie

People often look for validation in random occurrences around them. From horoscopes to signs of God in grilled cheese sandwiches, it seems that everyone can find some sort of wisdom, meaning or symbolism in their lives if they look hard enough.

Such wisdom came to us one bright Saturday morning...in the form of an apple pie box.

On this eventful day, we had stopped at the Whataburger drive-thru for lunch and decided to eat in the car. My mother-in-law, packed in with the kids in the backseat of our midsize,
ordered a meal and a fried apple pie (the kind that comes in an orange striped cardboard container).

When everyone was settled and satisfied, we pulled out onto the road. I returned to my book, Very Nice Ways to Say Very Bad Things: An Unusual Book of Euphemisms. Sometime later, I found a humorous Mark Twain quote about nudity. Delighted with the tidbit, I proceeded to recite the quote aloud.

My mother-in-law, now almost done with her meal, leaned forward in her seat. "Did that come from the apple pie?" she asked.

It took me a moment to respond. "What do you mean?"

"Was that written on your apple pie box?" she clarified.

She apparently didn't notice the book propped in my hand. Not entirely sure of the question's direction, I furrowed my brow and told her that I didn't order one.

Whether it was disappointment or relief that reflected in her voice, I don't know. Her verbatim response to me was, "Oh. I just thought it was on yours, because I have one on mine. It says, 'When I am empty, please dispose of me properly'."

Have you ever experienced one of those moments where time seems to stop? If you listen, I'm sure you could even hear a flea sneeze in the utter silence of those frozen moments. When my brain finally caught up to the conversation, my eyes strayed toward my husband's. Our gazes met halfway and neither of us could move.

When finally, the moment of enlightenment passed, the taunting urge to roar with laughter had been subdued and we regained our senses, my husband and I came to terms with the knowledge that had been passed to us. No fortune cookie or Master Po lesson has ever granted us so much wisdom as that inherent in the apple pie box. (Note to literalists: this is dripping with sarcasm)

So here, I share with you the wisdom of the apple pie: When I am empty, please dispose of me properly.

I will never again look at another apple pie box in the same way.

Ironic FAIL

I was on failblog.org when my son came out from his bedroom. He said, "I've been banging my clock over and over trying to get it to work, but it won't work when I bang it."

All I could do was look at him and say, "FAIL!"

I love irony.

Bringing Up MIL

Although I gave birth to two children, I inherited another one in the form of my mother-in-law. When I say she's a “child” I'm not spouting off the typical in-law rants that are so common and stereotyped. She is, quite literally, a child in mentality. When I once suggested that she probably functions at a mental age of 13, our autism specialist shook her head and said, “More like 10-11.”

It wasn't necessarily my choice to take in a person who drives me crazy, who presses my every Aspie button, but what other choice was there? She was being kicked out of Assisted Living with nowhere else to go. We were, by default, her saviors. Whether we liked it or not, here she came.

It was pretty obvious from the day I met MIL that she was a bit odd (to say the least). For starters, her house was something along the lines of a landfill, and I make no exaggeration there. Trash was piled so high in her dining room that the table underneath was not visible and I never knew there was a large window behind it! The upstairs bedrooms were empty and unused, as you could not get back to the stairs. The one time I was up there, I shuddered to find that the cats used the floor as a toilet and you couldn't walk without stepping on dried turds.

As for the downstairs bedrooms, they were likewise plagued with newspapers, empty Hardees cups and broken mop handles that littered the floor, over a foot deep. If there was carpeting underneath, I don't know, as it was not visible for the mounds of garbage. MIL washed all the dishes in the bathtub, as her kitchen sink was piled with crusted plates and cups that hadn't seen water in five years. Apples lay rotting. Mice would scatter when you'd walk. If you knelt down on the floor, your knee would become coated in a black oily substance that I'm not even sure the CDC could identify. Thick, dusty filth was caked on every surface. There was no place to sit, for the couch was entirely stacked with junk.

I could write a novel on her home, but I'll spare you further disgusting details. Suffice it to say, she is the definition of "trash hoarder." I won't even talk of the stench.

After introducing herself, MIL proceeded to tell me in proud detail about the expansive size of her husband's (achem) member. In my mind, I was trying to decide if this woman was for real. I'm not always good at determining when someone is joking with me, so I was suspicious that I was on Candid Camera and kept an eye open for any hidden cameras.

Totally spent after a day of socializing with this odd lady, I retired for the evening. The lights had not worked in the bedroom for years--wires exposed to the elements—so I stumbled to the bed with a flashlight. I then realized that the sheet had not been washed. Maybe ever. The maroon hue was faded to mauve through the cat hair that covered it, and a dried hairball graced the spot next to the worn pillow. I “slept in” very late the next day. Of course, I wasn't really asleep. I was simply laying very still, trying not to touch anything, in hopes of avoiding her for as long as humanly possible.

That was my first experience with the woman who was to become my mother-in-law. Over the years, her eccentricity (such that puts mine to shame) came bubbling out ever so obviously. We would visit once a month and I always wondered why my husband would concern himself with a newspaper for the duration of the three hour visit. It left me to “deal” with the socializing, and I'm not one for “dealing” with socializing. Our visits left me drained and spent.

I remember one Thanksgiving she served us a raw, frozen pumpkin pie. She didn't know you had to bake it. I don't know how she mustered the strength to cut into it, for my fork made no dent in the hardened slice. One 4^th of July, she left us waiting for an hour in the parking lot where we were scheduled to meet her. She had arrived early and decided to go on to the picnic site and expected that we could read her mind. Oh, the frustrations I could write of...

I suppose it's hypocritical of me: an Aspie writing about the frustrations of another Aspie. Surely there are people that find me just as eccentric as I find my MIL. The heart of my frustrations, however, relate to her lack of awareness and functionality. As our autism specialist has said, “It's amazing that this woman has not only raised a family, but survived to her senior years!”

As the functional head of the family, it falls on me to be the caretaker. My husband suffers from Ostrich Head Syndrome—whereby he quickly sticks his head in the sand to avoid whatever bothers him (namely, his mother). For years, the newspaper was his sand. Now, whenever his mother is around, it's the computer. It falls on me to deal with her, as usual, although I'd love to stick my own head in the sand next to him. She's there chattering incessantly, so someone has to deal with her.

How do I cope? I suppose it's my sense of humor that gets me through the day. I tend to find humor in everything, whether it exists or not. It is this reason that has compelled me to keep a collection of the funny things MIL says. I keep one for my children, as well. Sadly, they will one day appreciate the inherent hilarity in their comments, where MIL never will.

Here's the latest conversation worthy of recording.

MIL: I just can't get over that coloring book! It's amazing what they can do these days. Can you believe it?
Me: What do you mean?
MIL: His coloring book! I just can't get over it.
Me: Why...? It's just a regular coloring book...
MIL: No, that you can color with the stickers!
Me: Huh? (blinks stupidly) How do you do that?
MIL: Well, I don't know. (opens to the stickers in the middle) I guess you take them and rub them on the page. (demonstrates the act of peeling off a sticker and rubbing it on the page)
Me: (blinks stupidly) What makes you think you color with stickers? (trying to wrap my brain around the concept)
MIL: Cuz that's what it SAID to do! (defensively)
Me: It said you 'color with the stickers'?
MIL: Yes! It said that. (peels off a corner to discover it's just a regular sticker) Well... (hesitates)
Me: Where did it say that?
MIL: Well, I don't know. I read it somewhere. (flips the book over, trying to find the 'instructions')
Me: Sweetie, it's just a coloring book, and I can't imagine how you would use stickers to color it. They stick, they don't produce color. It probably said "decorate" the page with stickers.
MIL: Yeah, maybe. Or maybe it meant you have to cut the stickers up and put them in the lines for the color... (demonstrates cutting the dinosaur stickers and making a mosaic inside the picture)
Me: (stares at the page dumbly, trying to figure her out)

Later that night I noticed across the top of the coloring book it says: The Best Big Book to color With Stickers

Yup. She was right. It said "...color With Stickers." And here I thought I was a literal person!

Getting Started

Recently, many people have said I should start a blog about my life in a family of autistic people. I always agree and plan to start, but the over-organizer in my head tries to complicate the process. It's not like I'm writing a book, I tell myself, but I get so bogged down in the details that I might as well be.

I've decided that I will no longer bog myself down. I'm going to write whatever hits my fancy at the moment. A blog, after all, is more like a journal than a book, and should be addressed that way. I'm trying to supress the urge to organize it into sections, chapters and themes. I'll just write, uninhibited.

So, first let me introduce myself and tell you WHY you should even bother reading my ramblings to begin with.

At first glance, I can look very "normal" (I won't even go into the whole "what is normal thing"). Stay-at-home mother of two, scrapbooker who enjoys reading and hiking. Looking beyond the superficial, however, my life is anything but normal, or so I'm told.

My husband and son are both diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, a high functioning form of autism. Our autism specialist believes I am an "Aspie", as well, but she agrees it's not worth the high cost of pursuing a diagnosis for me. We all know what I am and I don't need a piece of paper to prove it. When my Also-Aspie mother-in-law moved in with us almost two years ago, that made four of us (spanning 3 generations) under the same roof, out of five members. I only hope we don't drive my poor NT daughter crazy!

As for the REAL me, I am a homeschooling mom who loves science, anime, manga, scifi, fantasy novels, Japanese language and RPG video games. When meeting new people, I'm careful to limit my self-description to the former "normal" one, as the latter always forces raised eyebrows. Ever faking who I am to appeal to the NT population. I'm quite good at that...a pro, really. Putting up a mask is so instinctive, I have no idea how to take it down. My husband was the first and only person who has ever seen the "me" behind the mask. Not even my blood family can make that claim. I am as superficial to them as an oil slick upon the water. Touching and mingling, but never blending.

I believe that Aspies can be happy in their marriages and live full, productive lives. My husband and I are proof of that. We are living our Happily Ever After, and while I can't show you how, I can share our adventure.