Odd Family Portrait

Scott had a tremendously painful, spontaneous-onset headache last month. The headache subsided without incident, as far as we know. I wasn't on the island, and even though we spoke on the phone that evening, he didn't feel it was important enough to let me know about it until the next day.

An Aspergers' trait that Scott has, is thinking that I somehow hear his phone conversations (both sides), read his emails (both sent and received) and hear his thoughts, especially if I need to or should know about the information involved. It's not a paranoid thing, as Scott is so blantantly (sometimes brutally) honest that it wouldn't concern him in the least if I had complete access to those things. There's utility in his belief that we share instantaneous data transfer, in that it conveniently removes him from the responsibility of having to relay any information. He's certain I received it when he did. For someone who poo-poos the notion of telepathy, I'm not quite sure how he thinks that works.

It often doesn't occur to "Aspies" to share or relate certain information and/or experiences, though Scott frequently does (especially if he's moved by something he's read or a movie he's seen). There can be a problem with what information Scott doesn't think to pass along. Things like, "We have a family of four coming for dinner in ten minutes." He thinks I already know because it was a phone conversation he had yesterday. They show up, he sees the confusion in my face and asks, "Didn't you know?"

As someone who's refrigerator is tailored to a man who doesn't eat leftovers or frozen foods, and whose primary diet is lattes, tabbouleh, pasta, French toast and waffles, I need more notice than "none" to whip up a meal for guests.

So, back to his headache. A friend phoned him in the middle of it and he mentioned it. The friend thought it was unusual and insisted that he should go get a CT Scan at the local medical center, which he did. The results didn't show any blatant danger, and ultimately came back normal. (Really? Because that is just so surprising! Even without the headache, I would have expected something of real interest in there. A crowd of excited professionals staring at him with awe would be more believable.)

When he finally mentioned it to me, I was so worried for him, but also upset that he denied me the opportunity to be with him through it all. He didn't think of that. His theory was he didn't mention it because he knew I would take the next boat to the island and he didn't want to inconvenience me. "What if it was serious? What if you'd died?" I ask. "In that case," he says, "you could've taken your time getting here."

When I got back to the island, we were having dinner together at Antonio's. We had fun conversation throughout the meal and both laughed a lot. I commented that he has finally learned to "dine" after all these years. In Scott's case, that means that after you've finished your meal (or whatever portion of it you've deemed edible), you don't bolt for the door, or badger those dining with you to wolf down the rest of their meal so they can bolt for the door, too. "For most people, dining can also be considered a relaxing social interaction," I have explained to him many times, much to his disbelief.

Our dinner plates were long gone, yet we were still sitting there, happily enjoying our conversation. When I pointed out how nice it was, he stared at me with sincere concern and said, "Oh my God! MAYBE I DID HAVE A STROKE!," horrified at the realization that he might somehow be inching toward mainstream behavior.

Anyway, Scott handed me the CD of his recent session, with 36 individual "head slices" to scrutinize. I finally had a chance to look at it. My favorite shot is the one above (something about the eyeballs), though it was really interesting to flip though the stack in succession, ending in a tiny oval of a skullcap at the top. I was looking at the files on the laptop and couldn't save the images separately, so took a photo of this one with my iPhone. The result of doing that was a reflected ghost image of the top part of the frames of my reading glasses (centered in his sinus area). I thought it was somehow appropriate as a wacky family portrait for me to be peering out from inside Scott's "command central."

There is No "End" in Frien

Ma Friens

You may have noticed the odd spelling of "friend" that occurs throughout this site. It's done on purpose. I thought I'd offer an explanation, just in case you'd like one.

The love I have for my friens is endless. My friens are additions to my life, never bring me down, and have agreed to join me in this musical comedy/dramedy, this animated cartoon, that is my life. I may disappoint them or get disappointed on occasion, but my love for them is never compromised by the occasional challenges. Thankfully, it seems they've given me the same consideration. Understanding what a gift that is, I decided a while ago that the word friend needed an adjustment, because for me, there is no "end" in frien.

My daughter holds a spot that transcends frienship. My husband enjoys unconditional love. I have other friens and family who also count as cherished, and you know who you are because you've probably worn a fez, a dog face, a mustache or lobster hat with me at some point.

(Identities Obscured to Protect the Innocent)

In addition, I have three very close "gurrfriens". (I'm sorry, I have no explanation for that typo. I also substitute the word "bofrien" for your man, even when you're married to him. When I refer to my husband as "my bofrien", he corrects me as though he's certain that I forgot we're married.)

(I apologize for my excessive use of extra words in parentheses. I don't know what else to do with the spillage.)

Anyway, these gurrfriens have been with me through the long haul and we've witnessed plenty together. 23 years, 25 years and 17 years of frienship = 65 years of history total. You can't get that any other way.

I feel truly known and accepted by these friens. Known; probably due to the way I blurt out my joys and sorrows in an unfiltered fashion. Accepted; I can't really figure out why I've been accepted, but I have a theory about a shmear that oozes out of me that gets on people sometimes. Once it's on you, it's like I'm being seen with a set of eyes that I whipped up in a laboratory somewhere and poked in your head to make you think I'm great. I'm not going to question it, I'm so grateful it's there. It works on children and animals too.

I've also had a tiny baby feather (complete with quill) grow out near my eyebrow once, a super long blonde hair grow out of the middle of my back in my 20s, and once I woke up to what looked like a hardened amber sap nodule coming out of a mosquito bite on my arm. I don't question these things or get alarmed, I just take note. None of those other things seem to have endeared me to anyone, however. It's the invisible ooze that has the power.

If there's a problem with my approach to frienship, it's this: Once I was lucky enough to find and love a few friens who also accepted me, I wasn't open to accepting applications for any new friens. Sometimes though, my shmear seems to escape my control and it gets on someone new, which is stressful.

Rather than explain my inherent hermit status and how life with my Asperger mate works, my joke is, "Thank you for your interest, I don't currently have any openings, but will keep your application on file if something comes up." I try to deliver it with enough humor to let them know it's not about them, as they are certainly deserving of the friendship of someone much better (and more available) than me. It's so sweet when people respond to that by saying something to the effect of, "Not only are you missing out on some wonderful relationships, but they're missing out on you!" I know they're right, which is why I admire my friens who still take applications for new friends.

I'm a "gregarious hermit", which is even more confusing to people I'm meeting for the first time. I was told that during my one visit to a psychiatrist who worked with people who've lost their homes and possessions to fire. After our house burned down due to Scott's EV1 (GM's electric vehicle, the one in the documentary "Who Killed the Electric Car"), I scheduled everyone for at least one therapy session to make sure we were all okay.

The fire was September 11th, 1999. My father died only two weeks before (six days before my parents 49th anniversary), my daughter was only four days into her senior year, my two 13-year old dogs had died a few months or so before (of old age, within weeks of each other). Then the house burned down, destroying a lifetime of material proof (art, photos, the handmade quilts my great-grandmother made out of squares cut from clothing we'd grown out of, etc.) that we existed and had history...oh, and Scott disappeared the day after that. (Remember that interesting life I mentioned? 1999 was a banner year.) I figured professional help might be in order. Guess what we learned? We were behaving normally for the stress we were under. That was good news. Pricey, but good. No medication or further sessions necessary.

So, as a gregarious hermit, I can pass for a totally socialized human. I truly love people...they're too interesting for me not to be fascinated by them. It's just that as I've gotten older, it's so difficult to bring a new acquaintance up to speed in my weird world. I already feel known and loved by friens and family...what more would I be looking for?

Plus, as your frien, I'm loyal...like a dog without separation anxiety. When you're somewhere else, I'm certain you're okay. When you appear in front of me again, time is contiguous...you were never gone. My love never wavers. You're with me all the way, and I like you there. I keep your spot open and intend to spend any available time with you rather than spend it developing new relationships.

I realize there are exceptions to the rule, like when someone enters my life in such a gentle fashion that I already love them before I realize they've weaseled their way in under the radar. Gaylin was one of those friens.

It seems if it's still possible to "weasel in", there must be some openings after all...

P.S. But hold on to your hat...it's a bumpy ride...

Hummingbird Moth

It's getting ridiculous how happy I am about the photos that my iPhone takes! Never mind that it's a gorgeous day on Santa Catalina Island (Wish you were here, when are you coming anyway?). Almost anywhere you look you'd find something interesting. Today, this bottle brush plant caught my eye because it didn't seem to have a single flaw. No insect damage, no malformed leaves. Just perfect. Each perfectly formed individual brush could've scrubbed a bottle spotless without missing a single cranny. And the way it hugged the street sign...

Then, a few feet away I actually had some success taking a photo of a creature that seemed unlikely to be photographed without a "real" camera, a hummingbird moth! (You know I like bugs, right?)

I tried, but never expected to capture a shot. Only after I got home and uploaded the photo did I realize I had something (according to me). This bug is too amazing. A big fat moth that behaves just like a hummingbird, complete with a long, noodle-nose-thingy (probably not the scientific term) that sucks up the delicious nectar from flowering plants as it hovers using its insanely-rapidly-beating mothy wings. They're not limited by the fluttering, hurky-jerky flight path used by most other moths. They take the direct route, then hang out in a hover.

This photo is exactly how it fell out of the iPhone untouched. Hard to believe there's a moth in there...I was unaware that I'd framed the Casino in the shot to perfection! How lucky is that? Never say never when dealing with dumb luck.

Don't see the moth? I completely understand. I only saw it because I knew where to look. Here's a cropped shot and an arrow...

Need a closer view than that? I'd want one too.

Now you can see why I said "according to me" I had something. You be the judge. I don't think you'll see that shot used as a botanical reference anytime soon.

Luckily, my nephew Matt was visiting with friends. Besides articulating his desire to get a pet flying squirrel (of course he does...), he caught this great shot, while the moth was in mid-sip, with a "real" camera (thanks Matt)!

Here's looking at you!

P.S. You can see one in action below:

Keeping My Lettuce Crisp

I think everyone should wait tables in a nice restaurant at some point. It uses, challenges and/or sharpens so many skills. Your motor skills (and your forearms), your charm, your tolerance, your teamwork, your ability to schmooze the cook or bartender and get your orders out right and on time. How to appease a disgruntled customer who's been waiting too long already. (I was the "cleaner". They sent me in to make challenging situations right and avert diner disatisfaction.) You learn the importance of good procedures and cleanliness. It also gives you empathy for what the job entails and a point of reference and true appreciation for who does it well.

I loved waiting tables in my youth. It was a great job for many reasons. You could go to work broke with an empty gas tank, get off work a few hours later with a pocket full of cash and swing by the gas station on the way home to fill up. Tower Records was open until midnight, so you could also go get a new vinyl LP or cassette of your favorite tunes (that's correct, no CDs...definitely no iPods) before they closed. Plus your employer fed you, customers flirted with you, and your boss and coworkers became your friends.

You could also practice your witty banter, which usually resulted in great tips. I treated every table like they came in especially to see my comedy act. In those days, I'd rather work on my birthday than take the day off, I enjoyed it so much. I recently ran into a batch of handwritten "love" notes on napkins that I'd saved from appreciative diners who left them behind at my tables.

In my early 20s, I "graduated" from waiting tables to bartending. My first bartending experience was in a restaurant overlooking a small lake right around the corner (and across the water) from my home. It was a lake that I sailed and windsurfed on. I even swam home from work a few times on full-moon nights after my shift ended at 2am. I'd plan ahead and wear a leotard under my uniform. Bars were smoke-filled places back then, and it felt so good to leave the ashy particulates behind in the cool water of the lake. I quietly worked my way home on warm summer nights, swimming a bit, then floating on my back looking up at the night sky, eventually coming out refreshed on the other side.

I worked mostly night shifts during those "Disco" days (complete with the disco ball light show, a nightly balloon drop and fog machine), but I had a few lunch shifts, too. Normally a night owl, it was a nice change getting to work at 10am to set up the bar. I'd head straight into the walk-in refrigerator to spend time filling up several boxes with the fresh citrus, celery and other garnishes you'd need at the ready when concocting cocktails. A prep cook who'd breezed in and out of there four or five times to my one long visit teased me once, asking what could possibly be taking me so long. My knee jerk response was, "I like to keep my lettuce crisp." He never forgot it. It got such a great reaction from him that it stuck with me too.

There was something about cutting the cold, fresh produce in a clean, quiet bar before the restaurant opened. Everyone else was in the kitchen or setting up the dining room. I was alone in the bar, listening to music and quartering the limes, making lemon twists, slicing the pineapple, cutting celery for bloody marys...when it was all set up it was so pretty and fresh and my hands smelled great. I had to prep for the entire night shift too, so there were trays and trays of beauty just waiting for their turn in the rotation.

After I got married, I switched to working day shifts only. My father-in-law would tap on the window outside and peer in. He was a painting contractor, so he'd get his crew (including my husband) all set and then take time out for a visit. I'd unlock the door, he'd sit at the bar overlooking the lake with a cup of coffee and we'd have some quality time together while I got everything ready. He'd stay until the doors opened for business at 11am. I loved my father-in-law. He held my hand the first time we ever met, walked me down the street to meet a neighbor, and it felt like I'd always known him. I think I stayed with my husband longer than I should have because I was waiting for him to become more like his father.

Prior history with walk-in refrigerators held the promise of romance for me, too. As a 19-year-old waitress, I used to duck into the walk-in with my waiter boyfriend so we could enjoy a private moment. We'd kiss and share bites of the crème brûlée that he'd hidden behind the two-gallon jars of salad dressing, which made the parting kiss even sweeter. Then we'd go back out on the floor to take care of our tables. Remember that, the next time you're dining out and your waitress seems extra happy. We loved our work more than anyone knew.

So, I have really fond memories of being a young restaurant employee, which included the experience of the chilly walk-in's generous bounty and endless opportunities for its alternative use. I'm drawn to cool, breezy spots like that.

It's still important to me to "keep my lettuce crisp", but after all these years, it's often subliminal. The air conditioner in the car is always on low, even if the windows are open. At home, I keep the doors open 24/7, even in the dead of winter (commonly known as the "flow-through teabag" effect). Even when the fog rolls in the front door and out the back, I may adjust how far open they are, but the doors are never fully closed. I think that explains my extensive hoodie collection and luxuriously soft, warm bedding. When friens come over, they wear layers. Even though I'm happy to turn on the heat, they know about and indulge my desire for crisp lettuce and join me, crisping their own in the process.

For me, it's not just about avoiding wilted lettuce. In the end, I think it's about a desire to stay fresh as long as possible. I guess I'm hoping that life in the crisper just might extend my expiration date...

P.S. Keeping with the chilly theme, I remembered that I actually submitted an idea concerning a practical use for "chilled brains" to HalfBakery.com (a fun site to test hair-brained, I'm sorry, half-baked ideas) in 2000. I just checked, and surprisingly you can still see it at the site here. Someone actually supported the notion scientifically, and another comment popped up just this month! Crazee!

Tiptoed into Twitter

What is Twitter anyway? It seems that the spectrum of its uses is endless (or so the media claims). From use as a professional networking tool, to a marketing tool, to a strategy used by the famous to void or circumvent the rumors of the paparazzi and entertainment media.

I decide to sign up and see if anyone says anything of interest. My guess is it's just a tool to blurt out your stream of conciousness in real time, except that the audience is vast.

Who knows how long it will take to become engaged. I sign up, download Tweetie to my phone and look at the recommended Twits to "follow". One of them is the actor who plays Dwight Schrute from The Office, one of about four or five TV shows that I actually enjoy and Tivo.

So, Rainn Wilson is a Twitter-er? That's encouraging. He's smart and funny. I check out his recent contributions:

rainnwilson I had a dream that two of my fingers shrivelled down to nubs and then i shat a giant olive the size of a mango and no doctor would call me. about 21 hours ago from Tweetie

rainnwilson Just passed an ancient albino man wearing a pirate hat driving an AMC Rambler - bumper sticker 'FDA, #1 hazard to America's health'. about 10 hours ago from Tweetie

Uh oh. I didn't expect that. While it's not quite information that is pertinent to my day, I'm already laughing. Those were his two most recent tweets! "...nubs...no doctor would call me...albino man...pirate hat..."? I'm caught off guard...so few words made such a big visual impact, which works on me every time. Plus, I've had my share of Ramblers. My stream of conciousness theory seems correct. No need to look further.

After five minutes total, I'm out. Didn't take as long as I thought to figure it out. I see the appeal. You get a real time feel for people you don't ordinarily have easy access to. Low overhead, too. A mini diversion that has potential to inform, excite, or delight.

I may have to "follow" him (his tweets will arrive as a text message on my phone). If I don't, at the very least, I'll be wondering what I'm missing...

Bombshell Cupcakes

My daughter Jillian and her husband John are Rockabilly fans, if you know what that is...Their home is decorated like a colorful greeting card from the 50s. They have authentic vintage furnishings and decor throughout, elaborate figural chalkware lamps with amazing lampshades and one of the best collections of Carlo (yes, Carlo) of Hollywood paintings you could find. They're on every wall. John and Jilly also dress the part in vintage and reproduction clothing, which is a sight to see and makes me so happy. It's fun to be immersed in their world.

Jillian's an excellent cook and makes delicious cupcakes for every occasion and theme. She brought these for our Easter Brunch:

Never mind that they're so CUTE! I can't even tell you how creamy delicious they were! I don't really have a sweet tooth, but those ears!

Oh my...dee-rish-shus!

Easter Sunday Theology

Started our morning walk at 5:15 a.m. No one else is up but the fishermen on the Green Pier and the night herons. Olive gallops around off-leash in the cool air, and we head out toward Descanso Beach.

We're greeted by a few neighbors also walking out to Descanso Beach to attend the Easter "Sonrise" Services. More people than we ever see at this time of day are trickling out into the fresh morning air and heading for Descanso. Father Paul buzzes by in his golf cart, headed that way too, to prepare for the service.

We alter our route, since Scott's status as "militant atheist" (my terminology, I also like to say he's got "religious Tourette's") has him in imminent danger of spontaneous combustion when approaching a place of worship. I like to do what I can to protect our faith-based friends from undue exposure to Scott's opinions on important days. We veer off-course to avoid any potential calamity.

Because of Scott's strong opinions, people are sometimes curious about my own spiritual beliefs. I generally steer clear of discussions of faith, it's such a personal matter. I don't resist it, however, when people tell me I exhibit the characteristics of a humanist, which I've heard a few times over the years.

It's not quite right, but it's close enough to allow some closure for the inquiring mind. People like labels that are relatable and retellable. The truth is, I'm fine with whatever beliefs and experiences make you feel happy and connected to what you find spiritually fulfilling. For some people I know, spiritual fulfillment can be attained through simple exposure to puppy breath, favorite music, a rainbow, a sunset, or the laughter of a loved one...Oh, I guess that person would be me.

Scott doesn't "do" religious holidays. He doesn't "do eating holidays" either, so I'm back on the boat to the mainland this morning to enjoy a delicious brunch and probably some Scrabble with friends and family at Bev's by 1pm. I'll fix him his favorite waffle breakfast before I go. I "do eating holidays" perhaps a little too well.

Marveled at the sunrise from this vantage point while waiting for the coffee shop to open:

Enjoy the day...

P.S. I won the Scrabble match, even though I was comatose from eating turkey and enough gravy to fill a moat (I grew up in a home that considered gravy a beverage, which explains a lot). As designated scorekeeper, I actually napped on the score pad "pillow" between plays, which became a joke because it seemed to help my game (my sister usually wins).

P.S.S. Thank you Alison, for noticing that Scott, Olive and I were making a mad dash through the streets of Avalon to try to make the boat in time. Without your offer of a ride and me shoving the big black dog, my bags and me into the cab of your truck, we wouldn't have made it! In a small town, sometimes two minutes and the kindness of a neighbor can make all the difference! Olive and I boarded the boat and it left seconds later, we cut it that close! We've all "missed the boat" at one point or another...and I'm thankful you helped me avoid that experience this time.

We made it!

Catalina Morning

Amazing morning sky...felt lucky and so grateful.

Spring Break Benefits

This image sums up an experience available on Catalina Island that would be hard to find anywhere else on the planet! In most places, golf carts are filled with golfers in jaunty garb, expensive equipment and icy beverages.

Until the recent arrival of Neighborhood Electric Vehicles, Avalon was the only city in California where standard issue golf carts were considered "street legal." This one isn't just legal...it's so cute it should be mandatory!

Michele, one of Olive's favorite people, is the driver. She stopped the cart for some doggie love. The batch 'o cuties are her nieces (they must've just arrived, judging by the luggage and Hello Kitty backpacks). That cart was bursting with goodness...

This Morning's Crossing

Quick snap off of the stern...

(did I mention I love my iPhone?)

Nature's Alphabet

As if to say, "Dis is da tree."

Walking Olive through the eucalyptus that skirts the golf course on the island, saw this root volunteering the letter D. Walked up to it at just the right angle, I guess. I was amazed how it turned back into a freeform shape so easily with just a few steps. The closer we got...the perfect D dissolved into an ordinary, unremarkable branch. It seems like there's a lesson to be learned there somewhere...I guess it's all about the approach.

We Met Online

When people find out that Scott and I met online in 1998, I notice a variety of responses that fall into three general categories: 1) There are the people who've experimented with online dating themselves; 2) those that know other couples who've met online; and 3) those people whose astonished faces reveal that they fully understand they're in the presence of vintage loser geeks, also known as WTF?

Ten years later, I've decided it might be fun (and possibly therapeutic) to write about how it really worked in our case.

The process began by filling out a bunch of radio buttons and answering a bunch of essay questions. Then, based on the radio buttons, they matched you up and sent you a list of potential matches, in the order of the most percentage of radio buttons answered identically, to least. Then you were free to read the answers to the essay questions of the people on that list to further prequalify or disqualify them before ever getting in touch...doesn't it sound romantic? Not quite the same as a furtive glance across a crowded room.

Our profiles, with the essay questions answered (seven pages each, but interesting history), are available by clicking the screen shots above. Scott and I matched 48%. The site said that a match of 28% and above had a good chance of being a successful experience, whether just a fun date or possibly more. It was such an interesting and peculiar process (and may still work the same, I don't know), I'd like to someday take what I know now and update our answers to reflect the real world and ten years of history. People might find that humorously enlightening or just plain painful.

For example, in Scott's profile he describes having "mild bouts of depression." My interpretation of "mild bouts of depression" would include a spoon and a carton of ice cream, or more honestly (since I don't have a sweet tooth), a bag of chips and generous amounts of guacamole. For most people it would NOT include the image of a person being curled up on the floor in the fetal position naked, crying their eyes out in pain, terror, agony and wishing they were dead. That would have been a more honest answer in Scott's case, but wouldn't have sounded as charming and innocuous to a potential mate as "mild bouts of depression." ("Artists can have that...", I thought wistfully.)

It was August of 1998. I signed up for the free trial (less than 30 days, I think) on Matchmaker.com (currently Match.com), and figured when it expired, so what? Scott paid for a 6 month subscription. He was on a mission. I signed up because my sister wanted me to log in and read her profile and see who was "matching" her...You had to have an "account" to do that. I had no intention of meeting anyone, but I like to write, so...I wrote, answering all the essay questions honestly, including the description of the man I would be looking for, if I was looking...which I wasn't.

This was in the days of the modem and phone lines for Internet access. So you'd click on a small photo and wait, as line by line the screen would paint up the picture of your "perfect match." When it finally filled the screen, it was fair game for speculation. In those early days of Internet dating, especially in my age group it seemed that most men somehow thought that a photo of them wearing a tuxedo (their natural habitat) cropped in such a way that the tiniest portion of the hand/face/arm/hair (or arm hair) of their last girlfriend/wife visible somewhere (possibly to prove they had a history with women) was the best way to entice a new relationship. I decided early on that anyone in a tuxedo was probably not a good match.

The morning after I posted my "profile", I woke up to 121 emails in my inbox, which was a heady and thrilling prospect. Since my ex-husband had been such an exhausting ordeal at the end of our marriage, I'd completely forgotten why men were a good idea. I'd spent almost three very peaceful, however celibate (if you don't count accommodating dreams or the shower massage), years without a partner. Suddenly all these seemingly nice people were responding to my heartfelt comments in such a positive way. Slowly, I started to think men might actually be a good idea again!

I searched the profiles of men who lived 50 miles or more away from my house, because I didn't want to meet anyone, live conveniently too close to anyone, or even stumble on a picture of anyone that was from my immediate area. I found out later that Scott had a different approach. He was initially responding to women who lived within one to five miles of his house (which is a lousy idea as far as avoiding stalkers goes, a woman would never do that). I figure his fantasy was that a steady stream of conveniently located new girlfriends could just walk over and offer him sexual favors. Men are so simple to figure out really (present company excepted and/or accepted...who am I to judge?).

Anyway, the emails...Scott's was in that first batch. His profile matched mine with the highest percentage of all and appeared at the top of the list. Now that I know what a gifted programmer he is, it would not surprise me if he somehow hacked into the code and made sure he had an advantage. I can't believe I'm just thinking of that only this second after all these years! As I type these words, I'm almost certain that it's true! (...give me a moment to ponder the implications....) Anyway, he emailed a brief note and a poem called Blessed with Stress, but no photos were included in his profile as yet.

The poem, Blessed With Stress

I took this overwhelming influx of admiration seriously and answered almost every email I'd received. After all, men poured out their compliments and utter amazement that we were the perfect match, each unaware that there were 120 other emails with a similar message. It was fun to see the various approaches to capturing my (or anyone's) attention. Some had an obvious "cut & paste" approach - everyone got the same sales pitch. I didn't reply to any of those. For those who obviously read my profile and seemed to be moved by it, I responded with some appreciative comment. I explained my Just Looking/Curious button. I wasn't looking for a relationship.

Scott's poem (an odd choice, decidedly not romantic) made me cry. I forwarded it to my mother, I thought it was so insightful and touching. So, in my response to him, I offered him unconditional adoration if he'd written the poem (a safe gesture in my mind, knowing for sure that we would never meet). For him, since he HAD, in fact, written the poem, that was the equivalent of telling him to set the date for our nuptials! That's how it started...then the phenomenon of what I like to call "disembodied intimacy" took over and the rest is history...

After knowing him and rereading his answers years later, they somewhat accurately described the logical man he is and his core values. Lots of important information was missing, however. One problem starts with the artistic license he took when he described the emotionally connected man he'd like to be, rather than describe the intense discomfort he experiences connecting in a one on one relationship.

We discovered only a year or so ago that he likely has Aspergers' Syndrome, due to the keen observation of a friend who forwarded an article in the New Yorker about a man with Aspergers'. After reading that and getting a few more books online from Amazon.com, we really didn't need a formal diagnosis. One book in particular, written for children called "All Cats Have Asperger Syndrome" was so thorough and sensitive about describing what it's like through the use of photographs of fluffy kittens and beautiful sentiments, that by the time Scott got to the last page, he had crocodile tears making their way down his cheeks. I asked, "Do you think you have it?" "Yeah," he said.

One manifestation of Aspergers' in Scott's case is that he has a very low level of tolerance for outside stimulus...sights, smells, tastes, sounds, conversations that discuss pain or injury, surgery, loss of a pet or a loved one, etc. As for the limited palette of foods he'll eat, if I substitute an ingredient or measurement, he knows. I've always said that he can "taste a molecule." I've done blind taste test experiments on him (You're out of vanilla extract? Use French vanilla extract. Only have two eggs, but need three? Use two. Cut the watermelon with the same knife as the cantaloupe? No problem.) and he always catches it! I maintain a deadpan expression as I watch with interest. He takes the first bite, smacks his tongue up and down on his palette and says, "What'd you do different?" "Nothing," I say, trying to keep a straight face. I cave immediately and confess. I have no poker face.

In a relationship, things for Scott get intensely intimate too quickly. Physically, he commented about our first kisses as being "SO erotic," which I initially took as a curious compliment. Curious because there was a hint of confused discomfort in its delivery. I had a sense that he felt too exposed, or vulnerable...too connected. Everything I knew about what makes men (or me, for that matter) feel loved and happy didn't work on Scott.


Intimate conversation dealing with emotion was equally as uncomfortable. When discussing our relationship, he'd explain that he was really trying, but discussing emotions was the equivalent of "pouring battery acid on his brain." That was a pretty graphic description that I could easily comprehend, since it's an excellent visual image. I regrouped and quit treating him like a "normal" man. I started observing his world, with the passion and cautious respect of an archaeologist discovering a new dig, for clues as to what sort of lifeform I'd stumbled on.

Most women would have scampered off in pursuit of that bag of chips, and maybe some new shoes. After all, there were 120 other emails to consider, and more flowing in all the time. It was too late for me. I was already in love with that amazing brain housed in Scott's cranium. That thing fed a steady stream of words down through his fingers to his keyboard and produced amazing emails that arrived in my inbox. Those emails were better than any romance novel I'd ever heard of (though I've never actually read one...think of Jack Nicholson in that scene at the typewriter in the movie "As Good as it Gets"). The words in those emails took control of the bag of chemicals inside me that pumped an unending supply of the "you love this man" drug directly into my brain and then straight to my heart. I've since said that I'd still love him even if he was a brain in a mason jar. My favorite response to that was, "How would that work at holiday gatherings?"

Probably like this. Scott actually bought this for me.
Meet Brian the Brain

Eventually, I told him there was quite a bit of false advertising going on in that profile of his, and we still laugh about it today. Though initially he didn't have a photo posted, when the photo did show up, he'd chosen one where he was cupping the face of a dolphin in his hands, sending a very connected message. The truth is that animals love him, but it has nothing to do with emotional intimacy with a human. I haven't had DNA testing, but I'm pretty sure I fall into that category.

I've realized over time that logic can mask as emotional intimacy, and sometimes it actually does an excellent job of it. If you think things through carefully, you can easily figure out that the way to a mother's heart is to show care and concern for her children. Scott was amazing at applying logic and having empathy for what it must be like to be a single parent and all that it entails. Besides assuring me that we were meant for each other (delivered with the intensity of a world-class debate team), he showed great respect for me as a mother and great concern for Jillian as my child. He carefully crafted a scenario that would offer my daughter and me a safe and stable situation whether we worked out as a couple or not, and off we went to explore our potential as mates.