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12:10 p.m. - 2012-02-15
Fiction, Porn, and What To Do About The Bread Lady.

I have to start writing an entry before reading the news and FB and other blogs today, otherwise I'll get distracted and wander off inside my head. A place I've been spending a lot of time recently. In a good way. There's a fiction piece bubbling around in there and I don't write fiction as a rule. But the need to tell a story is itching at me. Be a good antidote to the Aspie WIP, I'm still having a dreadful time with balancing my personal experience versus what I hope might be helpful to a larger circle of folk who need some direction with their own Aspies. So something from the ether, the land of make-believe, would be nice. At least I hope so. Sometimes my fiction has taken really, really sharp turns into the disturbing, another reason I tend to stay away from fiction. I remember this one story I started about 7-8 years ago, it was meant to be a feminist Boomer and Gen X take on the 'conversation between strangers' thing, but it turned out the elder woman was a psycho and instead of the long conversation about life and love and whatnot over coffee at a truck stop the elder woman took the younger woman out into the boons then tortured and killed her. Scared the shit out of me. I had NO idea the elder one was crazy when I started the damn story. Upset me so much I never even finished writing it down.

My pal, Mr King, would be delighted to find a hidden psycho in his head, but I was disgusted and frightened. I was expecting 'My Dinner With Andre' and ended up with 'Saw'. A most unpleasant experience. Then again, psychos sell. Very little market for fluffy bunnies and thoughtful grace. Nobody cares about witty dialog either. Perhaps I'll just spool out more porn for RR and nevermind about being arty and tasteful and amusing. Ismail Merchant is dead but Larry Flynt is alive and well, eh?

Speaking of genre writing I was tooling around through the romances at Sam's Club and found a big section of, dig this, Amish romance. Who knew there'd be a market for moonlight and Mennonites? Somehow the idea of Anabaptists and heaving bosoms just doesn't compute with me. Okay, we all loved 'Witness', but lust and longing isn't the first thing I think of when it comes to the horse and buggy gang. Around here the Amish build gazebos, run puppy mills, and sell meth. Not exactly romantic.

Which brings me to Valentine's Day. It was romantic and lovely all around. We did end up all eating together, which was fine. Wolf had a ton of homework so he hied himself off to his room afterward giving Mick and me time to exchange cards and gifts and smooches. Before dinner I took off my pentacle and put on the beautiful little diamond heart pendant Mick had given me on our first Valentine's Day together. The chain is such a wisp of a thing I daren't wear it as an all the time necklace. Still it was nice to have on such a pretty and delicate piece. Especially since earlier in the day I'd gone out wearing these puppies.

They are insanely heavy and by dinnertime my ears were begging for relief. Yesterday morning I'd gone looking through the big floor-standing jewelry box hoping to find something appropriate for the day. Heart-shaped jewelry used to be a thing with me. Unfortunately being a ditz is also a thing with me and the big heavy ones were the only earrings I could find both of. I found plenty of single earrings and briefly thought about wearing odd earrings, a silver concha heart in one ear and a onyx and silver dangly one in the other, but wasn't feeling eccentric enough yesterday. Takes energy to be weird in public.

I don't know how I feel about this. One of the checkers at the bread store has an eye for Wolf. I'm used to women thinking my kid is a beauty, it's gone on his whole life, but there's definitely an element of...um...attraction with this woman that's rather unsettling. She's got to be at least 30. When we go in she's all smiles and helpful and then when we check out she always has to tell Wolf how handsome he is, and at first it seemed harmless enough, but she now does it with this predatory "Yum, yum!" note in her voice. The first time she gave him a compliment it was through me, "My, you have a good looking son!" and I got a bit of a laugh over how foshed Wolf was. But yesterday she was batting her eyes at my kid and I could see she was dead serious and that Wolf was wildly uncomfortable. I mean, no, it wasn't anything to call the cops about or smack this woman with my glove and challenge her to a duel, and if I'm to be honest she's quite pretty in a trashy rock-n-roll sort of way, but Wolf is 14!

The obvious solution is to leave Wolf in the car when we go to the bread store (it's right down the road from his counselor's office and really the only time I get out that way), but I'm thinking maybe this is a good opportunity to help Wolf learn to fend off unwanted advances. Despite his zero batting average so far with his schoolmates, my son is going to get hit on A LOT and learning to be gracious under fire is something he's going to need to know how to do. If Wolf had inborn social skills and knew instinctively how to sniff the wind and see what was coming it'd be one thing, but my poor kid is fricken clueless about the subtleties of social interactions. He can't read body language and has trouble interpreting facial expressions, I don't want him to suddenly find himself in a situation that's way beyond his pay grade and not know how to extricate himself. Been there, done that, and would have given a million bucks to someone if I'd been taught to defend myself against the predatory onslaught before I'd been opportuned by my Pop's buddies and cornered and felt up by a substitute teacher. Learned the hard way, I did. And I wasn't autistic.

So what do you think? Do I break it down for my kid and use the bread store lady as a teaching tool? Or do I leave him in the car and hope like mad that he doesn't run into his own grab-hands substitute? Or MILF-ish neighbor wanting her 'lawn mowed'? Until yesterday I'd just been glad my kid had inherited every scrap of good looks that could be wrung from his father's and my own DNA. Sure, I know life isn't all giggles and grins in Pretty Town, but in a lot of ways being gorgeous makes life smoooove. Doors open, opportunities abound, people are simply nicer to those who are easy on the eye. But there is a dark side. One I'd prefer my son not have to learn too early or too well.


Heh, and I thought discussing the clitoris with my kid was as tough as it got. ~LA

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