the hills are alive

Some Aspie blogger bloke once commented in my former blog that the way I scrutinise the intelligence or lack of it in the men I encounter, and my approach to observing humans as fascinating specimens of anthropological interest, will send them “running for the hills.” I wonder about what he meant by that. Should I take it literally, from one Aspie to another? Or should I read his comment as a sort of Aspie-turned-neurotypically-aware social admonishment?  Should I even be worried that men run for the hills after coming eyeball to eyeball with me? I am not. But should I even be?

The hills are alive, with the sound of whining bruised egos. Let them sing, I say!

My most recent encounter was with some Australian chap, who showed remarkable tenacity in trying to ‘connect’ with me. Credit should be given to this even though he wasn’t very bright in his approach – I mean, he should have, like others more intelligent than he, run for the hills from the moment I told him that I don’t do phone calls, I abhor the telephone and I do not go out at nights because the darkness disturbs my senses.

Chuckle. But it is true. I don’t bother to hide my weirdness anymore. Middle age has its privileges, regardless of neurological make up.

Then, I refused to go out with him without taking Lucy along. After all, what use is a man who wants to ‘date’ me if he is not interested in helping me take care of Lucy? Anyway, then he wants dinner at my place, and he wants to go for a movie. So I said, sorry, my place is too tiny for two humans and a dog to be comfortable in, and I only have one chair. And no, I do not do movies because I hate the sensory experience of being in a crowded dark room with a bunch of smelly strangers watching a condensation of narrative that means nothing in the real world and has nothing to do with whatever fascinates me. That was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. He replied to my email, saying that he has tried his best, but he cannot persist beyond this point, since we have nothing much in common other than dogs, and I am being uncooperative. I did really laugh out loud. I was wondering when he’d say this. Smarter men would’ve run for the hills by this time. So I, being the typical nit picking detail focused Aspie, replied saying it was ok, I agreed with him that we have nothing in common, not even dogs, since he wasn’t at all keen on allowing my Lucy into his fancy old car with leather seats (some 1991 Lexus? yawn!) after he had initially suggested he take me and Lucy out for a picnic at a fenced park. Geez. What else would I want him in my life for? Anyhow, he was somehow offended by my agreeing with him. He sent me yet another email, detailing his multiple achievements in massage therapy, plumbing, electrical jobs, house building and get this, dove-tailing (carpentry). He also listed the admirable qualifications of his ex-girlfriend, who was supposed to have been a professor at the University of Sydney. Right. Dear sir, if I could afford a toyboy/boytoy, I’d pick a smarter one and a nicer one who would put up with my eccentricities, won’t I? Geez! Dear Mr. Handyman, I grew up with a man who could do all you boast you can do, and he was a topnotch surgeon, with an electrical engineering degree on the side, who was also an artist, music aficionado, and accomplished ballroom dancer in his younger days. My father is a hard act to follow, but I do not set out wanting men to compare favourably next to this Golden Standard really, but I do find people who voluntarily boast at me most entertainingly irritating. Cockroaches really. You are fascinated by them but you are also repulsed at them.

OK, firstly, I wasn’t trying to fob him off with excuses, I was just telling him the truth. Men (and women) are just so incapable of hearing bald truth, aren’t they? I have very marked eccentricities. But I am not about to endure the torture of phone calls, the agony of a movie, or you being inside my tiny little sanctuary, or going out with you without my baby, just to get a ‘date’. And I am NOT impressed by your postulations. I have read better ones. It is my job to read better ones too.

Is there something inherently wrong with me, that I find the homeless chaps, who Lucy likes to say hello to at the churchyard nearby, far more interesting and worthy conversation than the ‘normal’ men who huff and puff about their ‘normal’ achievements?

Maybe these men behave this way because ‘normal’ women my age are desperate for dates? Granted these guys are not bad looking and they do seem to have day jobs. Duh. I cannot understand the desperation thing really. So many women of all ages, for a plethora of reasons, seem to me to be desperate for a date. And their private girly talk is centred around nothing other than men and babies and children. I suppose neurotypical humans need very much the kind of in-the-face connectedness?

I like being connected, don’t get me wrong. I am not Rain Man. And even Rain Man needed his brother. I do have enough close connections to fulfill my need for connectedness. I don’t need to bend down low for anything. And I have so much more in the way of exciting stuff to attend to.

Like chicken. How to cook a whole lot of chicken in as many interesting and delicious ways as possible?


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