I recently read an eBook by Wendy Aron. She sent it to me so I was compelled to read it. It was 1,529 pages long. OK, not really. The eBook was funny and I enjoyed it very much.
Here's some BIO info on Wendy (taken from her website):
Wendy Aron is an award-winning humorist (Society of Professional
Journalists), television sitcom writer (Writers Guild of America, West),
and comic playwright (McLaren Festival). Her writing has been published
by the New York Times, Psychology Today, Newsweek,
Pick the Brain, The Change Blog, IndieReader, and Elephant Journal,
among many other print publications and websites. She is also the author
of a comic memoir about depression, which was published by an
award-winning independent press just prior to its bankruptcy
announcement. Despite this career trajectory, Wendy's greatest
satisfaction comes from working with young people who are motivated to
write simply because they find it fun, as well as reading thoroughbred
racehorses' minds to gain insight into how fast they plan to run in the
Kentucky Derby.
Here is my response to Wendy after reading he eBook (edited):
Dear Wendy,
(Disclaimer: This is a long email but you did make me read an entire eBook. So I think fair’s fair.)
I heard that the name Wendy was invented for the book Peter Pan. Of course, others believe it is a derivative of the name Gwendolyn, who was the mythical queen of the Encyclopedia Britannica. But I believe the name was awarded to a young Welsh woman who won it in a game of Words with Friends. In any case, this is my official response to having read 24 Hours without Health Insurance, an eBook by an eWoman with sophisticated thumbs.
Firstly, let’s get the basics out of the way. I do not live in the UK. I couldn’t live in a place where they have signs that say Mind Your Head. The thought of Minding My Head creeps me out because one cannot (in my opinion) think about your mind. Also, an outlet provides electricity, the absence of one does not constitute a dead end and a rotary is not a round-a-bout. There is no such thing as a round-a-bout. Besides those grievous affronts to American colloquialismness, if one needs to live in an English speaking country--England is probably the way to go. Oh yes, I should mention where I DO live. I live in Hemmingway Woods. That is a place that I totally made up but it’s OK because I own the land and I can call it anything I want.
Another topic that needs to be covered is whether or not I have soundrage. I do. I think that the woman who wrote the book Sound-Rage: A Primer of the Neurobiology and Psychology of a Little Known Anger Disorder coined the term soundrage. But she used a hyphen between the words sound and rage so I created a website (soundrage.com) and trademarked the word soundrage (without the hyphen). I know this makes me a total jerk. But if she were to contact me about the slight similarity between Sound-Rage and SoundRage, I would de-trademark the word and play nice but I’m hoping she never notices my website. So mum’s the word.
I have had misophonia for many years, perhaps as many as 30. I don’t know when it started but I know it has gotten worse over the years. My worst misophonia trigger used to be the sounds in the background of those haunting alternate audio Captchas. But now I cringe at the sound of light cream being added to decaffeinated coffee.
OK, that’s not really true.
My worst triggers are those sounds that are associated with eating. Unfortunately, since I am around my husband more of the time than anyone else, he gets to be the one to annoy me with eating noises. This is really unfair to him, of course, but it's not something I have control over.
Then there are the sounds of the truck keys clinking as we drive, any squeak or tapping or clinking noise made by the truck that cannot be remedied and any other noise it might make that I cannot eliminate or escape. Other sounds that make the hit parade: coughing, sneezing (especially if there is more than one in a row), sniffling, excessive sighing or yawning, saying “mmmnnnnn” more than once (as in liking the taste of something) and any other sound a human being can make with their mouth except the phrase ‘come here, I wish to give you millions of dollars.’
Yes, I did just say husband. You know what that means, I have an earring in my right ear (remember that secret code?). Actually, I have two earrings in all of my ears. And even though you didn’t ask, yes, I have tattoos. I can no longer tell people how many tattoos I have when they ask (and they do) because there is tattooing in between some tattoos and some blend into each, etc. I have no other deformities unless you count the emotional scars from my childhood.
Allen and I have been together for about 22 years. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to have any children of our own but I did bring two with me when I appeared on the scene in 1992.
1992 was a really, really, really interesting year for me. It was the year in which I:
1) Had a major manic episode that would years later be identified as the defining event confirming my currant diagnosis of Bipolar Type 2. I know bipolar is very chic today but back then it was just a garden variety mental illness.
2) Came out of the closet and told everyone I was wearing an earring in my right ear (wife, kids, parents, siblings, co-workers and anyone else who would listen) all in the course of about a week.
3) Moved out of my house which triggered a psychological about face resulting in GAD and depression.
4) Met Allen two weeks later and moved in with him 2 weeks after that. Of course, everyone said we were doomed. But this year will mark our 22nd year together…
5) Saw a psychiatrist for the first time. He listened to me for about a half hour then said “it’s good you had girls instead of boys because if you had boys people would have been worried that they could have been sexually abused.” Yes, he actually said this. This experience soured me on so-called professional help and although it was probably really needed at that time in my life, I didn’t get treatment of any kind for many, many years after that experience (unless you count self-medicating with vodka).
OK, yuck. Enough wallowing in bitterness and complaining about the past; I have today to get through and that’s enough.
Did I mention that I recently had to fight with the dentist to forgo Novocain because it makes him wince? It’s the same damn argument every time I go in to get a cavity filled or have any other minor procedure done. We have different concepts of what constitutes a minor dental procedure. I define it as a procedure that does not involve the removal of a tooth or my tongue and he defines it as any event in which I open my mouth. In the end, we arm wrestled and I won, he may have been dazzled by my earrings and tattoos.
There is a law here in Massachusetts (the state in which I live) that requires me to disclose the number of grandchildren I have. I have two. One calls me Pepere (French for grandfather) and the other calls me “grrr uh heee sprah” because he is 4 months old and is having trouble with French.
One last thought, you (or someone else who sent me an eBook a couple of days ago who was also named Wendy) mentioned an elementary school’s security system consisting of a series of brown paper bags propped up against the door. That was a really great visual. Bravo.
Grammar ain’t not always my strengths – but you may have noticed that I DO like to put things in parenthesis.
Warm Regards,
~Paul
Labels: hemmingway woods, misophonia, Novocaine, wendy aron
