Sunday, September 9, 2012

The Intriguing Case of the Autistic Stylista

As a child I was a big fan of mysteries.
I loved Nancy Drew and wanted to be the token Irish person in the Famous Five (I wonder how Enid Blyton would have handled that...I'm pretty certain my character would say "begorrah" and "top o' the mornin' to you"  a lot.  And she'd probably make me look like a freckled spud. So, in retrospect, I'm glad that dream never came true.)
As a nursing student, my favourite module was psychology.  I just couldn't get enough of trying to figure out how, and why, people behave the way they do.
When I grew up, Fancy Nancy was replaced by CSI and Criminal Minds.
Then CSI was replaced by Autism, the biggest mystery of them all. 

I got to super-sleuth my way through conundrums as puzzling as 'The Incredible Mystery of the Streaking Toddler', 'The Fascinating Tale of the Boy Who Ate Sand' and 'The Curious Incident of the Poo in the Nighttime'.
Sherlock Homes was in the building and wearing lip-gloss.

As time went by I became quite adept and figuring out the meaning behind apparently bizarre behaviour.
For example, when Finian tells me to take his toes off (yes, he really says that) he means that he wants a cuddle in bed.  Chief Inspector Mammy deduced that one night he got a cuddle after having his toenails cut.  Either that or he thinks his mother is Hannibal Lecter.

Dragging visitors to the front door and attempting to eject them with great  (but curiously polite) force does not mean that he is sick of your company, thank you very much, and that he is on the verge of barfing if he has to tolerate your mug for another minute.
He just wants to watch the tail lights on your car.
Although, I must remember to employ his method the next time Jehovah Witnesses call around  (especially the barfing bit).


So I thought I had a pretty good handle on the whole solving mysteries shtick.
Until yesterday.
Finian threw a shit-fit (that's a medical term for a REALLY bad tantrum) because he wanted me to wear a posh frock.  While we were hanging out at home. Hoovering and making jigsaws and eating beans on toast.
Maybe he's watched one too many episodes of  Trinny & Suzannah with me and decided that screeching at me would  shock me out of my current "style" rut of jeans and cardigans.
Maybe he thinks wiping the kitchen counter isn't given enough respect and deserves to be approached in heels and costume jewellery.
Either way, I still can't figure out what his angle was.

I eventually had to hide the dress on top of the fridge (I was desperate, OK?  Hopefully no-one will eat it, but in my home you can't be certain) and let his tantrum blow itself out.

I think Sherlock Holmes will have to retire without a pension.