Adult Diagnosed ADHD/ADD

I am very sorry my bloggie has been so hard to load all weekend. It’s been taking minutes to screen-up and that is problematic. I mean really, who’s got the time for that? But I think it is better today, at least it was at 4:30 am when I finally got out of bed to check it.

After attending the School for Blog Dummies at the Writer’s League on Saturday, I raced back to the ranch to put all of what I learned to use before I forgot it. With my form of ADHD/ADD, remembering things is an art form practiced by the artless.

And don’t start in on me with your, “Take this or that memory class, Mooner, or read this or that book, or stop drinking so many Carta Blanca beers.” None of that stuff works.

Fact is, the less I study and the more beers I drink, the better my memory gets.

I know you don’t believe me but think about it from my frame of reference, OK? First, imagine you are at a family birthday party at the Z Tejas over to the Arboretum. You know, the one with an Eddie V’s right next door and with the great views out the back. You are sitting in the big booth on the wall- the one that is situated at the end of the big bar and the entrance to the kitchen. It sort of sits all by itsownself.

Now look, this particular Z Tejas is very noisy for starters, but this one booth is Noise Central. Have you ever used one of those high tech parabolic listener earphone jobbies? You know, with the directional microphone pointer. Sitting at this table is for me like it would be to have earphones and parabolic listener jobbies pointed at every person in the place.

Streaker Jones has one of those decimators, you know the gage dealie that measures how many decibels of sound you have, and we took a reading from that booth on a Friday night.

“Well Mooner,” Streaker Jones told me, “We got us sumthin a tween a jet takin off anna ZZ Top show.” Then he added, “Purt loud.”

But for me it isn’t the volume of sound, it is the character of the sounds. In a busy restaurant, it isn’t that everybody is screaming at each other that bothers me. Nor is it the sheer number of screamers. Nope, for me, it is the number of individual conversations my ears and mind can individuate from the cacophony of sounds while I am attempting to participate in my own table’s conversations.

If you have my form of Deficit Distractedness Disease, then you know precisely and specifically of which I speak. Would that be of “what” I speak?

On this night at Z Tejas that I am using to help you understand what I am talking about, there’s Gram, Sister and Anna the Amazon, Streaker Jones and his unnamed date (unnamed because the story is in the book), Mother, Aunt Hilda and Dubbie J, Gnat, Dr. Sam I. Am, the SAC Ellen and me, all sitting at that booth. That means that our table alone has at least four conversations going on at once.

Since that Z Tejas has a capacity of 350 persons, and yes I looked at their Permit, that means that on this crowded Friday night, there were something like another 100 conversations in addition to the four in our booth. Now don’t try to tell me that my ADD is digressing you because I am right on my point.

Look. When I’m in a noisy environment like Z Tejas on this specific Friday night, my form of ADHD/ADD allows me to listen to each of those 104 separate conversations, separately and distinctly. Hell, for that matter my form of ADHD/ADD requires me to listen. Like when you pass a terrible car accident and you don’t want to look but are devoid of skill or ability to not look.

I am compelled to listen to every conversation at my table plus the lovers’ spat over to the bar, and the waiter repeating the orders of a six-top twelve times because the lady in the red dress keeps changing her mind about does she want a salad or soup, and the business guy’s feeble attempts to hit on the attractive woman thirty years his junior, and even the conversation between two French guys that sounds like a pair of snotty-nosed adenoid sufferers trying to talk while clearing their throats. Etcetera, etcetera and so forth.

Next time you see me ask me to do my interpolation of a person speaking French. It’ll crack you up.

If you ask me at any time during our meal what anybody is talking about, anybody in the entire place, I can tell you. This I can do with absolute clarity. But if you ask me what I had for my appetizer after we finish dinner and are walking to the car- no dice. Can’t remember shit.

Wait. That’s a bad example because I always get the Ancho Chile Fudge Pie. Hoo-ya it is mighty fine pie. You can get the recipe at recipes@ztejas.com and when you do, tell them that Mooner Johnson said to call them. Or ping them or whatever it is that you do when you do that.

But, if I knock back a dozen or so cold Carta Blanca beers with dinner, I can remember everything that happened at our table and not much else. That’s assuming I’m not driving, but since I’m always the designated driver, beer-induced memory recall is infrequent.

Of course, my active memory has the half-life of an already-lit Molotov cocktail. Every thirty seconds I forget half of whatever it was I remembered.

Which brings us back to Saturday’s wonderful class on bloggie stuff. I raced home to put my lessons to practice but the I-net was all screwed up and not loading-up my blog. I took copious notes, none of which I now understand, but I had the most important stuff memorized. But after maybe sixty-three attempts to load my blog I got frustrated.

And now, three days later when my bloggie is back to normal speed, I can’t remember shit. My notes on widgets and rollers and RSSV’s and links and twits and mosquitoes- none of that makes the first sense to me. I’m just lost.

I tried to bring some memory back and started on the Carta Blanca sometime in the early afternoon Sunday. It was maybe 3:30 or 4:00, or maybe it was 1:15. Whatever time it was, Tiger Woods was making his first bogey of the day at the Masters.

Which brings up another subject. See, except for the working girls down to Mexico with whom I obtained my sex education, and Sunny- the TV reporter I dated for awhile, I have married every woman I ever had sex with.

That means ten ex-wives and maybe $1.15 million a year in alimony, but nobody is really all that hurt or angry with me.

So. What I was thinking as I was dosing myself with the medicine that is cold Carta Blanca beer, is that maybe I need to work with Tiger Woods on some life lessons. You know, offer to be his Life Coach. If Tiger would have only followed my example he could have saved himself a world of shit.

Every woman is something special- even at first blush, when you are making no commitment besides having a few chuckles and giggles.

Few are special enough to marry when all you have is a first blush.

I know that was pretty deep thinking, but that’s how I blog roll!

Maybe I can hire out to be your Life Coach. Holler if you need me.

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