The One About An Empathetic Chatbot, A Crazy Quilt Garden, & An August Blogging Break

July 29, 2025 / Ally Bean / 230 Comments

A REMINDER THAT COMMUNICATION CAN BE TRICKY

Thanks to Marie I learned about a TV series called Astrid. It’s a drama about a woman [Astrid] with Asperger’s syndrome who works for the police in their library. She loves puzzles, remembers everything, and helps the police solve crimes.

The series does a good job of presenting Astrid and all her quirks in a thoughtful way. She’s socially awkward but not mean-spirited. She is neurodivergent, not always catching onto the subtext of conversations or situations.

Social cues escape her, strict habits keep her sane.

It’s fascinating to watch her and has made me more aware of the communication divide between neurotypes.

To wit, the other day I came across an article in Reuters, ‘It’s the most empathetic voice in my life’: How AI is transforming the lives of neurodivergent people. The gist of the article is that AI-powered chatbots, such as NeuroTranslator, can help neurodivergent people communicate more clearly, reducing misunderstandings.

All one has to do is ask AI about your quandary, then it’ll explain what’s happening from a neurotypical point of view.

Below is a screenshot of a conversation in which Micheal who is neurodivergent asks AI to help him understand why his wife, Jennifer who is neurotypical, took offense at his comment about her shirt. The chatbot tells him that “Neurotypicals often expect more positive feedback…” than his direct comment, thus she was peeved.

Welp, here’s the thing: With all due respect to the chatbot, I don’t see anything wrong with what Micheal said to Jennifer.

So does this mean I’m neurodivergent and don’t know it? I could envision me saying something like what Micheal said, direct & to the point. No harm, no foul.

Or thinking about it in a different way, I wonder about Jennifer’s state of mind. She seems a little neurotic to me, maybe insecure.

Granted I don’t take much of anything personally and I know to consider the source, but if Micheal told me his honest assessment of my shirt, unlike Jennifer I’d have smiled and said “thanks.”

No big deal.

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A LOOK AT MY CRAZY QUILT GARDEN, A WORK IN PROGRESS

I’m calling my latest attempt at creating a butterfly garden as a Crazy Quilt Garden.

Crazy quilts were popular in the late 1800s. Victorian women created them using a patchwork of irregularly-shaped fabric piece sewn together then embellished with embroidery, ribbon, beads, and lace. The resulting quilts were idiosyncratic works of art with no repeating motifs like you see in Amish quilts.

Because I wasn’t happy with our rigidly organized flower garden with its repeating motifs, last fall I pulled out most of the perennials with the intention of creating a less organized ‘country-style’ garden for the butterflies and bees. I wanted a purposely mixed-up garden like a crazy quilt.

I left the roses, salvia, Russian sage, and milkweed because they were/are thriving and make a good backbone for this little area. Then this past spring I planted some new perennials [bee balm, daisies, Pentas, and rudbeckia] plus a few herbs [basil, thyme, mint, dill, and rosemary] that I knew were popular with butterflies and bees.

I also tossed in some marigolds, an annual, to add dots of color. Plus scattered some zinnia seeds for fun. So far everything has grown [except the dill] and is looking a little wild and raggedy like I’d hoped it would. But there’ve been no butterflies only bees which is good, but not cool like having butterflies around.

Still I am hopeful.

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A PLAN TO NOT BE HERE IN AUGUST

If you’ve followed The Spectacled Bean for a while you know that I often take a blogging break in August. I don’t like August. The heat & humidity + the pollen makes me itchy, twitchy, and bitchy.

While I admit that being bitchy can be a great catalyst for interesting blog posts, the itchy and twitchy part requires that I get cozy with the girls— Pat, Vertie, and Flo. I’m talking about Pataday eye drops, Alavert antihistamine pills, and Flonase nasal spray.

Meds for seasonal allergies, ‘ya know.

And the thing is that the girls make me tired so that writing seems like a chore instead of a joy. And I won’t let blogging become a chore. That would never do.

Soooo I’m ducking out of blogland for the month of August. I hope to return in September after allergy season is history for me.

Later, kids!

~ • ~

QUESTIONS OF THE DAY

Are you fascinated by the ways in which people communicate? Are you aware of anyone in your life who is neurodivergent?

Do you have a flower garden? And if so, Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, how does your garden grow? Do you have butterflies and bees?

Does anyone have fun plans for August? Just because I dislike the month doesn’t mean I expect anyone else to feel the same way.

~ ~ • ~ ~

I’m Pleased To Announce That Miss Nettie Briggs Has Entered The Chat

March 4, 2025March 4, 2025 / Ally Bean / 217 Comments

Give attitude, get attention, right?

I like that saying, it explains many things.

I prefer, and I think you’d agree, that the attitude be positive spunk [aka signal] rather than negative junk [aka noise], BUT the result is the same: the attention is on you.

Not that giving attitude is anything new.

In fact back when the world was a more genteel place free from 24/7 news and social media, I’m sure people gave attitude— just in more subtle ways. They may have been irritated by events and other people, but seemingly they tolerated that irritation with more grace than today*.

Case in point is Miss Nettie Briggs. She is featured in the professional portrait seen at the top of this post. She is looking placid, mildly amused by what she is doing.

Or so it seems to me.

I found this photo mixed in among the boxes of family photos that I sorted last summer and wrote about in Confessions Of A Reluctant Family Historian: My Kingdom For A Shredder, my most popular post of 2024. [Go figure?]

I don’t know for sure who Miss Nettie Briggs was: my mother had written her name on the back of the photo so she knew who she was. But there’s no one left from any generation that’d be able to tell me Miss Nettie Briggs’s story.

However I have an inkling of who she might have been.

I remember my mother talking about a nurse who came to live with her family for a year, tasked with looking after my mother’s older sister who’d had abdominal surgery. Something that at the time was a dangerous procedure that required months of bedrest in order to heal.

Nettie lived with them and when not looking after her charge, who slept a lot, she read books to and played games with my mother and her younger sister.

Mom liked Miss Nettie Briggs, as I recall. Enough, I would guess, to keep a photo of Miss Nettie Briggs around in a ratty cardboard box full of dusty old family photos for me to find one day.

I adore Miss Nettie Briggs because I find her charming.

Thus it has come to be that Nettie’s photo is now framed and hanging on the wall in our study where I do my blogging, old-school style on a desktop computer.

Meaning that whenever I do anything related to blogging Nettie is looking over my shoulder, keeping my thoughts mostly civil, my sense of humor firmly intact, and my vibe jovial enough.

At least most days.

Questions of the Day

What’s your attitude today? Are you receiving the kind of attention you want?

Do you have any old family photos of somebody who is a mystery to you?

Do you have any old or new photos of people framed and hanging on your walls? Once upon a time that was frowned upon you know!

• 🤎 •

* Last month in various places online I, a kind-hearted person, was criticized for:

watching TV shows rather than reading books
suggesting that not all men are worthy of adoration
noting the demographics of people who got in my way
proposing that not all old things are worth saving
not obsessing constantly about The Donald and his First Buddy

Laugh When You Can: A Tale Of Brotherly Love + A Poem About Methuselah’s Diet

July 23, 2024 / Ally Bean / 207 Comments

Is this not true?

A Tale Of Brotherly Love

The other afternoon the temps were in the lower 80s so I went out onto our screened-in porch to enjoy fresh air and read a book.

I heard kids playing in the ravine behind the house. They were down in the creek bed that’s practically dry this time of year. Kids go exploring down there occasionally and in this case it was two boys, about 6 y.o. and 10 y.o.

I didn’t think a thing about it until I was jolted out of my reading by a loud Dad voice coming from the other side of the ravine.

Dad said: Alexander, where is your brother?

{Small voice, indistinguishable words}

Dad again: Alexander, I asked you, where is your brother? Where is William!!

{Slightly louder small voice, somewhat indistinguishable, but saying words that included “I don’t know”}

Dad continued: Alexander, I don’t care. Go back down into the ravine and find William. NOW!

At this point I heard a small whimper coming from the bottom of the ravine. A whimper so pathetic that I put down my book, stood up and looked down into the ravine where I saw a small boy sitting on a log by himself, crying, but not hurt or in any danger.

He was pretty much playing up the drama of being left behind.

I shouted over to the Dad telling him that I could see the abandoned brother, that he was fine, and then explained where I was so Alexander, the reluctant keeper of his brother, could find William.

At which point the Dad shouted thanks over my way while giving Alexander one last clearly stated command, a guideline for how to treat your brother.

And maybe all of humanity.

Dad said: ALEXANDER WE DON’T LEAVE OUR BROTHER IN A RAVINE, ANY RAVINE, EVER. Now go find him.

Which Alexander did with some alacrity while I watched, amused, from above.

So sayeth Dad, so let it be.

A Poem About Methuselah’s Diet

I continue to sort through old family photos and papers. In one of the boxes I found the following pithy poem. My father had saved it by cutting it out a newspaper.

According to the introduction to the poem it was on the dinner cards of the 1890 Class, College of Physicians and Surgeons in New York. Researching online I discovered there’s no known author for the poem.

DIET

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,

And never, as people do now

Did he note the amount of the caloric count;

He ate it because it was chow.

•🔸•

He wasn’t disturbed, as at dinner he sat,

Destroying a roast or a pie,

To think it was lacking in granular fat,

Or a couple of vitamins shy.

• 🔸•

He cheerfully chewed every species of food,

Untroubled by worries or fears,

Lest his health might be hurt by some fancy dessert––

And he lived over Nine Hundred Years!

Here is the poem as seen in print.

Questions of the Day

What have you laughed out loud about lately?

What’s the last thing you overheard that made you stop what you were doing and eavesdrop?

What do you think of Methuselah’s pragmatic diet plan?

• • ❤️ • •

Confessions Of A Reluctant Family Historian: My Kingdom For A Shredder

July 9, 2024July 9, 2024 / Ally Bean / 249 Comments

This is what is tripping me up. 😵‍💫

Last week while the outside temperatures and humidity soared to uncomfortable heights, I started going through boxes of old family photos + paper stuff, not because of an in-depth interest in genealogy, but because I want to reclaim a closet.

You see in our guest bedroom closet there are a gazillion and twenty-two boxes of old family photos + paper stuff that take up half of the closet.

Decades ago I inherited these boxes of old family photos + paper stuff from my mother and two aunts. While the boxes have been out of my sight for years their existence, even hidden away, has nagged at me.

Not as a constant worry mind you, but like a realization that there’s something I didn’t ask for taking up space in my life. And that something is weighing me down.

Group of guys, my great uncle is probably one of them.

Thus with quiet resolve I’ve begun going through these boxes that are disorganized, dusty, and sometimes have a musty odor that requires the use of an electric air cleaner in the room.

First I shredded that which obviously has no value. Things like a 1988 sales receipt for a “gold necklace” that was my mother’s, but who knows which necklace it refers to. Or things like patient notes scribbled in my doctor father’s chicken scratch cursive handwriting on the back of envelopes.

Then in an attempt to make some sense of it I’m sorting the contents of the boxes into smaller piles of:

Photos: a) by person when name is on the back or b) by guess based on the age of photo not the people in it [2 examples seen on this post]
Letters: a) personal exchanged within the family or b) signed by famous people
Historically interesting circuit rider preacher stuff [my great grandfather was one]
Lighthearted tidbits like comic strips or funny stories or cute cards
Bibles: 12 [!] complete ones + 3 New Testaments [1 in Spanish] + 1 Apocrypha

And this is where the project stands today.

Group of gals, my grandmother is probably one of them.

While I long to get this stuff dispatched to where it needs to go [trash? digitized photos? museums? wherever you send old Bibles?] there is a problem, obliquely referred to in a literary way in the title of this post. Gold star to anyone who gets the reference.

After shredding some old family photos + paper stuff and filling three 33 gallon extra large trash bags, I broke our 25 y.o. paper shredder. Jammed it up to a point that we decided to buy a new one, currently on order with Amazon, to be delivered later this week.

Because I have only just begun to shred. 😑

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