Chicken and Sponge

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 45

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Dear, dear readers!  It's been so long!  Petra has just heard that her mom, sister, and step-father are flying up to Pelican to check on her and drag her home.  Yes, I've been lazy.  Yes, I've been negligant.  Yes, I'll try to do better.  Sorry for the long pause.  At some point in time I'll post the first quarter of the book in one shot and then follow up.  Hey. thanks for hanging in there.

    “And they’re flying up here!  Up here, Malcolm!  Do you know what this means?”  I loudly whined on the verge of hysteria.

    Malcolm’s shoulders shook as he tried to contain his laughter.  He was mostly successful, but the grin would just not go away.

    He held his arms out to me and I flung myself into them.  A temporary safe haven from my own approaching hysteria.
    “There, there.  If there’s nothing you can do to stop them, you may as well stop worrying about what might happen.”

    “Malcolm, that all sounds very good, but you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.  You’ve no idea what they’re like.  I don’t want them here.”

    “Petra, you can’t stop them.  So just stop thinking about it.”

    “I can’t help myself.  I’m obsessed.  My brain will think of no other subject than my impending doom.”

    Malcolm’s sleepy eyes turned warm and a slow smile lit his face.  He took me by the hand and started to lead me down the hall. 

    “Petra, I think I know a way to get your mind off this subject.”  And he opened door number one.

    *********************

    Ferry day.  A big ferry day.  I was sitting on the boardwalk in front of the Wet Goods drinking a Club Drink, a brass monkey.  It was a little foul, but I was willing to tough it out.

    I hadn’t wanted to go down to the breakwater and mill around waiting for the ferry.  No place to sit, nothing to do.  All new hires would have to walk past us to get to either bunkhouse anyhow.  And I certainly wasn’t alone.  The benches in front of the Wet Goods were packed shoulder to shoulder with men.  The harbor entrance was also fairly congested, as well as the railing on each side.  There were lots of local men, fishermen who hadn’t left the harbor yet, and me. I was hanging with  Jaimie, Tim, Clark, and Enrico.  Most of the men wanted to see the two new girls they’d heard had been hired.  I admit I was curious, too, but I also wanted to get a look at the college boys.  Not that I wanted one for myself. Jaimie wanted one for herself, though, so I’d had to come to help her scout.  My current secret friend was suiting me just fine.  But Clark had been right and there’d been a pretty thorough mass firing of dead, new-hire weight, so while there was a new crew coming in, there was also about a dozen workers heading out.  No surprises there.

    There was something thrilling about watching the ferry slowly glide through the inlet and up to its dock.  It was so much larger and grander than any of the fishing vessels.  The weather was good, i.e. not raining, and I could see that people were standing on the deck of the ferry watching the town get closer and closer, just as we were watching them approach.  It always seems to take an eternity for the ferry to actually dock, get tied up, and have the ramp come down.  Twenty minutes or better of staring back and forth.  But that wasn’t the case with me today.  I felt ultra-relaxed and just kicked back, waiting for the parade.  Thank you, brass monkey.

    While townspeople rushed back and forth, coming off the ferry with their shopping, or preparing to board for a trip to town, a slow convoy of newbie slimers approached, Lauren leading them, laughing with her head tilted back, arm on a good-looking college kid , and turning to laugh and flirt with those following behind.  They all looked various degrees of smitten.  I counted approximately eighteen of them and bringing up the near-rear were two terrified, freaked out, all-natural, not-overly-washed, wannabe-hippie chicks.  Yes, terrified.

    “Hey, there they are!  Hey, beautiful, come have dinner with me, yeah, both of you!”

    “Nah, come down to my boat and let me show you around.”

    “Oohh.  Look at the scared little girls.  Don’t be scared, little girls, we won’t hurt you!”

    Luckily, my cohorts were silent, appraising, but silent, and it was the fishermen who were being complete ass-holes to the poor girls.  I turned and glared at a couple of them.

    “What?  You jealous?” one asked me.

    I rolled my eyes and looked toward Clark and we both laughed.

    “Oh, yeah, I’m jealous, because you are such a man and I wanted you for myself and now those two new girls are going to be fighting over you and I just won’t stand a chance.”

    “You should be a little nicer,” the guy told me, “or you’ll always be alone.”

    Clark and I both rolled our eyes and shook our heads.

    “You’re not jealous, are you?” Clark said under his breath to me.

    I shot him a look.  “Now I’m going to start getting paranoid.  Should I be jealous?”

    “No,” he said, “the odds are still in your favor.”

    “Somehow, that wasn’t exactly the reassurance that I was looking for, but thanks for pointing out the math.”

    He smirked and didn’t reply.  We watched as the group walked on toward the Cold Storage, the guys looking around with curiosity and the girls looking like they were going to hold hands and make a break for the ferry.

    “They don’t shave their legs,” Enrico announced.  “I can’t abide that.”

    I raised my eyebrows and whispered to Clark.  “I’m impressed.  I didn’t know he knew the word abide.”

    “And I bet they don’t shave their arm pits either.  Nasty.”  That, of course, from Enrico again.

    “I don’t care,” Tim announced.  “I wouldn’t turn either one of them down.  They were kind of cute.”

    “Yeah,” I agreed, “like finding Bambi in your headlights.”

    “Oooh, catty,” Tim said.

    I raised my eyebrows and shook my head in disgust, then turned my back to him.  Guys are too weird when you go girl-watching with them.  Except Clark.  He’s always just annoyingly Clark.

    I turned to Jaimie.

    “So, ok, did you pick one out?”

    “I don’t get to just pick one out!”

    “Why not?”

    “What do I do if he doesn’t want me?”

    “Geez Louise!  There were like, eighteen of them!  Pick out another.”

    Jaimie just looked at me for a second.  “How?”

    I stared back.  “We really have some work to do, girl.  I didn’t have much confidence when I arrived here, but I can’t believe how lacking in confidence you are!”

    Tim snorted.  “You didn’t ‘lack confidence’.  What a crock.”

    “I will have you know that I did too lack confidence and was a meek, retiring little wallflower until I met all of you.”

    Clark, Tim, and Enrico snorted in unison.

    I gave them a mild glare.  “So,” I announced, “you guys had better get to work.  It should be you guys who help Jaimie gain her confidence.”

    My words were met with looks that varied from disgust to panic.

    “Then you’d better teach her how to be a girl first,” Enrico told me.

    I looked at him in horror, unable to believe that he could be so callous of Jaimie’s feelings.  I glanced over at her and could tell that she was quietly mortified.

    “Don’t worry,” I told him, “No problem, piece of cake.  And don’t worry.  Jaimie needs men friends, not self-centered little ass-holes.”

    Clark and Tim exchanged glances with me and I realized that they agreed.  At least they were both intelligent enough to recognize just how uncalled for that was.

    “Let’s go, Jaimie.  Time to go do girlie stuff.”  I grabbed her and pulled her along, determined to give her a real make over, get her just a little drunk, and then practice her wiles on someone safe like Clark and Tim.

    “Tim, you and Clark come on down to the cabin in a couple of hours.  And feel free to leave that dog Enrico at home.”

A fast and sloppy post

About three weeks ago in Lincoln City--February at the Oregon Coast, and absolutely nothing to do with today's post.  The girls jumped in and swam around four times, to the delight and horror of the beach crowd.

The computer is seriously messed up and repeating letters with a vengeance.  So if it happens, don't expect any corrections--I've had enough frustration to last quite awhile.

This day...let me tell you.  Could a day be more Mondayish than today was?  I got to work and our newest individual in the house, female, ran up to me, crying, snotting, tattle-taling ( I hate it when people tattle-tale unless they do it with panache) and she spit on me in the process.  She spit on me in the afternoon, too.  None of it on purpose, but just as annoying.  And gross.

I told her to start the day with "good morning" and to say something positive.  In return I got a scream of "I DON'T WANT TO!!!!"  Yeah, and I don't want to be nice.  Don't rain on my parade on Monday morning, because...

Not a great day.  I ran a red light.  I did.  I confess.  I don't know if the light took a picture of me or not, but I felt terrible about it.  I knew I was running a red light but it was too late--run it or slam it.  So I ran it.  Then I fretted and brooded and here I am--still in a funk.  Then, I tried to be a nice person and let a man cross a cross-walk and he did, but the light turned yellow and I decided I didn't want to run a red and I stopped--across the cross-walk and I got to hear a middle-class, well-dressed smart-ass rub elbows with a homeless man by saying, "oh and she wants to know how her driving is?"  This is because of the completely asinine bumper sticker all our agency cars have that ask, "How's my driving?" along with the office phone number.  Well, today, my driving sucked.  And I hope he got to feel all superior for conversing casually with a homeless man with a sign ( to whom I usually pass a couple of dollars to and all he did was try to share his dubious wit).

I got spit on in the afternoon.  Same individual.  Still unintentional .  Still really gross.

I came home.  This computer is just so messed up.  I don't feel like writing anymore, just because it's so difficult to get any cooperation.  Black screen most of the time and then when I do get it going, repeating lettersssssss.....

What else?  Hot tub.  Messed up.  Fifty degrees.  Due to magic marker de-construction.

Cold.  Oh, so cold...WIND!!!...rain...hail...fire in the fire place...

Did I mention it?  That Sam is still not going to school?  And Spring Break is in less than two weeks?  Did I mention that Mick is insane?

Did I mention that Anusha found a live flea on Hedwig?  That we resent and begrudge Hedwig more than ever?

Life goes on, or so they say.  Monday is almost over.  One down, four to go...

Autism Milestone: No More Pull-Ups

Sam, happy to be in Licoln City after a day at the beach. 
  

Once again, one of those milestones that most parents never consider, at least not after their child hits three years of age.  But our little clothing-shredder, the one and only Samantha, has suddenly and unexpectedly rejected her pull-ups.  Or Depends or Attends or Assures or whatever brand is in the house right now.

We thought this would never happen.  I tried to get her to wear underwear to bed in the past and she looked at me like I was cruel and demented.  So I just shrugged and let her continue to wear them.  They didn't serve much purpose.  Working with someone who wears them all the time, I believe this to be a common problem.  The "protective undergarment" i.e. pull-ups, just don't work well on adults.  Oh, sure, they're probably great for older women who pee every time they sneeze, (I have wished I was wearing "protective undergarments" when I've sneezed before, rather than having to change my clothes), but that is about it.  If you're going to pee, these garments saturate and you still have to change your clothes and/or your bedding.

However, they help contain the deluge.  And although Sam is often dry in the morning, she often is not, as well.  Which means more, much more laundry.  But still...we don't really care.  She's 13.  She's autistic.  But she wears panties all night.  And we're proud of her.

However, the shredding continues with a vengeance.  We have a friend who volunteers at H2O and he is always on the look out for Sam clothes.  Now she wants to wear panties all the time and she doesn't want to wear ones that have been repaired--her Frankenstein underwear.

She is also refusing school once again and Mick is going insane.  Since the Winter break she has gone to school for about two weeks.  No wonder Mick is insane.  The marker destruction continues and our hot tub is an unlovely shade of purplish brown.  She continues to want to drive.  The keys remain hidden.  She discovered that a house key won't do the trick and I was just relieved that she didn't break it off in the ignition.

Like the title of the movie, Something's Gotta Give.  What, when, we don't know.  Soon, we hope.  Very soon.  Stay tuned.  In the meantime, we focus on the positive, and those night-time panties are a very big accomplishment.  Congratulations, Sam, and you still don't get to drive.

Continuing to Annoy and Be Cute

The title of this post refers to Hedwig, though one might think I was talking about Samantha.  Before I get off on the wrong rant, though, let me update you on Hedwig.

In the above picture, she is resting on a tray on top of the refrigerator.  It is slightly distasteful, but at the same time, she isn't sticking to one of us.  Because these days, Hedwig resembles nothing so much as a piece of velcro, and Mick is her fabric of choice.  He can't stand it.

He sits down.  She is right there.  He throws her down.  She is right back.  And I think I've already told you that she has a meow that sounds like a cranky drunk who's been chain-smoking and drinking whiskey.

On the bright side, for me that is, she has stopped sleeping with us.  I greatly appreciate this.   It took being mean, meaner than I thought I could be.  It was all due to the fleas.  In the past, when I would toss her from our bed and she would creep back to settle down on one of my body parts, I would eventually give up or she would sneak better.  Then she got fleas and there was no way I was going to tolerate her in the bed, scratching.  She tried, though, and it was scratch, scratch, scratch, and then I would scratch, scratch, scratch, and then...she tried to lie down by my head and that was it.  I launched her.

No, I didn't hurt her.  I didn't abuse her.  I only launched her about 2 and a half feet.  But I let her know I didn't want her sleeping in our bed.  Not with the scratch, scratch, scratch going on.  No way I could tolerate that.

So Hedwig decided that she would sleep on top of the satellite receiver in the living room.  Ocassionally she sleeps behind the tv itself.  That was fine.  I guess.  Far more fur flying around than I would like, but it's better than having her sleeping on me in our bed.

Then she got me back.

Our cats are pukers.  Always have been and now I'm afraid that they always will be.  We've tried every cat food under the sun, starting with the most expensive ones first.  Nothing worked.  Every formula:  sensitive stomach, hair ball control, indoor cat...Iams, Science Diet...piles of cat puke every morning.

Then it stopped.  I was afraid to say anything for fear of jinxing us, but then I made a comment to Mick, "This new Friskies Indoor Cat Formula seems to have done the trick.  I'd given up.  I don't know if you noticed, but they've been puking a lot less."  "Yes," Mick replied, "I have noticed".

And that is when I jinxed us.  I should have kept my mouth shut.  Then maybe the cats would have kept theirs shut, too.  Payback from Hedwig was when she knocked over my favorite picture of Miranda that was propped up on the satellite receiver and then, you guessed it, she puked on it.  The contents of her stomach ran under the glass on the frame and ate away the bottom portion of the picture.  My favorite picture of Miranda, taken in the 5th grade.

Hedwig didn't stop there.  Oh, no, because I shampooed the living room carpet a couple of weeks ago and now every morning I get to clean up a pile of cat puke right in the walk way.  Every morning, a fresh nasty stain.  Time to shampoo again.

Whenever we get visitors who like cats, they all comment on how cute Hedwig is and how they'd like to take her home with them.

And Mick and I reply, "Yes, we'd like you to take her home, too."

Meet My Pre-Owned Furniture: an Ode to Red and Kitty Foreman

I forgot that I was supposed to be taking a picture of the new couch once Mick called Zeus over.

It's big.  It's gold, though it doesn't really look it in this photo.  And it looks better in the evening, lamp light being so much more forgiving.  This is my 70's Show couch, and I love it.  I really do.

"I don't want other people's crap!"  I have heard that refrain from Mick over and over.  What he has had to listen to in return is, "I hate our couch!"  But for the past year he has had to agree with me.  That is because once the fake leather cracked, Sam began to peel our couch like a large, black grape.  And she wouldn't stop.  Every day, every single day, there were bits of black naugahydeto vacuum up.  You'd think the couch (and love seat) would eventually be naked.  I suppose they would have been, but I couldn't wait that long.  And I understand not wanting other people's crap.  For years that is all we had. In Pelican people tend to recycle their furniture.  As a result, one couch may have resided at many different houses, been subjected to many kids, pets, and unimaginable abuse.  We didn't want a couch that smelled like cat pee.

Mick and I now live in the world of the non-profit agency.  I have never met so many hard-working employed people that are so poor.  Luckily, they are all willing to share the ins and outs of living on pennies.  I was complaining about the couch at work one morning and a co-worker said, "Why don't you go look at H2O?"  We also live in an area now that has access, access to all kinds of things.

H2O is another non-profit here in Dallas, Oregon that is a lot like the Salvation Army, but better.  Like Goodwill, but less expensive.  And it's huge.

So I suggested we think about looking there for some new furniture and to my amazement, Mick was all for it.  On a whim, we drove over there an hour before closing.  I was immediately attracted to the huge gold couch.  When I was a kid, it would have been one of many.  Now, it was the sole glowing object in a sea of rejected dusty blue.  It called to me.  

We sat on most of the couches and Mick agreed with me.  It was big.  It was the best.  "But how much is it?" Mick asked.  I pointed at the sticker.  "It's $30."

That raised his eyebrows and I pointed to the love seat behind me.  "And I like this love seat best and it's $25."

With four furry, shedding pets, covering the furniture will still be a necessity.  Yes, I need to clean off the coffee table, what's new?

Mick was delighted.  We both love That 70"s Show.  That must be what it is, what attracted us to the huge gold couch.  Hey, it has a little tufting, too.  I like tufting.

It threatened to rain on the way home.  Of course.  The old couch was a bear to get out of the house, though the love seat was much easier.  I was livid though when I saw the damage those pieces had done.  Folks, they were less than five years old and we'd bought them brand new from Ashley Furniture.  The frame on the couch had broken on the bottom and had torn a hole in our carpet.  The frame on the love seat had broken in the back and gouged deep grooves into the wall behind it.  It was relatively new furniture.  Four years old.  And cracking and peeling like a grape.  What is the deal?  This is a bunch of crap.  Granted, not an expensive set, but this kind of shoddy workmanship ticks me off.

So...a couch and a love seat for $55?  Hell, we'll go to H2O and get "new" ones every year! 
  
  

When Autistic Kids Elope and Other Living Nightmares

Recovering from the Adventures of Zeus and Louise. 

Mick has been too exhausted to post.  Ditto for moi.  We're still recovering from LAST Sunday morning.  Make that 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  Cruel, cruel child.

It is a very bad sign, but a very effective forewarning, when Sam gets up and closes our bedroom door in the morning.  Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.?  And Sunday?  Have I mentioned how much I cherish my weekends?  The need to catch up on sleep?  I get up at 5:15 a.m. Monday through Friday.  I really did, all this past week, and you know what else?  I EXERCISED!  So why is it that when Sam closed our bedroom door so early in the morning and we both knew it was a terrible sign, why was I the one to immediately jump out of bed to DEAL?  Because I didn't want to get into that same old argument about who is more tired, me or Mick, and then have him say with complete disdain that I could get more sleep, but I choose to read.  Because if I hear that one more time, something in my psyche will snap and then I'm either going to punch him or start to ruminate on truly horrible things I could do to him.  So, in order to save my marriage, I jumped out of bed to follow Sam and see what she was up to.

Bad sign number two:  Sam was wearing shoes.  She had her pajamas on, but she had shoes on, too.  And then she grabbed the car keys and things got interesting.

While life turned into a rated NC-17 real life drama ( not really, very little swearing and only mild violence and that was all perpetrated against me), I kept imagining Mick in bed, pretending to sleep.  Pretending, because Sam gave me the literal run-around and I was in and out our front door several times, each time heralded by the security recording that announces, "Front Door!"  In and out, in and out, with that voice sounding throughout the house each time.  Then I made a critical error and Sam gained entrance to our car.  With keys in hand and she was attempting to put them in the ignition.  I feel no confidence whatsoever, that this process would be beyond her.  In fact, I'm pretty certain that Sam is a smart enough cookie, and an observant one at that, and could quite easily start the car and probably get it to move.

I'm also pretty sure that she is unaware of what P, R, and D mean and chances are she'd jam it into D and drive straight into our porch.  Or worse.  Much worse.  And all possible, horrible scenarios played out in my mind while I tried to wrestle the keys away from her and she yelled at me and pushed.

I took a short commercial break to run to the, "Front Door!"  and poke my head in and yell, "MICK, I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP NOW!" 

I'm pleased to announce that he did not go take a hot tub first, yell, "I'll be there in a minute", or even take the time to get dressed.  His sister will be relieved to know that he did take the time to grab his robe first or it really would have been an NC-17 live drama.

As Mick approached, Sam gave me a final shove that sent me reeling backward like a drunk thrown out of a saloon in the old West.  And Mick came in like Black Bart.  His expression was thunderous.  They got into it, Mick won (the first round), Sam was severely scolded and told that uh-uh no way would she be driving, and then we hid the keys.

And Sam ran out the front door and started running up the street to the main road.  Mick looked at me and said, "Just let her go.  I'll go get dressed and get her in the car."  And I said, "Uh-uh, no way" and grabbed my coat and followed her up the road.

At 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  In my pajamas...and slippers...in the rain.

For a fat child, that kid can cover some ground fast.  No way was I going to let her go and have Mick try to catch up.  Remember, you remember, don't you?  It was just a couple of weeks ago that we'd called 911 and spent three hours searching for her only to find Sam lying in some lady's bed eating old Halloween candy.  I could just see her walking in on a family getting ready for early church service.  Scaring some elderly person into a fatal heart attack.  So I followed.  And prayed that Mick hadn't taken a hot tub before dressing.  Or had a fashion crisis where he couldn't decide if he should wear the blue plaid or the red plaid that day. 

She sure could walk fast.  I realized that my slippers had big cracks in the soles.  Also, no matter how carefully you step, gravel will find a way inside one's slipper.  And then it gets caught in the long, fake fur.  I also realized that there are quite a few people driving around at 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning and what the hell are they all doing?  I knew what I was doing.  I was tracking.  I was trying to prevent an elderly couple's fatal heart attacks.  But what were all these other people doing driving around that early on a weekend morning in the rain?  Get a life.  Sleep in.  That's what I would have been doing, given the chance.

I saw Mick speed past me and pull into a driveway in front of Samantha, who entered the car without further incident.  Yes, he turned and picked me up, too.  And we went home.  Sam stripped.  Threw off her shoes and we breathed a sigh of relief.  No shoes is a good sign.  Not a guarantee of staying home, but a good sign none the less.

And then I went to the back door and realized that the dogs were not on our porch, where I'd expected them to be.  They hadn't jumped all over us in a crazed frenzy from our twenty minute absence as we'd entered the house either.  I poked my head out the back door.  Uh-oh.

The porch door was open.  The door that led to freedom.  I walked back to Mick and said, "The dogs have escaped."  "Are you sure?" he asked, and he followed me out to the porch.  Then he walked around the yard, the whole acre of yard, the almost treeless, flat, bare acre and he called their names. 

Then Mick stalked back to the house shaking his head, grabbed the car keys, and said, "Why do these things always happen to me?"

It was about 45 minutes later that Mick returned.  I'd had horrible visions of one or both dogs getting hit by one of those crazy 6:30 a.m. sunday morning drivers.  But no, the two lunatics came charging in the door, wet, smelly, muddy and so excited to be home after their exciting adventure.  Mick told me the tale of driving and looking, driving and looking, and thank God that Louise is larger and white because he saw he out in between two fields ambling along.  He called her name and she came running.  Zeus, afraid that he'd miss out, came running from further up the road and the two idiots made it home.  Tired, panting, tongues fully extended, they collapsed on the love seat and slept.

I realized that I hadn't heard any noise out of Sam and went to look, just to make sure that she hadn't escaped again during the current dog drama.

Alas, she was exhausted, too.  And she slept, in OUR BED, until 12:30 in the afternoon.  And Mick and I just sat, limp and vacant eyed, waiting for the next crisis to strike.

Conclusion of the Story or "What Has That Autistic Child Been Up To Now?"

My sister-in-law calls me this morning and says laughingly:  Your husband sucks!

me:  Yeah, but what this time?

Cheryl:  He didn't finish the story!  What was on the porch?

I pause and look at the receiver, roll my eyes and smile.

me:  Well, I'm not going to tell you.

Cheryl:  What?  Well, you suck too.

me:  I know, but I have the state of my marriage to think of.  You're just going to have to wait.  Mick set it up for reader suspense.

Cheryl:  Oh, you're kidding me!  You're not going to tell me?

me:  No way, you'll just have to wait and read.

Now, if I really sucked, I would go on to write about something completely unrelated.  And Cheryl, now I worry that you will feel disappointed, because no, there were no dead kidnappers or possums on the front porch.

I have been amazed at the amount of road kill around here.  Having grown up in Montana, in a wooded, mountainous, lightly populated region, one expects some road kill.  There is a lot of cover for game to hide in.  But the Willamette Valley is a different matter:  farming, vineyards, some sheep and horses, and suburbia.  There are lots of flat, open spaces.  There are trees, but rarely do I feel like I'm "in the woods".  However, the other day while driving at work, I noticed a dead deer alongside the road, and that was unusual.  If I'd been visiting my parents, that would be all too common, but not here.  However, the possums, skunks, and raccoons litter the highways with their little carcasses.  So Mick's fear is not uncalled for.  Also remember, my dogs have discovered that gopher heads, if they are fast enough to decapitate one, are quite the delicacy.

But we deal with more than just critters and varmints around here.  Critters and varmints are like a breath of fresh air (except for the time they skunked Louise and I swear that when it rains her head still gives off eau de skunk).  Because most of the time we are run ragged trying to keep up with "Sam Mischief".  Sam Mischief rules our world.  Like it or not, and frankly, not wins most of the time.

It is amazing what that child will do and now that she is older and KNOWS that she is older, she is all about being independent.  There is some sorrow in this because we know she will never be able to achieve the independence she longs for unless there is some sort of miraculous break-through in autism research.  In fact, her latest bull-headed mischief ( and yes, we do all know where she gets that from, hon), is thinking that she is going to drive our vehicles, by herself and whenever she wants.

Now she knows that Miranda is older and she knows that Miranda doesn't drive yet.  I dread next year when Miranda can take driver's ed and will get her learner's permit because Sam is REALLY going to think that she can drive then.  Three times now, we've had to wrestle the keys out of her hand and once even pull her from the vehicle.

Mick came home the other night and found his car keys on the front step.

But not on the night in question.  On that night he encountered something of a different nature.

Let me share some of what this child has put us through over the years.  Please note, this is a VERY abbreviated list of offenses.

The eggs have to head the list.  Because we had a restaurant at the time and would have five or ten or more dozen eggs at a time.  Sam wouldn't dream of eating an egg, but thought there was nothing better than breaking them onto the floor as fast as she could.  Break one egg on your floor and try to clean it up.  Not easy.  Now break about two dozen of them onto your floor.  This went on FOREVER!  And yes, I do mean FOREVER.  Oh, she eventually slowed down so much that we mistakenly thought she'd outgrown the obsession.  Then one day I found a broken egg on our CARPET!  Oh, foul, foul carpet.  And I found a broken egg the other day on our porch.  Why just one, I don't know.  But I was grateful that it was just one.

She also used to pour out every bathroom product she could find.  Mick likes Pert shampoo for some reason and there was just something about that that was irresistible to Sam and she would dump the entire bottle into her bath water.  Very annoying at any time, but especially when you live out in the bush of Alaska and can't run to the store and just buy more.  I stopped buying it for awhile.  It's not like Mick got to use it anyway.

I'll never forget the time when we were so dead tired that we didn't wake up until it was too late and toddler Sam had dumped a full pitcher of berry juice, and half-gallon of milk and sprinkled a couple of packages of jello on top of it onto the CARPET again, right next to Mick as he slept, at about 3:00 a.m.  I awoke to loud, ANGRY cursing.  But it was already too late.  That escapade resulted in us cutting out half of the living room carpet and living with rough plywood floors because there was no stomaching the sour milk, no matter how pretty the jello splotches were. 

So there were powder sugar parties in the kitchen where Sam opened up a new bag and tossed the contents around the entire kitchen.  That ultimately resulted in the purchase of a new vacuum because you must NEVER NEVER VACUUM SUGAR!  She did this on three separate occasions (only vacuumed it once, though) and she followed up with baking cocoa.

Our water glasses have had any number of objects in them.  We try to sip water or tea throughout the day, but it wasn't unusual to find a Barbie standing in our glasses.

Which beat having her pee in our glasses which was a recent bit of Sam mischief.

And not to gross you out...well, yes, just to gross you out, Sam went through a phase when she'd poop in the bed or on the floor and then cover it with a blanket and we'd have to SEARCH for the source of that stench, wondering where she'd hidden it now.

So, then we come to our poor hot tub.  As disreputable as that thing looks, in fact, it could guest star on My Name is Earl ( if only it hadn't been cancelled--something that I still can't believe), we are quite fond of it.  And there have been any number of unacceptable objects and substances floating in it.

The worst was pee.  When we first got it, Sam used it like a toilet.  And yes, she still floated around in it, though the rest of us only liked to after a water change.

She threw huge clumps of dirt and grass into the hot tub, MORE THAN ONCE, because she enjoyed the muddy mess.

I have sat in that hot tub and fished out popcorn kernels, after she'd dumped an entire bag into it, because I knew it would clog up the filters.  That was time consuming.

And then the markers.  Mick talks about the water being bright blue.  That was a few weeks ago.  The marker obsession continued and continued and that water was murky BLACK.  As in you-can't-see-the-bottom-black.

So the other morning, I had a meeting at work with the county that was three and a half hours long!  Then I went back to the group home and worked through the usual there which can be any amount of grossness and craziness on a given day ( or relatively mellow, just depending), and this was followed by the I.E.P. meeting.  That meeting had lasted an hour and a half.

Mick only got to attend a few minutes of the meeting.  It was either him or me and he'd gone to the last one.  I took off work early to be able to go and we'd asked our respite worker, a very nice and sweet young woman named Anusha ( she looks like Princess Jasmine and Sam loves her) if she could come over and hang out with the girls (namely Sam, but Miranda is social and both she and Anusha are ADDICTED to the Sookie Stackhouse novels).  So I got home at 5:20 and I had a SPLITTING HEADACHE.

The living room was empty.  Anusha's car was in the driveway, though.  I was perplexed and slowly started unloading my bag.  Then Anusha came running from the direction of my bedroom and was trying to contain her laughter and just a hint of nervousness.  "You've got to see this!"  She laughed.  "I swear, I'd been checking on Sam every few minutes!"  That is not a lame excuse.  Sam has managed many a time to start a building on fire or flood the house when someone was checking on her "every few minutes".  She's fast.  She's an opportunist.

I told Anusha that I was going to title this, "When Anusha Babysits":

What I failed to photograph was the ground, looking like a glacier ice flow of thick bubbles that stretched across our deck.

This tale ends in minor tragedy, due to a break-down in communication.  Miranda had told me that she'd turned off the hot tub because she was afraid the bubbles would mess it up.  The hot tub was out of commission for almost 9 months and we really want to take good care of it.  Both Mick and I misunderstood this communication and took it to mean that she'd shut off the power source at the breaker.  But we'd never shown her or talked to her about it.  Miranda had simply turned off the jets.  So when Mick drained the hot tub late that night, the power was still on.  And now we have a hot tub that only heats the water to 53 degrees.  So here we go again. 

 

Missed Opportunity

I was at work last night and decided to call home to ask how the IEP meeting went. After a few minor comments Vick started to chuckle. I thought to myself, what in the hell could be so funny at an IEP meeting? I never encountered such humor when I attended them by myself. Maybe they were talking about me. Don't be so damned paranoid Mick. After all, it is a meeting about Samantha's education plan. And we all know that when Sam's name comes up there can definitely be some laughter(or minor anger) associated with it. Luckily it was something funny.

As I pulled into the driveway after work something didn't look right. I know, how in the hell can you tell something is different in the dark you say. Well after living with Sam for 13 years one gets used to seeing things that don't belong, even in the dark of night. It wasn't as if the object was defined as it was more of a shadow image. But definitely not supposed to be there. And there it was, staring right at me on the front porch. At first glimpse I thought it might be a dead animal. Man was I hoping I was wrong. We don't need critters straying to our house just to perform their last gasps. I can just imagine Sam carrying in a dead possum. I'm sure it would freak them all out it when it suddenly came back to life. Such is their name.

During our conversation Vick mentioned that the hot tub needed to be drained. I was planning on draining it as soon as I got home. You see, Sam has learned all about watercolors. She learned this little trick at school that has ended up being great fun for her. Not for us, for her! She learned how to pull the tips out of washable markers and squeeze the ink out into water. Why the school would teach an autistic mischievious girl this act is beyond me. I think the companies that make these markers should be sued for false advertising. They may be washable, but they leave the worst stain imaginable. Walls,clothes,plastic cups. These are just a few things that stain when she has her fun. Back to the hot tub. I'm surprised we haven't turned into smurfs. Because that is the color our tub has been for over a week. At least my skin hasn't stained yet. One also has to check their water glass to make sure it is clear. At least ink is better than peeing in my glass. Although pee is probably more sterile than the ink. I still refuse to drink either one. Shit that's a gross thought!

The thing on the porch didn't move at all as I turned off the truck's engine. I thought maybe it would run when I opened my door. The door on the drivers side of the truck really makes a grinding squeal when you open and close it. This is due to the hinge being tweaked a little. Since the truck is not worth putting any money into, it will just have to remain that way forever. No such luck for movement. Nobody leaves the porch light on for me so I couldn't see what it was for sure. After making a quick hiss at it, I came to the immediate conclusion that whatever it was, it was dead. I decided then to enter the side sliding door to avoid any stench that might come with whatever this thing was.

After putting my keys and everything else in my pockets away, I sat on the couch for a quick breather. I thought to myself, get the hot tub draining then go out and deal with whatever it is lying on the porch. So out the back door I went. The hose was right where I left it. Nicely coiled on the deck. I unwound the hose stretching it out into the gravel in front of our shop. I grabbed the female end of the hose and started marching towards the hot tub. Holy shit! Whatever was on the front porch had babies and they were all over our deck around our tub. I didn't know what to think. I dropped the hose and headed into the house. "Vick honey wake up", I whispered. She gave me that stare of how dare you but I was desperately wanting to know what had happened. As she sat up in bed wiping her eyes, the laughter started to build.....

The watercolor culprit waiting for her noodles at Olive Garden. Known to Sam as " Salad Garden "

O.K. You Win

No wonder my mom can't say no to us. How cute are we anyway!

It isn't easy for me but I admit that the other computer is really sucky. After numerous hours of trying to get it to run like it should I give up. I hate doing that but I don't know enough about these damned things to fix them. Now I have to resolve to cussing to myself while I am typing. Why might you ask? I'm sure you read Vick's last post. Remember the key board? You don't know how much I hate this thing right now. I'm sure if I try I can come up with a few new cuss words to describe it. I know hon, you have all the keys memorized due to your endless hours of typing, let alone typing 101 in high school. Well if the Mariners or Blazers taught typing classes I would be right there with you. Damned keyboard! The only positive thing I can think of right now is that it will make me become a better typer and not by choice. Maybe that is her underlying deal. Frustrate me to no end and I will quit hogging her blog. I think I just figured it out! No that can't be possible. How else would we communicate if I quit writing love letters to her(LOL). Sorry hon, the letters will continue and yes, I will get better at this crap.

On the bright side, our wonderful bullheaded child( I wonder where she got that)Samantha has decided to stay home today. It's pretty sad when Sam staying at home is easier for me than typing on this keyboard. Maybe I just have more practice with Sam. Honestly, I think she is feeling the effects of that time of the month. Something that I am not familiar with but have been dealing with since my family consists of all females. The only reprieve being Zeus, our french bulldog. Maybe Zeus and I should move into the shop when those special days roll around each month. I better keep my mouth shut or we might actually get voted out there.

My new job. Probably the easiest job I have ever had. Keep the peace between the crew and make sure they are scrubbing toilets properly and then go home. Not to much more than that, really. They are high functioning disabled adults who are striving to be integrated into the everyday workforce. They are easier to handle than some of the workers I had in Pelican in the past. They perform janitorial duties at a couple of the local colleges here in Dallas. Alot of my time is driving to and from their homes. Kind of feel like a truck driver getting paid for driving. Oh well, I like to drive. And I'm getting paid!

Back to this keyboard. Now it is repeating letters. Like thiiiis. I think Vick blows it out with compressed air when that happens. Not me. I'm going to say goodbye for now so I don't throw the f...ing thing in the garbage and get into trouble. Well everyone, have a great day and wish our computer problems well for us.

P.S. I promise to get some video on here as soon as things are working better. Until then.....

Marriage by Blog Replaces the Long-Distance Marriage

Excuse the lack of photos--coming soon!

Oh, this is so not going to work!  And all I mean by that is this computer.  It took me ten minutes to get online after having about 20 windows pop up.  I'm going to rant and it may be all over the place, so if in doubt, read the post before.  This isn't a Mick rebuttal, but close.

Mick and I used to have a long-distance marriage, splitting our time between Alaska and Oregon.  Now we have a blogging marriage with visitation on the weekends.  Marriage is a partnership, after all, and now it is a blogging partnership as well.  How did this happen?

Mick and I are now both living and working in Dallas, Oregon full time.  However, we talked more when we lived apart four months of the year.  Thanks to a $20/month flat fee for long distance, self-employment, and me being a full-time stay-at-home, full-time writer (oh, woe is me! the good old days!), Mick and I would some months log in about 1400 minutes per month on the phone--long distance--$20.  I kid you not.  I slept in the middle of the bed.  I never hung up on him, (perhaps a bit of sulking and terse statements here and there) and all was right with the world.

Now we are apparently living 12 months of the year together.  I see him for approximately 12 minutes a day, Monday through Thursday, about an hour Friday night when he gets off work, and we see each other every waking moment on the weekends.

Mick naps.

I am not a napper.

All told, about 20 hours a week.  I'm not saying it's a bad thing.  It's just compact.

So, a lot of our marriage may end up being conducted via Chicken and Sponge.  It wouldn't have to be, but Mick never thinks to look at our dry erase board next to the sink.  I don't know, maybe he thinks it's a New York Subway schedule or something, but he really doesn't look at it.  Neither does Miranda.  I write chores down on it ("Mom, just write a list for me somewhere and I'll do it".  Uh-huh, uh-huh.) but I seem to be writing in swahili or classical greek and everyone else reads, well, nothing.  As Miranda would say, "that's hyperbole" or to look at it from a different angle, "complete sarcasm".  Bottom line: I write on that board to practice my penmanship.  No, I don't write on the board to nag Mick.

I was calling him from work in the morning when I had a spare moment, but I haven't had much of a spare moment lately.  I have a co-worker who used to have a phone permanently attached to the side of her head, spending hours just hanging out with her forgetful husband while she walked around getting her work done.  But it became blatant enough that someone must have said something.  The phone is no longer sticking out of the side of her  head.  I hesitate to do anything that would cause someone to "have a talk with me".  I'm just now getting over having my nose out of joint after someone looked sideways at me for stopping and having a cup of coffee ( and it was an excellent opportunity to take a coffee break because all hell was scheduled to break loose at the appointed time--11:30 a.m. monday-friday, just in case you didn't know).  My point?  Yeah, I had a point.  I don't call and visit with Mick on the phone while I'm working.  So monday morning until friday night, I kind of feel like I'm operating in the dark.

So I have this horrible head cold.  I thought I was getting over it, but I got dizzy this afternoon, my nose was stuffed up, someone stuffed a letter opener in both of my ears, I was unsteady on my feet, and I realized that I was feeling just a mite bit sorry for myself. Of course, I might just be a big whiner, and probably am, or maybe the cold resurrected itself, got its second wind.

Why do I share such information?  Because I logged on to Chicken and Sponge, just to see, just to see where I left off.  One day last week I asked Mick what he'd done all day.  Yes, there was subtle, very subtle implied criticism.  Hey, dishes in the sink, laundry like I'd left it, flea-infested carpet unvacuumed, and he blasted me!  Oh, was he mad about how tired he was!  Would he tell me that he felt like crap and was sick?  Absolutely not.  He mentioned it in passing several days later, disgusted that I hadn't psychically known this tidbit.

How have we managed to stay married?  Sheer laziness?

How does blogging affect marriage?  To tell my story the long, drawn-out, nonsensical route, this blog may save our marriage, and our readers can share in the journey.  The blog saves me and Mick from the tediousness of actually speaking to each other.  We can just each log in.  At work we use a program called Therap in which we write log notes and record activity data for each individual as well as exciting information like who peed when and how much and what did their poop look like. Endlessly entertaining.  Chicken and Sponge will be our Therap, where we sign in to find out what the other is doing for the week.  I'll try to spare you too much detail in the area of bowels and bladders, unless it's just too entertaining not to share.

First order of business, the first major piece of news I heard when logging in to Chicken and Sponge, was the prognosis for this piece of crap computer.  E machines.  What kind of brand is that?  I meant to write much more on this computer than what I was writing about, but it's so depressing, I'm not sure if I can continue.  Let's fix the old machine.  Mick hates the old computer because I've typed enough that I've worn the letters off the key board and he has to look.  I don't have to look, so I don't care.  Obviously, it annoys him.  But not as much as this computer annoys me.  I'm ready to pause for the night...Let Mick share thoughts tomorrow.  I was so pleased to see a post from him.  Why he won't let the blog go, I don't know.  But in case you don't want endless love letters to the Trail Blazers and the Mariners, I will try to produce.  I will try to explain the whole blog vs. novel debate soon, and I'll welcome your input.

One bone to pick.  Readership increased by half this past week.  What were you all doing the week before?  Let me know.  Reader comments welcome.