Chicken and Sponge

The Eight Pound Pest

 

Hedwig, five year-old exotic short hair, both tormentor and victim. 

When Mick left for Alaska, I thought I might have the king-sized bed to myself.  I'm not sure why I thought this.  We've had Hedwig pestering us from the beginning.  Let me change that us to me.  When Mick is home she sleeps in the middle, but the word middle is misleading.  Perhaps I should say in between.  In between and stuck to my side.  Or better yet, in Hedwig's estimation, that space between my sleeping legs that makes a little nest.  This drives me insane.  How can one little cat be such a pain in the butt?

She's only eight pounds, but she's got a stocky little body.  Our cats are the feline equivilents of our bulldogs--stocky, dense (both in mass and mind), with pushed in faces.  The cats don't snore, like the dogs do, but tend to sneeze a lot instead.

Hedwig's trick is to sneeze in our faces at daybreak because she wants to be fed.  Mick and I both swear that this is a deliberately annoying ploy on her part to get us out of bed. It has nothing to do with a cold or allergy or any other kind of irritation.  Sheis the irritation.  When the sneezing doesn't work, she then resorts to putting her butt in our faces.  So it's sneeze and spin, sneeze and spin, and then the most grating, discontent meow imaginable.

This cat is lucky to still be alive.

Her survival, as contrary as it may seem, is because she is also the family victim.  In other words, she works on our sympathies when the others beat her up. In our four-legged family, she is on the bottom of the totem pole.  Louise, the english bulldog, has mostly mellowed out and only has isolated moments of exuberant butt-headedness.  Excuse me, but unless you've experienced it, there is no other way to accurately describe the behavior.  Zeus, the french bulldog is consistently in-your-face and electrified.  He has never got over this strange urge to make the cats play with him.  They don't cooperate and he doesn't give up.  Hedwig bears the brunt of it.

I never thought I'd see the day that these two would share a sunbeam and actually sleep together, but they do.  Perhaps because they are the two most annoying creatures in the house, they've found common ground.

Hecate, our other exotic short hair, is much larger than Hedwig--by almost three pounds.  Hecate is the true bully of the house and beats up Hedwig about two to three times a day,leaving masses of Hedwig hair littered around the house.  Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, Hedwig has a never-ending supply of hair.  We are all rather bewildered by this bullying behavior.  Though not from the same litter, they come from the same breeder and are only three weeks apart in age.  No matter, unlike me, Hecate feels no hesitation, shows no sign of a conscience when annoyed by Hedwig.  She just lets her have it with four paws of claws and her teeth.  Hedwig has extraordinary fur, a beautiful dense coat that has to be felt to be believed and I swear it is the only thing that has saved her from serious injury.

Sam likes Hedwig and Hedwig doesn't seem to mind Sam so much.  This is amazing considering that Sam almost accidentally drowned Hedwig in the hot tub a couple of years ago.  Being autistic she didn't realize that cats do not love the water like she does.  Luckily I checked on Sam in time to save Hedwig and rush her to the vet.  Sam realized that she'd somehow messed up and has never tried it again (she was trying to hold Hedwig's head out of the water as the claws frantically swished through the air in a desperate panic).  Sam still picks up and carries Hedwig a little.  Hedwig doesn't really like it, but on the other hand, she doesn't put up a fight.  Just that annoying meow.  Sam pets Zeus, too, who is also an extremely annoying little beast.

But there is something about these near-death experiences that makes me realize just how much we do love and care for these animals.  All their irritating behaviors fade into the background and we're left with a clearer picture of just how dear they are to us.  They are, after all, our four-legged family.

Spring Cleaning Report Card: C-

 

We spent a little bit of  Spring Break in Dallas City Park, which was beautiful, but crisp and cold.  Obviously, Sam has remained oblivious to weather conditions or dressing how most people would consider appropriate for the weather.  Miranda is not far behind with her flip-flops.

 

It is finally over.  When you stay home for Spring Break the time tends to drag.  To make matters worse, on Sunday morning, last morning of the vacation, Sam awoke at 6:05 a.m.  I felt cheated.

I'd had big, ambitious plans for getting this house and property spic 'n span.  I got over that pretty quickly.  I have to give myself a C-.  It would have been a D+, but I did accomplish a few major items.

I shampooed the carpets.  I do this about every six to eight weeks anyway, but they were really in need.  The carpets were one thing I had to do because I just couldn't tolerate looking at them, or smelling them, anymore.  I cleaned them over a two day period and then Zeus unceremoniously puked a gargantuan amount of undigested dog food and dog drool right in the middle of the living room.  Just two words:  hard floors.  I don't care what kind.  Make it concrete with a drain hole right in the middle of the room--better make that each room.  The dog doesn't discriminate--he'll puke anywhere, but usually where he can find carpet.

I cleaned both bathrooms.  Again, this can't be considered spring cleaning, but just a necessary evil in the battle to eradicate bubonic plague.

Miranda dusted the living room before becoming overcome by allergies, complete with hives.  This kid is going to have to start doing the dishes since I can't make her to do some of the other basic chores.  I mean, she has to breathe, right?  She did clean out and organize three tiny drawers in the kitchen before losing interest and not completing the assigned task.  At her age, I probably would have done the same.  This is a great example of when we were growing up and our mothers would say, "Just wait until you have kids!"

Other Spring Break accomplishments:  as previously mentioned, I roto-tilled the vegetable garden and I'm still proud of myself for that.  I then bathed both our filthy dogs who then went out and played in that freshly tilled garden.  I bathed them again and they went out and played in the garden again.  Then I gave up and Miranda wiped them down.  This was, of course, after the carpets had been shampooed i.e. muddy dog prints throughout the entire house, but before the puke incident.  I scooped poop ( yes, indeed, a real fascination with poop in this household) and then I mowed one section of yard.  With one acre of mostly lawn, one section is still a respectable effort.  Plus, it keeps raining and the grass keeps growing.  Not to worry, though, by August it will be brown.  Second to tilling the garden, getting our black plastic laid out and pinned down (all by myself), counts as a major accomplishment.  That much black plastic is amazingly heavy and I'm just fat enough that bending over and putting the pins in and pavers around the borders is hard work.  Pathetic, yes, but it is what it is.  Whenever the work day ends with me covered head to toe in mud, it has been a productive day. 

I'm sorry to say, that my list of accomplishments ends there.  It rained quite a bit ( this is the section where I make my excuses) and even when it didn't rain and the sun was out, it was cold and windy. I realize that Pelicanites would have considered this beautiful weather and would have probably worked right through it and then held a community barbecue or something.

I'm looking at my list of chores and here is what is left:  burn weeds ( I tried, but couldn't get the propane tank threaded onto the torch causing me much frustration and disgust-- so that got scrapped); lay out the drip irrigation system; plant the garden ( I bought broccoli, cauliflower, snap peas, tomatoes, strawberries, and blueberry bushes and this is just the first crop, more to come); plant Mick's boxwoods (6) around border of the vegetable garden; pressure wash the house and deck; mow  (which means scooping yet more poop); organize the porch; wash windows inside and out; finish cleaning and organizing the cupboards in the kitchen and drawers in the dining room; excavate my room and dig out from under the Samantha tornado; clean Sam's room (why is this place messy when she's in my room all the time?  When does she find the time?); and sew Sam's underwear back together again! I think I can salvage a dozen pairs.  At least two dozen pairs were shredded beyond hope during Spring Break.

So what did we do with the rest of our time?  We went to the library and got library cards--and then found out that we have a choice of checking out one item at a time, or paying a $60 annual fee because our house is just outside the city limits ( I am NOT happy).  We went swimming at the Dallas Aquatic Center which Sam loves, imagine that, not finding the lap pool cold at all since she learned to swim in the Gulf of Alaska ( I stayed in the therapy pool, temp 98 degrees, and the spa, 105 degrees--I am a weenie).  We went on a couple of walks with the dogs which is fun for them and not for us, but now we can feel righteous.  And we sat around and were lazy!  Yes, Sam blasted music, watched YouTube day and night, and Miranda and I read books and watched episodes of House over and over.  Like my mom said, "Just wait until you have kids!" All in all, not a bad Spring Break.

More Musings on Men and Sports Addiction

 

Sports Addict and his personal assistant, Zeus.  Actually, I had a choice between a really funny picture of Zeus with Mick looking like an inmate at a maximum security psychiatric hospital, and this picture, where Zeus is less of a clown and Mick looks less disturbed.  So I went with less.

Sorry, I've got nothing, folks.  It was just one of those days where I should have been doing something and did almost nothing instead.  So I'm left with musings and memories.

A good portion of my morning was spent giving Mick a re-cap of Tuesday's episode of The Biggest Loser.  He worked and missed it the night it aired and I saved it for Wednesday on the DVR because the commercials drive me insane.  The funny thing about this show and Mick is that when he first heard that Miranda and I had started watching it, he was down-right hostile about it.  Can't remember exactly what snotty comment he made, (he has a deep-seeded dislike for "reality" television), but I remember my reply, "we have another TV--you can just go to bed, you know".  But it only took a few minutes of Mick watching the program for him to get hooked.  That's because he's one of those sports addicts.  I'm sure the word "fan" is derived from "fanatic"; it just has to be.

Mick likes The Biggest Loser, not only because it's inspiring, but it can be viewed as a sporting event--kind of.  He loves to talk "game play", "strategy", and just "sucking it up".  We can laugh and groan at the over-dramatization of the program and get fed up by the excessive commercials.

When guys love sports and there isn't any sports on TV, they will find a way to make do, not by watching some riveting drama, but by twisting something else into a pseudo-sport.  Memories...

It was many years ago.  It was one of those nights when there wasn't any sports on TV and Mick called me from down in the bar.  "Hey, I think it's your night to work."

"Why?" I asked with suspicion, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," he replied too innocently, "there's just a couple of customers and I'm really tired.  I just want to come up and hang out with the girls."

I knew it was way past my turn to work and it sounded like an easy night.  In truth, it did turn out to be an easy night.  As I came downstairs, Mick moved past me to go up.  I caught a look in the bar and saw that there wereonly two customers.  "Hey," I hissed at him, "you didn't tell me it was Mike Knott and Wade here in the bar!"

"Yeah, but it's just those two," he again replied too innocently.  Then he wisely high-tailed it up the stairs before I reneged.

"Hi, guys," I said as I entered the bar, "anyone need a drink?  No?"  I said as they lifted full beer bottles at me, "well, I do," and I poured myself some wine.  I knew that more than likely some liquid tolerance would be required.  "Hey, I'm going to put on the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, but I'll keep it low."

"Jesus Christ!" Mike bellowed in his normal voice, "why do we have to watch that?!"

"Because I watched the first night last night; you weren't watching anything anyway; and because it's the second largest dog show in the world and probably the most prestigious.  It's not going to hurt you and you guys can keep on talking to each other.  Don't worry--I won't forget to serve you".  So much for liquid tolerance.  If Mick had given me more warning, I could have had a head start.

Fast forward about a half hour later.  These two guys had moved all the way down the bar from where they had been sitting to the opposite end and were glued to the television.  There was the occasional, absent-minded call of, "What does a guy have to do to get a drink around here?" And I'd automatically reply, "Try 'please'". And the two argued with each other. This was their norm, no need for alarm.  What were they arguing about?  Normally, you wouldn't even want to know.  That night?  These two were arguing over whose dog was going to win.  They had comments on each and every dog that went around the ring, they were second guessing the judge, pumping up their preferred dog, trash-talking its competitors, and then cheering or groaning and cursing as the winners were announced.

I love the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.  I watch it every year.  I can't remember which dog won that year, but I remember Mike and Wade vividly--and believe it or not, with fondness.  I'm not a real big sports fan, but I like men who are.  I find their obsessiveness and devotion to be fascinating and amusing.  Sports can bond them or be fodder for major arguments.  That was a fun night.  Unexpected, but fun.  And a little liquid tolerance never hurt.

The Woman Who Fell Off The Edge of The World, installment 5

 

For new readers, go to the Archives, click on My Novel in Progess, and scroll back to the beginnging or where you left off.

My grandma Daisy’s  house sat on the outskirts of the Ranch property, very close to town.  It was a small two-bedroom house, yellow with lots of ornate white trim and a little white picket fence around the front yard.

I sat next to Grandma on the sofa, holding and stroking her hand.  Judy, the live-in helper had walked the couple blocks to the café for lunch, desperately needing a break.

“How are you doing, Grandma?”

“Fine, fine, now that that woman is gone.    You won’t let her come back, will you?”

“Why, Grandma?  Why don’t you like her?”

“Because she keeps trying to clean my house!  I clean my own house.  I’ve always kept the house clean.  Since I was about four years old I had chores to do and I’ve done them.  Besides, George doesn’t like that woman.  She gets on his nerves.”

“Grandpa doesn’t live here, Grandma,” I tried to tell her gently.  “He hasn’t for about five years now.”

“Why of course George lives here!  Where else would he live?  He’s my husband.”

Grandma, feeling huffy and indignant, stood and went to the shelves where she began rearranging family photos.  She was soon humming to herself, her ill-humor of the previous moment now completely forgotten.

I didn’t correct her any further.  There was no point because it didn’t help.  Mom couldn’t be in the same room with Daisy without correcting every third sentence that came out of her mouth.

Daisy would get very agitated when Mom was around.  And Mom would get very uptight.  Both would be quite depressed after a visit.  Mom did try.  I’ll give her that.  She tried to be a good daughter, but there was no kind of harmony between them.

            Grandma turned around and regarded me with her warm, brown, basset-hound eyes, the softly wrinkled face filled with kindness and compassion.

“Why, Peaches, honey, what’s the matter?  You’re brooding about something.  Gram can always tell.”

I leapt to my feet and snuggled into my grandmother’s frail arms.  I gently hugged her hollow, bird-like frame.  I remembered when Daisy was robust, incredibly strong, and at that time unfashionably buff and muscled for a woman.  Now she felt like a little sparrow in my arms.

“Oh, Grandma!  What am I going to do?  I don’t know if I want to be a lawyer or not and it’s almost time for me to graduate and go to law school!”

“Let’s sit down,” Daisy said.  We moved to the couch and snuggled, just like we had when I was a little girl.  “That sounds like quite a problem,” Daisy said.

“Oh, it’s actually a lot worse than just that,” I confessed.  Daisy raised an inquiring eyebrow at me.

“Well, first things first,” she said to me.  “If I were you, I’d go ahead and graduate in your chosen field.  Take the tests and apply to law school.  You don’t have to go.  Or you could go, pass the bar, and you still don’t have to go into law if you don’t want to.  why are you doubting yourself now?”

“I’m not so sure that I’m doubting myself, Grandma.  I just can’t seem to narrow my focus enough to decide what kind of law I want to practice.  Not to mention my other interests.”

“Such as?”

“Painting, sculpting, writing, music, fabric art, landscaping, interior design, fashion design, cooking--.”

“I get your drift,” Daisy interrupted.  “Well, I think it’s a mistake to be too focused.  Much better to have varied interests, to have some hobbies.  Maybe you will become a lawyer, hate it, and decide that you want to be a caterer.”

            “Hey, that’s not a bad idea.”

            Daisy smiled indulgently at me.  I’d always been her favorite granddaughter.  “So,” she continued, “what are those other problems you mentioned?”

            “Men.”  Daisy smiled at that.  “I wonder if I’ll ever be interested in a man who returns my interest.  Right now I’ve got some creepy guy following and watching me constantly.  I just can’t seem to get away from him.  He’s like the plague—lurking around every corner.”

            Daisy’s smile had vanished and she looked very grave and lucid.  She took my hands in hers and looked directly in my eyes as she said, “You have to get away from him whatever it takes.  Even if it changes your other plans, you’ve got to get away from him.  The obsessive and possessive behavior is abnormal and very dangerous.  I’ve seen men like that on some of the programs I watch and they are not to be taken lightly.”
            I sat there silently, my grandmother watching me.  “I’m right, aren’t I, Peaches?”

            I swallowed hard and nodded.  “Yeah, Gram, he really scares me.  My roommate Rebecca has been telling me the same thing.”

            “Smart girl.  You should listen to her.  And listen to your old grandmother.”

            “I will,” I croaked, my throat tight with repressed tears.  “I’ll be back in a minute, Grandma, I just need to use the bathroom.”  I got up and walked down the short hallway, past the many pictures my grandmother had painted or drawn over the years.  She was very good.

            Once in the bathroom, I took three deep, cleansing breaths, then splashed cold water on my face.  I stared at myself in the mirror as I faced the truth.  I had to get away from Steven Kane, no matter what it took.

            I returned to the living room to find Daisy staring out the living room window.  She turned at the sound of my footsteps and her eyes were vague and distant.  She smiled hesitantly and said, “ Well, hello, young lady.  Who are you?  Are you the new nurse?”

            My heart sank.  I was feeling rather fragile myself.  I said gently, “No, Grandma, I’m Petra—Peaches—your granddaughter.  We just had a very nice visit.  But see, that’s Judy, your helper, walking this way.  I need to go when she gets here.”

            “Oh.”  Daisy looked downcast.  “Do you really have to go?”

            “Yes, Grandma, I do.  But we had a great visit and you gave me some really good advice.”

            “I did?” she asked with surprise.

            “Yes, you did.”  I kissed Grandma on the forehead and swallowed the lump in my throat.

                                       *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

            When I returned to the Ranch, the first thing I saw was a black Lincoln Town car parked in the driveway.  “Oh, crap!” I said and smacked my forehead against the steering wheel.  The self-abuse made me feel no better, so I quickly decided a course of action.

I got out of the car and marched with determination into the foyer and turned into the kitchen.

Mom was standing at the stove.  “Go in and say hello to your grandfather.”

I don’t want to say hello to the old bastard, I said to myself.  With a sigh, I went into the living room.

George Frost sat talking with his son-in-law.  He was still an imposing man, even in his seventies.  He was 6’3”, about 210 pounds, muscled, with sharp blue eyes and silver hair.  Even at his age, he wasn’t a man to be patronized or messed with.  He always brought out the worst in me.

“Hi,” is all I said as I moved into the room.

“How’s your grandmother?” George asked.

I lifted my chin defiantly and looked directly into the old man’s eyes.  “She lives about two blocks from here.  Why don’t you go find out for yourself?”

I walked slowly from the room, my blood boiling.  I will never let George Frost think that he can intimidate me.

I went down the hallway to my old room.  Subconsciously I’d been expecting it to look like my old room.  The wall-to-wall seafoam green and silk flower arrangements were more than I could handle.  They got on my last nerve.  “Wonderful!” I muttered angrily, “How could I have forgotten?”  I pulled out my duffle bag and threw my few belongings in it and headed back down the hall.

Richard looked startled when I entered the living room.  “Aren’t you staying tonight?”

I offered him an apologetic smile.  I really do like Richard.  “I’m sorry, Richard.  But I should get back tonight while the roads are all clear and then I can get a full day of studying in tomorrow.”

My ass-hole grandfather nodded in agreement.  “Good, very good.  Work hard now and you’ll reap the benefits later.  It’s very important to keep your focus and study.”           

I ignored my grandfather and looked at my mother.  Raina was standing in the doorway, oven mitts in hand.  “You’re leaving?  Tonight?”  She looked upset.

“Yeah, Mom.  The roads are good, the weather is clear, and I can get a lot more studying done on campus.”

“Oh. OK.”  Mom didn’t protest, but I could see that my decision to leave upset her.  She could spend the entire weekend, make that my entire life, acting like I was the most irritating creature in the world.  But let me try to leave and her feelings were hurt.  I didn’t get it.

“Won’t you at least eat dinner before you go?”

“Now, now, Raina,” my grandfather butted in.  “It’s a long drive and she should probably get on the road soon.  Pack her some sandwiches to take.”

I wanted to stay for dinner just to irritate George, but knew that dinner with him would be an unbearable irritation for me.  “That would be great, Mom”, I said softly, conscious that I’d somehow hurt her.

“All right,” my mother sighed and went to work getting my to-go bag ready.

Within minutes my car was loaded, sack lunch on the passenger seat, and I’d been hugged and kissed dutifully by all the adults present—even my grandfather.

“So where’s Kitten?  Or need I ask?  I want to tell her good-by.”

“Try the stables,” Richard suggested, “she’s probably seeing to the horses.”

“Wonderful,” I muttered and headed for the stables as the others returned to the house.

The lights were on in the stable, a radio was playing an alternative rock station.  Kitten was singing slightly off-key and brushing a very large, dark brown stallion.  All the horses seemed to be contentedly munching their dinners.

“Hey!  They’re not so bad when they’re confined.” 

Kitten looked up from the task she obviously loved and smiled lovingly at me.  “They’re not so bad anyway,” she said.

“I know, I know,”  I admitted.  “I’m not sure where the fear or intimidation comes from.  Especially when I watch someone like you with them.  You’re so at ease and they’re at ease with you.  Though with me…”

Kitten nodded.  “I’ve seen.  But they are pretty big and they do have huge teeth and if they can get away with it, they will be extremely bitchy!”

“You’re telling me!”

“Getting ready to leave, aren’t you?”  Kitten asked.

“Yeah, how did you guess?”

“I figured that could be the only thing to bring you out here.  Anything wrong?”

I shook my head.  “Nothing new.  Nothing you don’t already know.”

Kitten nodded, unsmiling and wistful.  “I wish you didn’t hate it here.”

“Me, too.  It would be a lot easier if I liked it.  And it’s so beautiful, so I don’t know why…”

“Because it’s also so conservative and most of the people are super judgmental and intolerant.”  Kitten responded as though I’d asked an obviously stupid question.

Kitten took a deep breath and gave me one of her brilliant smiles.  She walked over and gave me a big hug.  Though she was tall and slender, Kitten was very strong from working with the horses, and her hugs always had surprising strength.

“You’d better hit the road, Petey.  And be careful when you get home.

I looked at my beautiful little sister, hoping she wasn’t having a premonition.

“Oh, I will.  Believe me, I will.”

FINALLY! An Appropriate Leisure Time Acitivity For My Autistic Child

 

"Tiger-Person" a free-hand (free-mouse) computer painting original by Samantha Shockey

 

Finding appropriate leisure-time activities for autistic children isn't easy.  The goal is to discover different things that they can do by themselves that are stimulating, soothing, enriching, or otherwise positive.  That, I believe, is what the experts mean by "appropriate".  The problem is, most autistic kids, probably like a lot of typical kids, would much prefer the inappropriate leisure-time activities.  Case in point, last year the appliance repair guy was here at my house (no, Sam didn't do anything this time), and he was telling me about a house that he gets repeated calls to that has an autistic girl.  Someone, we won't say who,put a watermelon in the dryer and turned it on!  It was not a seedless watermelon.  Stop and imagine this for a moment.  I have never repeated this story in front of Sam and I never will.  I think the someone in question is Sam's class mate.

This evening when I went to boot Sam off the computer and into the tub, I was horrified to find that all the icons on my desk top had quadrupled in number and that the tool bar at the bottom was filled with duplicates all the way across.  This concerns me because I have stuff stored in this computer that I consider important--like a novel, an E-book, and many photos that I intend to use.  Here is an example of what Sam can do:

 

I'm not sure how Sam managed this.  Not long ago, this was a really sweet (and clear) picture of Miranda and Sam on their Aunt Cheryl's porch.  This is an inappropriate leisure-time activity.

I can't supervise her constantly.  She needs her space like anyone else and she will firmly request, "Mom, the door!"  Meaning, get out of here and leave me alone. Unfortunately for me, I'm usually getting kicked out of my own bedroom and off my own computer.  I'd go completely crazy if I had to stick to her like a prison guard. So there is some risk of damage being done, but at the same time, I have to give her her space.

Sam's previous past-times have included breaking cartons of eggs on the floor, over-flowing bath tubs and sinks in order to easily break dance, and peeling large sections of paint off the walls--Sam was responsible for the paint-peeled map of Alaska in the women's restroom at the Wheelwatch.  Responsible adults are the ones who took permanent black marker and filled in all the place names. Inappropriate leisure-time activity.

Sam loves to draw.  Most of the time she traces and then colors in her masterpieces.  Most people probably wouldn't consider this art, but think Andy Warhol.  Sam's tracings are amazing.  Watching Sam draw is fascinating.  She doesn't hold her writing utensil like most people.  You or I would have trouble writing or drawing anything using Sam's pencil grip, but she is precise.

The photo at the top is a drawing that Sam did last night on my computer using a Paint program.  She sometimes uses it on my photos, unfortunately, but this one was a blank canvas.  She free-hands the mouse and her care and precision and deliberation are fascinating.  I have tried to copy her technique and it isn't easy!

I don't know a lot about art, but, as they say, I know what I like.  I like what Sam can do. I'm intrigued by her perception an perspective.  I wish she could express herself verbally better and let us know what is going on in her head.  But in the mean time, I'm content with what she creates.

 

Samantha Shockey, the artist and her medium.

Indignities of the Aging Process

 

The girls and I walked in Dallas City Park today.  I was going to have Miranda snap a few photos of me, but realized that I hadn't bothered to put on any makeup today.  I prefer to live in denial.  Trees only get more beautiful as they age, so I took a few tree photos on our outing.

I have to admit that I'm obsessed with aging.  I'm hoping for my 50th birthday to "have some work done".  I hope Mick doesn't fight me on this one.  It's 5 1/2 years away.  He may very well agree with me by then.

When I turned 44 last November, I realized that I'd been doing it all wrong.  In order to prepare myself for the upcoming shock of being a year older, I'd been thinking of myself as a year older beginning in August of each year.  Yes, I'd been doing this for years.  Since some time in my mid-thirties.  For some reason, on this last birthday, I finally realized that I'd been screwing myself over--I had missed 43, not such a bad age after all, and so I'm doing two years of 44.

Being age obsessed, I'm intensely interested in otherpeople's ages.  I never ask unless asked first ( I told you I was raised right), but if I can find out indirectly I will.  Hell, I will google people to find out their ages.  And frankly, I don't care if they're young--unless they look like hell ( and then I'm happy and can think "hey, I look younger than that!"),but I'm most interested in the middle-aged.  It just galls me to now be middle-aged.  Wonder how my mom feels about it?

You know, we constantly compare ourselves to others.  We just can't help it, though some can't seem to actually admit it.  I admit it.  I usually think I look better than I actually do.  I think this is due to either worsening eye sight or memory loss.  I will see somebody who is somewhere in the vicinity of my age range and think that I actually look younger than they do--and then I catch sight of myself in a mirror or reflected in a window and my bubble bursts.  Time has marched on.

There is definitely grey hair.  I can handle that now.  When the first two showed up when I was 23 I freaked.  I went to the drug store, bought a box of L'Oreal hair color and became a red head for about the next ten years.  Yes, grey hair is one thing, but what is this deal with the eyebrows?  I mean, come on!  I actually had to take scissors last night and prune my eyebrows because there were suddenly twisted twigs growing above my eyes!  If you know what Harry Lauder's Walking Stick is, you understand my horror.  Why, oh WHY does hair totally change its character and do something as useless as becoming very LONG and WIRY?  I wouldn't mind so much if it were on my head, but my eyebrows?  Does this serve any purpose?  And when did this indignity occur?  It just seems like it was the other day that I had normal eyebrows.  Actually, I've never had normal eyebrows, but that is another story entirely.  At least I had eyebrows of normal length and texture--until I looked in the mirror a short while back and was faced with an unpleasant transformation.

Of course, aging doesn't stop there.  Our largest organ, our skin, is the first body part to give up the battle.   I've always had dry skin.  There was a time when I was grateful for this.  In college I would clean my face with baby oil while other girls in my dorm looked on in horror.  And jealousy.  As I was smearing oil on, they were squeezing and dabbing on Clearisil.  Now they are having the last laugh.  They probably don't have acne anymore, but they probably aren't very wrinkled either.  Sure, I could be much more wrinkled than I am.  I probably don't look too bad--yet.  But shortly before Mick left for Alaska, we were driving somewhere in the car and I felt like I got something in my eye.  So I pulled down the visor on the passenger side to look in the little mirror. I looked, saw nothing, and rubbed a little...this created creases--WRINKLES--that just stayed there!  I had to take my finger and gently iron out my eye! 

I was talking to my mom the other night and for some reason mentioned that our bed has slowly degraded to where it is now just a big mattress on the floor.  First the frame broke and then the box springs, so now it's as low as it can go.  This isn't that big a deal except that I get up to use the bathroom a minimum of twice a night, sometimes a lot more.  ( Yes, another sign of old-itis).  No big deal, except that it is all I can do to get myself on my feet without stumbling over.  Once up, I stagger a little on my way to the bathroom, and on the way back, as I fall into bed, as my body settles-- it sounds crunchy.  "Oh, honey," my mom murmured in sympathy, "that's not good."

So what else?  Thanks to my years at Pelican Seafoods, wearing rubber boots on a concrete floor for 12 hours a day, I have the feet of an 88 year-old woman.  There's arthritis visiting a variety of locations in my body, my eye sight is poor, my hearing is lousy ( and now I get to irritate my family by blaring the TV), and oh, yeah...if I cough or sneeze I have to go change my pants.  As I said, the indignities of the aging process.

So what's next?  A broken hip?  Miranda constantly correcting me and telling me that no, she isn't Pam, my sister, she's my daughter?  Wiry ear hair?  I can't even begin to imagine what foul joke of nature awaits me next.

I have to go now.  It's past my bed time.

Two Reasons to Never Clean House

 

This is Mick's vegetable garden.  He doesn't get to play in it very often, though he really wants to some day.  Normally he gets to prep it and plant it before he goes to Alaska, but not this year.  Spring was late, the weather was cold and too wet.  So on Saturday, taking advantage of the window of opportunity, a sun break before the wind and rain returned, I played farmer and got out the roto-tiller.  It took me an hour and I went over the garden twice.  It's a big garden.  I was very proud of myself and I felt like Oliver Douglas.  I'd rather be Lisa Douglas, the epitome of feminine beauty and allure, but Lisa would never have tilled the garden.  Yes, Green Acres is one of my all-time favorite shows.

The weather didn't cooperate on Sunday so it was time for some indoor chores that had been long neglected.  I shampooed the foul living room carpet.  The water looked like espresso when I was done and I could probably have gone over it again.  I am so glad I didn't.

That is because of these two, Zeus and Louise.  I bathed them this morning.  Not an easy task.  We have a sunken tub and Louise weighs 54 pounds.  It's a real strain on the back, but it had to be done.  Spring cleaning tends to stir up dust, dander, and other allergens, making Miranda a little miserable.  Plus it was time.  I can only take so much dog stink.  Getting the dog stink out of the carpet was a blessed relief.  So I bathed the two little freaks and then I let them outside for just a bit (Zeus tends to have weak bladder control when he gets excited and they are always excited after a bath).

Our house sits on one acre of property.  The house is fairly small (1700 sq feet).  The front yard is also of modest size.  The back yard, as you may be able to tell from the top photo, is large and almost all of it is lawn--nice, big, grassy, open space for the dogs to run and frolic and cavort.

After cleaning the tub I went out to the porch to see if the dogs were ready to come inside yet.  They were running and frolicking and cavorting in the freshly tilled, fluffy soil of the vegetable garden.  I hadn't noticed that yesterday's winds had blown over a section of fencing (so I will get to play Oliver Douglas once more and try to mend fences tomorrow. When, oh when, do I get to play Lisa Douglas?  And if I get stuck having to play Oliver, why can't these two be just a little bit more like Arnold?).

The above photo does not do those two little freaks justice.  Suffice it to say, Louise is supposed to be white.  Zeus is not supposed to be quite that dark a tan. Close inspection would lead one to believe that they had snuck off to a monster truck show.  But the story doesn't end here.  I had to put those two back in the tub and spray them down.  I only sprayed because I couldn't stomach the cheap dog shampoo I had bought which turned out to be a putrid, fake strawberry scent.  Plus I know these two.  I had no confidence in them.  Once again, mostly clean, we kept Zeus and Louise in for most of the day. 

However, dogs do eventually have to go outside.  And apparently right back into the vegetable garden to run and frolic and cavort in fluffy soil.  I washed my hands of the two.  Miranda got rags and did her best to wipe them down.  Remember that living room carpet I shampooed yesterday?  Yeah, that's right.  I wonder if Mick would like a surprise tennis court?

 

Spring Break = Spring Cleaning

 

Zeus and Louise contribute to the challenges of Spring Cleaning.

I was raised right.  I don't know what happened, but I actually know better.  Why I didn't turn out any better, I don't know.  I'm talking about cleanliness being next to godliness.  I confess that this looks like the house of a heathen.  And I'm not sure why.  It isn't that I don't care.  I really do care--just not enough to be obsessive-compulsive about cleaning.  Apparently I don't even care enough about cleaning to actually clean.  However, let me state for the record, that we tend to be more messy than anything else.  And yes, there is a little bit of dirt and dog hair, but we're not actually filthy.  We are working to improve this.  I'd like to aspire to my mother's standards.

As I said, I was raised right.  You could have eaten off my mother's floors.  There was no need for the five second rule.  You could have given yourself a good 15 seconds except that the dog would have beaten you to the morsel.  Actually, it's safer to eat off of my floors than my mother's.  Hers are covered in nasty, harsh cleaning residue.  Mine are simply covered in dirt and pet hair.  Much safer.

It was unacceptable in my mom's house to have visible dirt.  I was supposed to vacuum and dust every day after school--no visible dust, no specks of anything on the carpet.  I think I was a bad seed from the start because this seemed really unreasonable to me back then.  I would let it all go for two, maybe three days (if I was feeling really defiant and wicked).  I wanted to see what I was cleaning.  Dusting invisible dust was very unsatisfying.  Plus Mom had lots of knick-knacks.  I don't care how cute or stunning they are, I still detest knick-knacks.

Mom's theory was that if you could see dust or dirt, that meant your house was dirty.  Of course, she is absolutely right.  I miss living in a clean, no, I mean spotless, house.  I want her to know that I really do (now) appreciate that I got to live in such a refreshingly sterile environment.  And I really wish I could live up to the standard in which I was raised.  Basically, there was never any gross shit at my mom's house.  If company came over, there was never any secret horror at what one might find if they lifted up the toilet seat. ( Now, I keep trying to tell Mick, that since he is the only one that regularly lifts up the seat in this house full of women, it would be nice if he cleaned the toilet--and if he can't manage that, at least tell me when the toilet starts to ooze Black Death or Ebola virus or whatever other deadly filth might have taken root in the bathroom.  I have no reason to lift the toilet seat, except out of morbid curiosity--you know, just in case I haven't received my daily dose of "gross").

While I'm singing my mom's praises, let me add that for most of my life, she worked full-time, plus made breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  Mom's dinners were always eaten at the table; the table was set, and all the food was in serving dishes.  That's right, no dishing up out of the pan; no eating out in the living room in front of the TV; there was always a knife, spoon, and fork (set in their proper places), whether you needed all three utensils or not; and we always sat down and ate together. Oh, God, I really have strayed off the path of righteousness.  And the house was spotless!

The bar had been raised too high.

One of the nice things about the crappy economy is that it is now "in", it is now "chic" to be frugal.  To be extravagant is socially unacceptable and is considered rather inconsiderate.  So while everyone used to go to Daytona or Las Vegas or somewhere else for Spring Break, now not going anywhere is viewed as the socially responsible thing to do.  I'm glad, because Mick is gone and I don't like to travel by myself.  I don't even like driving to Salem and that's only ten miles away.  Plus, like many, we need to be cheap right now.  The good thing is that people can now be cheap without embarrassment or apologizing for it.

So what are the girls and I doing since we're spending their Spring Break at home?  Apparently, we are learning a new skill. We are turning over that new leaf and giving Spring Cleaning a try.  Carpets will be shampooed ( living room was today, bedrooms tomorrow), cupboards and drawers wiped out and reorganized, windows washed, cob webs eradicated, floors mopped (and baseboards sterilized--hey!  I told you I was raised right), the dreaded dusting will take place in everyroom of the house, cabinets washed and polished, and then...I will actually sterilize all of the garbage cans, clean up my washer and dryer (take a look at yours, they get amazingly mungy!), and even wipe down my vacuum and shampooer.  I am even going to lift up the toilet seats and see what dwells there that Mick didn't mention (or clean) before he left.

Yeah, yeah, it doesn't sound like a lot of fun unless you're obsessive-compulsive.  Unfortunately, none of us in this household is.  This is kind of an interesting experiment for me.  Not to see if I know how to clean, because I do, but to see how much I can accomplish with the kids home and one of them having a  deserved reputation for needing 24/7 supervision. Whenever I get on a roll, I need to stop and check Sam and make sure she hasn't tried to move into the neighbor's house seeking more fun and excitement.  We will take breaks and go to the park ( a favorite thing), and I will be very good and take her to the pool a couple of times ( a very favorite thing--for Sam, it's more or less torture for me)).  And since the outside of the house needs a good cleaning too, I think I'll hand over the pressure washer to Sam and let her blow the siding off the house.

So the girls and I are giving this cleaning thing a try.  Six months from now we'll clean the house again.  Whether it needs it or not.

The Chicken and Sponge Shop: Here's How It Works

Welcome to the Chicken and Sponge Shop.  That's it--to your right.  I'm still building the store and I'm always open to suggestions with what to "stock".  Currently, the shop has four categories and I'll add more soon.

The first category is the book shop called Absorbing Reads.  The books that are listed are ones that have totally obsessed me while I was reading them, the kind of books that you can lose yourself in.  In later posts I will discuss some of the individual books or series (I love a good series).

The second category is Multimedia--Chill, Grow, Escape.  This may seem like a catch-all category, but there is a common thread.  The first couple of pages in this category is music--my kind of music.  Most of it is new age, very beautiful, soothing or sexy, the kind of music that speaks to your soul and transports you.  Great music to put on in a bar if people start getting out of control.  Music is followed by new age books and self-improvement.  Then there are a few pages of the best exercise DVDs.  I highly recommend the ones I've stocked.  Lastly in this category are movies and television series on DVD.  Some of these I will feel compelled to write about in the future because there are some real gems here.

My third category is Toys and Fun Stuff.  I will admit that there are some weird things in here, too, because this category contains toys suitable for adults as well as for kids.  Prime example?  The Marie Antoinette action figure with removable head and guillotine.  Don't worry, there are great things for kids in here, too, like various craft kits, "ugly dolls", and more, much more.

The last category in the Chicken and Sponge Shop (so far) is Special Needs and Personal Care.  Whether you live remotely or have a special needs family member, this is a one-stop shop for supplies--from cases of adult pull-ups to supplements to wheelchairs and more.

The Chicken and Sponge Shop is an Amazon aStore.  Everything that I offer is found on Amazon.  Amazon can be pretty overwhelming some times, though, with thousands and thousands of selections for one simple keyword.  My shop is a slice of Amazon, making it more manageable.

For anyone wanting to order from Amazon, whether you order something I have listed or not, if you enter Amazon by entering the Chicken and Sponge Shop and pay for your purchase at that time (instead of filling your cart and paying later), I will earn a small commission.  This will be much appreciated.

Amazon is a terrific company.  Their prices are very competitive, the shipping is fast, the selection is huge, and their return policy is very easy.

Please check out the Chicken and Sponge Shop, located in the right margin, by clicking on it.  This will open the store and you can explore.  Readers, I would love some feedback.  At the end of each post is a place to click and comment.  I'd really like to know what you think and I'd love to know what you think I should be stocking in the Chicken and Sponge Shop.

Featured This Week in the Chicken and Sponge Shop: The Novels of Lawrence Block

Lawrence Block is one of my favorite authors.  That is why I have such a ridiculous number of his books in the Chicken and Sponge Shop (click on the shop at the right to enter and explore).  It amazes me that a writer can be so prolific and yet write such high-caliber works.  I have a couple pages of his books offered in my shop and these aren't even all of his works.  I may edit some out and rotate the books in and out in the future, but for now, here is an overview.

Lawrence Block has several series, but the books in these series do not need to be read in order.  My favorite series are his Mathew Scudder novels.  Mathew Scudder is a former New York police detective, now a private eye.  He messed up his life with booze and accepting kick-backs.  He divorced, quit drinking, moved into a run-down hotel and started working as a P.I.

The Mathew Scudder books are gritty.  These are page turners with finely drawn, fully developed characters, but Block is concise in his use of language.  He uses it precisely and sparingly so that the reader isn't burdened with pages of flowery description and narrative.  Though Matt Scudder regularly attends AA meetings, he is not in the least preachy.  The crimes are brutal, but Block doesn't over-sensationalize them.  Once again, he is concise and sparing, but very on-the-mark in his use of descriptive language.

Among my favorites are: Dance at the Slaughter House, Ticket to the Boneyard, Eight Million Ways to Die, and When the Sacred Gin Mill Closes.

Lawrence Block has also written the Evan Tanner novels, about an international spy who never sleeps (literally, he can't--he's awake 24/7), the Hitman novels ( the main character is indeed a professional assassin and a very intelligent and interesting character) and his Burglar books ( the main character Bernie Rhodenbarr owns a used book store, but always finds himself in situations where he has to call on his skills as a professional cat burglar, never allowing him to retire.  The Burglar books are light, as opposed to gritty, and very funny).

He's one of my favorites.  If you're unfamiliar with the works of Lawrence Block, do yourself a favor and pick up one of his books.  It's a great way to spend the weekend.