Chicken and Sponge

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 21

 

Enrico kept vying for my attention.  He was supposed to be part of the freezer crew, but kept popping up at my feet, in between freezer trucks.  Or, if briefly caught up on his duties ( or even if not), he’d jump up on my platform with a slime stick in hand.  He’d proceed to annoy the hell out of me, reaching across me for fish off the belt, throwing still-filthy fish down the shoot, trying to impress me with his speed, talking a mile a minute, trying to impress me with his wit and charm.

I was beside myself with irritation.  Luckily, Thelma felt the same and kept running him off.  Tim, too, was annoyed with Enrico, but his reaction was much different.  I was unsure what I should expect from him, every time he came to retrieve Enrico.

If Enrico, or anyone else for that matter, managed to make me laugh, I could feel sullen coldness emanating from Tim, and definitely directed at me, as well as the other party.  But when I was chilled and fatigued and all felt hopeless, (a nightly occurrence), I would catch Tim gazing at me with a forlorn longing, and he’d give me a sad, little smile.

“Crap,” I muttered to Joy, having given up on being sociable with anyone but her.

“What?  Tim again?”

“Yeah, what else?”  We’d work in silence for several minutes or even hours.  Couldn’t really tell at that point.

“What am I supposed to do?”  I asked her.  She looked at me and raised an eyebrow, beautiful and statuesque, despite the blood splatter, slime and horrid orange rain gear.  She, too, looked completely wiped out.

“You’re asking me?” she asked incredulously. “I’m the one up here taking a break from my live-in boyfriend of ten years, remember?  I’m the one who came looking for adventure and men and haven’t even got laid yet, so why are you asking me?”

“You could have got laid several times over,”  I replied matter-of-factly, “but you’re too damned picky.”

“Well, hey!” she responded defensively, “Ed might be a geek, but he’s still better than the offers I’ve had here.  And he loves me.  He’s just waiting for me to come home.”  We worked quietly for a few more minutes.  “So have you gotten laid yet?” Joy asked me.

I rolled my eyes to the heavens and slowly shook my head back and forth.

“Joy,” I said with exaggerated patience, “when?  When exactly would I have done that?  Think about it.  I’m always with you.  I think you would have noticed.”

            We slimed a few more fish without conversation and then Joy giggled, then giggled again.

            “That was a pretty dumb question, huh?”  I looked over at her, shaking my head,, and then the fatigue hit like the proverbial freight train.  We laughed and laughed and laughed.  The tears rolled.  People stared.  We were paralyzed with mirth.

            Thelma walked by us shaking her head, but was too tired to reprimand us and order us back to work.

            That seemed funny, too, and we laughed harder.

            Enrico and Tim walked by, wishing to be part of the joke, but feeling more like the butt of it, judging from the facial expressions.  And that was even funnier.

            One of us managed to gasp, “Oh, to hell with it.  Come on.”

            We  jumped down and headed for the dry room to sit in our lockers, rest, and regain our composure.  No one bothered to retrieve us.

*********************************************************************

                     

            The next morning Joy and I clocked in, feeling subdued.  We paid little attention to anyone, not even each other.  We occasionally mumbled a few comments back and forth, without our usual enthusiasm, but we worked steadily, heads down.  We’d escaped the line for the smaller table.  Mostly older employees were working there, but more to the point, Enrico didn’t pop up there as often, intimidated by God only knows who—probably one of the old ladies, I assumed.

            Thelma kept walking by and giving me and Joy approving little nods and smiles.  It was starting to get on my nerves.  I quit looking up when she came by.  I no longer cared if I earned brownie points or not.  She seemed to be getting on Joy’s nerves as well.

            “What is up with her?”  Joy finally snapped.  “What?  Did she get laid last night or something?”

            “ I think it’s just her way of patting us on the back and silently letting us know what good little workers we’ve become.”

            “Right!”  Joy blessed me with her most sarcastic tone of voice, “I don’t think so.”

            “Well, then I don’t know,”  I replied, “but that’s just my guess.  Look, we can actually talk and clean fish at the same time now.  And even better, as far as Thelma’s concerned, we don’t talk that much anymore.”

            “Well, for God’s sake,”  Joy said as if she were talking to an idiot child, “what could we possibly have left to talk about?  I mean, really?”

            “Point taken,” I replied and we lapsed into silence for a few more minutes.

            “Uh-uh,” Joy said.  “That’s not it.  Thelma’s got that cat-with-a-canary look.  Something’s up.”

            I spotted Thelma across the floor, walking casually around, but grinning.  I didn’t like it.  I became aware that the old timers at the table were aware of something, but they weren’t coughing up any information.  I could tell that they’d been listening to me and Joy.  I felt like the butt of a joke, but no one had blurted out the punch line yet—and everyone but Joy and I knew the joke.  Everyone, that is, except all the other new idiots up on the slime line.

            The 10:00 break bell rang and we started to head for the wash tank.

            “No, no, no,” Thelma called, “no break yet.”

            A loud protest burst out.  There were a lot of “what do you means?”

            Thelma grinned mockingly.  “Let’s just get it cleaned up,” she said.  “You have four trucks left all together.  Between the two tables that should only take ten to fifteen minutes to clean them and send them to the freezers.  Anyone wanting their eight hours can take their break and come back to help the Clean-up Crew.”

            I looked around the Fish House and felt stupid.  There were no more fish.  There were no more boats.

            “So, is it over?” I asked Thelma hesitantly and she gave me a warm look of amusement.

            “We’re expecting them to announce the closure for midnight tonight or maybe tomorrow night.  We’ll get a few more boats and a few more full days.  Then we’ll start packing.  But for today, this is it.  I’ll keep an unloading crew and they’ll ice any thing that comes in for tomorrow.”

            I looked around the almost empty Fish House once more.  I looked out the dirty, slimy window at the warm(er)  Spring rain.  I was so happy I wanted to cry.

Balancing the Needs of Autistic and Typical Siblings

 

Sam enjoying some "chicken and sponge" at Abby's Pizza.  Miranda preferred to not be in the picture, but is getting ready to eat her olive pizza.  My mini pizza is in the foreground:  creamy garlic sauce, anchovies, smoked oysters, mushrooms, and feta cheese.  Yum, yum.

Miranda:  SAM!...(silently checking out the damage)...NO!  Just leave my stuff ALONE!  Mom!  It's not fair!..

Sam:

me:  ...sigh, I know.

That is the chorus at our house.  It's an old story, a familiar story, it's like Goldilocks and the Three Bears for families with autistic members.  Personal boundaries violated.  Property destroyed.  But autistic people play no favorites and all family members are at equal risk.

Well, almost.  Because 10 minutes later, while Miranda regained her emotional balance ( or sulked, whatever term you prefer), I caught Sam roughly examining i.e. getting ready to dismantle, another one of Miranda's bracelets.  That was what caused the first uproar.  It almost caused the second uproar.  But I removed the bracelet from Sam's nervous, curious little fingers and had the nerve to travel down Miranda's private hallway to her room and share my observations with her.

me:  Here.  She was getting ready to pick apart this one, too.

Miranda:  ( indescribable sound of intense disgust)

me:  Well, hey.  You left it lying there on the end table.  Put it away.  If you don't want her wrecking all your stuff, at least try to put it away and out of sight.  It can only help.

Miranda:  Well, I shouldn't have to!  Just because it's there doesn't mean it's ok for her to--

me:  (honestly, I don't remember what I said at this point, but the point I tried to make was, "Hey, you're sister's AUTISTIC!)

Autistic child vs. typical child, and how is the parent supposed to handle it?  First, I think as a parent, regardless of whether or not we have a challenging, disabled child or all typical "normal" children, we are all going to hear, "MOM!  IT'S NOT FAIR!"  And since our family has an autistic member, I rarely have to do more than sigh and say wearily, "Yes, I know."  My point?  All kids seem to feel it's the purpose of their young lives to continuously and consistently point out, ad nauseam, how unfair life is for them. 

I can't seem to help but point out that my stuff has been ruined, too. Funny enough, I frequently have to point this out to Mick, too, when his belongings have been violated by our beloved.  And he takes it about as well as Miranda.

As hard as we try to keep Sam from being the center of the universe, there's no denying that the kids don't get treated exactly the same.  Nor should they be.  Since we can't treat Sam like we do Miranda, for her own safety, I don't think Miranda would appreciate at all being treated like her sister:  8:30 bedtime, having her teeth brushed for her, never being allowed to go anywhere without a chaperon.

Sam definitely takes more time and gets more attention.  More effort had to be made when the girls were younger to make sure Miranda got as close to equal time and attention as we could manage between the two of us.  Luckily, now as a teenager, she wants as little of our time and attention as legally possible.  Including not being told to put her crap away instead of littering the living room with it.

I don't have to do it anymore, but there was a time when confronted with the accusation of "Not Fair", that I had to give an impassioned response.  It's not fair that:  Sam can't go out and just ride her bike, that she doesn't get invited to sleep-overs and birthday parties, that she doesn't have friends who call her up and want to hang out, that she may never have a boyfriend, go to college, have a career, have her own family.  It's not fair that she'll probably always live with us.  Because Sam knows all this, or most of it.  And she wants those things even though she doesn't because she couldn't handle it.  But no one should think that the autistic child is unaware of just how unfair life can be.

That's a lot to lay on the typical child, on the truly long-suffering sibling, so I don't recommend making a habit of those impassioned speeches.  Our kids don't need the baggage, don't need the guilt trip, because they suffer enough.

When Miranda was much younger she put up with some kids who weren't very nice or accepting of her.  She was sad, but she faced this every day without tears.  Until a couple of the kids teased her about Sam, saying, "Well, Sam doesn't go to REAL school!"  And Miranda lost it and came home in tears.  Because it was one thing for them to be mean to her, she could handle it ( all three and a half feet, forty pounds of her), but they shouldn't be mean to Sam.

People are more aware of autism and other disabilities than they used to be.  But by no means does everyone recognize or understand autism when it's staring them in the face.  Yesterday Sam was very upset that I wouldn't take her to "Subway Eat Fresh" before going to the park.  She deals with this sort of disappointment by getting angry and loud.  Remember, articulate speech is not her strong point.  So Sam shakes her head back and forth and gets louder and louder as she demands emphatically, "Subway eat fresh! Subway Eat Fresh! SUBWAY EAT FRESH!"  I responded with, "No, we're going to swim here in the park."  She was furious and countered with "Walmart Store!"

There were other people around, teenagers, and this sort of behavior, although  it doesn't happen every time we go out, meets with stares and sometimes whispers and snickers.  Miranda is the most affected by it.  She handles it well, but, of course, it upsets her, too.  We've all had to develop thick skins and we've all come to realize that the stares and the whispers are less if we remain calm in the face of Sam's storms.  Calm is essential.

I try to give Miranda the time with her friends that she needs.  Miranda is great about allowing Sam to be with them, too.  She's done a great job of picking out friends and wouldn't be interested in friendship with anyone who couldn't accept Sam.

Tonight, Miranda's friend Jessica is spending the night.  We will attempt to go to a drive-in movie.  Dallas is one of the few places in this country that still has a drive-in theater and I've never been to one.  We're hoping Sam will cooperate.  We will be using all of our ingenuity to keep her happy and engaged.  Our car has the stow and go seats and we will use that to our advantage, making a little camp area.  Massive amounts of snacks are an essential.

Luck, be with us.

Record Heat in the Dog Days of Summer

 

Louise enjoys sunbathing.  I should put sunscreen on her fair stout body, but come on!  Gross, greasy dog?  She manages that on her own.

It was 108 degrees yesterday.  On the Active channel on Direct TV ( channel I check several times a day for current weather, horoscope, and lottery), it said that the high was supposed to be 104, but the current was 108.  Today, the same is predicted.

It's muggy.  In fact, it really hasn't been cool or pleasant at all, at any time of the day or night.  I've decided to take the severe heat warning seriously because, after all, my children need me alive more than we need a weed-free mowed lawn.  No matter how much those tall, tough, mutant dandelions are plaguing me.  I take the health of our pets seriously, too.

This means that I've actually put up with Zeus and Louise rough-housing in the house.  Generally, not tolerated.  The house isn't that big and they're bulldogs!  They do not play like a pomeranian.  They do not play like a lab, where you can sit on the couch and lazily play fetch for hours on end.  Cesar Milan calls bulldogs one of the "gladiator" breeds, and that seems an apt description.  For they battle!  They growl, bite, chew, shake their heads with the other's neck or leg in their mouth, and just have the best of times!  They plow into by-standers, Zeus forgets the rules and jumps up on the love seat to make up for his size disadvantage, and then lunges at Louise, grabbing her collar and trying to pull her by it.  They knock into the coffee table, spilling drinks, bruise anyone without enough sense to pull their legs up out of the way.  Then, when I'm totally fed up and raise my voice, "THAT"S ENOUGH!  OUTSIDE!!!"  They have the nerve to look both perplexed by my unreasonable behavior and emotionally wounded.  For three seconds.  Then they go tearing through the house to wait at the sliding door.

I've only let them remain outdoors for, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes at a time, the past few days.  I really wish we'd bought them the little ten dollar wading pool from Walmart.  It's small, but too big for our car.  We have a truck, so no problem, right?  Wrong!  On Mick's list of things to do when he gets home for a visit ( oh, yeah, Mick's coming home from the 5th through the 16th), is: GET RID OF THE HORNET NEST IN THE TRUCK DOOR!  I had known it was there for a little while. 

 When trying to stop Zeus, the over-friendly escape artist/ explorer from leaving the property, I had parked the truck right in front of the flimsy, poor-excuse-for-a-fence and at that time I had the disturbing experience of realizing that there was a hornet nest right by the hinge of the driver's side door.  Yesterday, Sam, clothed in my gardening clogs and a very short, baby-doll nightie (and no panties, of course) decided to play in the truck.  I thought she was going out to the shop, but there is currently really nothing that she needs to get from there either.  Then I realized that she was in the truck.  For some reason she likes to play in there on occasion, but it's a recipe for disaster.  The panel on the dash keeps falling out from one of her previous play times.  Now there are hornets.  Or wasps.  Whatever those nasty things are.

So, being a good mom and not at all cranky from the heat, I said in a reasonable tone of voice, because of course, reason works so well with autistic kids, "GET OUT OF THAT TRUCK RIGHT NOW!!!"  Then I grabbed the keys and went to lock it.  Out of curiosity, I looked at the hornet nest.  I swallowed a big lump in my throat and would have broke out in a cold, clammy sweat if that were at all possible when it's 108 degrees!  The nest was three times larger than the last time I'd looked at it.  Hornets were malevolently patrolling the outside of it.  Spray them, you say?  Yes, that's what Mick had said, too.  He thinks we have spray on the shelf above his work bench in the shop.  Which means I'd have to get a ladder and then lean over the bench to retrieve it--if there even is any because that bench is so cluttered and disorganized, who knows? Mick, at six foot three, can just reach across and pick up whatever he wants from that shelf.  Honestly, I, who am never afraid of bees, and usually not the hornets, am frankly intimidated by this hornet nest.  I think it is the location.  Because to spray it properly, a person is going to have to be in the cab of the truck.  Basically trapped.  So there they live and the truck stays locked for now.

I don't know if it's the heat or something else, but Sam is no longer interested in going to summer school.  Yesterday I allowed her to stay home because she was so adamant I thought she might not be feeling well.  She tried again today and I told her, "No way!".  She went.  But when she gets home it will be her usual routine, taking over my room, two computers, and abusing us with noise.  She doesn't go out to our little pool ( 12 foot diameter, 3 1/2 feet deep) until after the sun starts to go down.  Good thing, too, or she'd be cooked like a chicken.

The dogs have much the same routine as Sam, except for the limitations of not having opposable thumbs.  But they, too, lie around, try to stay cool and then go out for evening fun in the yard.  Occasionally during the day, they wander to the sliding door and wait for me to open it.  I do.  Then, as the wave of heat rolls into the house, they turn and look at me with an expression that can only be interpreted as, "Well, FIX it!"  I would if I could.  Then they sigh, turn around and try to find a cold spot on the floor somewhere.

The cats, meanwhile, try to find a sunny spot to stretch out on.  Hard to do when I've turned this place into a dingy cave with all the curtains closed, adversely affecting my emotional well-being.  The cats are a bit perturbed because the windows are closed.  This has put a real damper on their entertainment.  But being cats, they can just sleep through this heat wave.

  

Hedwig looks like I poked out one of her eyes, but actually it was just too much bother to open both eyes.

My plan for this post was to sprinkle it with pictures of our pets crapped out on the floor.  They've been pretty amusing, resembling rugs more than living creatures.  However, they are retarded when it comes to photo opportunities, with Zeus and Hedwig being the worst.  Why, I don't know, but they are compelled to jump up and come investigate the stupid camera, time after time.  I haven't been fast enough or tricky enough to capture them in those moments of total collapse.

For the past two days I've done something that I thought I'd never do.  I went swimming with the kids in the park.  And I'm not the only one.  That creek is getting crowded with people of all ages who are just walking in with all their clothes on.  That's what I'm doing.  Bad enough that I'm wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts.  No way am I wearing a bathing suit, not at this weight.  At the Aquatic Center we must all share that humiliation because it is required, but not at the park.  While doctors, scientist, parents, and so many others are discouraged and alarmed by the number of obese people walking around this country, if you're one of those obese people, it is rather comforting to be surrounded by others of our kind.  Misery does love company.

 

You didn't actually think there'd be a picture of me swimming!  This is our new spot in the creek.  The big swim hole has become too congested and the beautiful area by the bridge seems to be evaporating.  We will head there soon after Sam gets home today.

Cat Bath: I'm Never Doing This One Again

 

After the battle field cleared....

Judas Iscariot is more popular than I am.  Bernie Madoff is still less popular than I am, but that is only with the population at large.  Within my home, I'm receiving looks that could kill.    The shock...the betrayal...and yes, the terror.  But I just want to say, I'm not really a sadist.  I do not routinelytorture animals and in fact, I turned down an invitation to senior prom because the guy was a regular torturer of defenseless animals (plus I was the 16th girl he'd asked, and come on, even I am allowed a little pride).

Some people swear that you should never bathe a cat.  That to do so is, in fact, sadistic.  But that is also the argument that small children and dirty people use against bathing.  The truth of the matter is, it was Hedwig's time.  She was dusty and clumpy and the shedding was never-ending.  This one act of torture produced a sink full of Hedwig hair.

When we lived in Pelican year-round, I bathed the cats once a week or every other week.  Miranda's allergies were severe at the time and it was necessary.  Our cats had gorgeous coats.  We also had a normal bath tub.  Now I have a recessed tub.  I would have to lie on my stomach to bathe her, or God forbid, get into the tub for the procedure.  The advantage of a tub is size and depth.  The disadvantage of the tub we have is that there would only be one survivor if I tried to bathe Hedwig in it and I'm afraid that it wouldn't be me.  So today's endeavor took place in the kitchen sink.

I probably wouldn't bathe the cats if they were more cat-like with each other, but they're more like MOVE IT, BITCH!  I'm not kidding.  I was amazed to have both of them sitting on the couch next to me last night because that was almost a first.  They do play, but it always ends in a trouncing.  And Hedwig is the family victim.  In other words ( here's where I continue to plead my case to all the animal rights activists), Hedwig and Hecate aren't like normal life-long roommates who will curl up and sleep together and groom each other.  They NEVER EVER groom each other.

So it is up to me.

The battle was fierce.  Miranda was supposed to take pictures throughout, but with quick decision-making skill, she raced to my aid, not wanting the day to end as a half-orphan.

I honestly do feel bad.  Hedwig will probably only have waterless, foam baths (which she also detests) from now until the end of her days.  I do realize that she thought I was trying to kill her.  Being a cat, that made more sense to her than any other reason, like me being fed up with thick, clouds of dusty fur flying through the air and obscuring our television viewing.  Fight or flight.  Or actually, in this case, fight AND flight.  Because all she was interested in was getting out of that sink.  She almost flew out of that sink.  She was possessed.  Demonic possession.  Miranda ran to call for an exorcist.  I prayed, doused the cat with water to remove the shampoo, and cried out for celestial intervention.

Zeus and Louise rushed to the rescue.  Unfortunately, I'm not the one they were trying to help.  Which was no help to me at all.  Zeus, our French bulldog and Hedwig are buddies. He looked at me like I was the one possessed.  No one understands me.

When the battle ended, I was soaked.  The kitchen was drenched.  Miranda was a little wet herself and Hedwig had blood on her.  I felt so bad.  Yes, I'd had to grip her hard.  Had I really dug my nails into her hard enough to draw blood?

Then I noticed the blood streaming from my hand. Yes, streaming.  Well, ok then, dripping.  But it was steadily dripping, going drip, drip, drip.   Then the shock wore off and the pain set in.  The constant, persistent throb, throb, throb...and 10 hours later it is still going throb, throb, throb...You're not buying it, are you?  No sympathy for the devil.  Don't worry, it won't happen again.

I'm Bored! And Weary and...

 

I feel the way Louise and Zeus look.

 

As I sit down to write, eau de skunk is wafting through my recently-opened window. Starting to feel so fond of that little critter, just as long as the status quo is maintained. I'd been thinking, off and on all day, about what I could possibly write.  The sameness of my life, each day so much like the one before, is starting to bore me.  And if I'm boring myself, can I expect anyone else to want to read my rants, my babbling, my repetitive prose?

Then I sat down at the computer and was startled out of my complacent ennui with a new screen saver hitting me in the eyes!  These things tend to happen at my house and I'm not sure who to blame.  It's my computer.  Shouldn't I be allowed to pick my own screen saver?  But no, the past three screen savers have appeared without my permission, without any consultation.  Miranda is the usual suspect, but Sam sometimes achieves computer marvels all on her own.  Ironically, the new screen saver is a bitter reminder of all the roses that I need to go dead-head.  Yes, Miranda, I'm sure, is plaguing me with pictures of our own roses.  Disneyland Roses, my favorites, but not something I feel like staring at.  Right now I'd rate it just a step above using a picture of my credit card statement as my screen saver.  Though I'm sure the credit card companies would be thrilled at the idea of adding that extra pressure to their customers, the constant reminder.

Dealing with my own impatient boredom, I've been fiddling around with the background color on my yahoo home page.  I didn't realize until recently that we, the consumer, had a say in such things.  I'd put up with about four days of being deeply BUGGED ( my G-rated term) by the appearance of my Yahoo home page.  Overnight, it had had a make-over, the appearance and lay-out had changed.  Naturally, without my permission, without any kind of consultation, like, "Hey Mom, do you like it better this way?  Or this way?"  It finally reached the point that I had to look at all that crap in the margins that I normally ignore and figure out just how I could change it back.  Same thing with my Yahoo Mail account.  I like the Classic style.  It's kind of like the old debate over coke and coke classic. I like what I like, the same old same old (unless we're talking about my now daily routines). I just want people to stop messing with stuff.  Rest assured, eventually I get bored and ask for change, but I don't handle unexpected change well.

This mood I'm in?  This is where I start to bore myself.  I miss my husband; I'm tired of talking on the phone; the gardens aren't any fun on my own, but have become an overwhelming drudgery.  And I don't dare just throw my hands up in the air and let everything go.  Even though it looks like that is exactly what I've done, but I haven't.  But honestly, I'm mostly tired of having nothing new to write about.  Do you really want to read about the killer spaghetti squash plant, which now has about 100 or more squash on it and is growing through other plants and out the fencing and into the yard? With squash growing out in the yard as well. How about the cherry tomato plant which is as tall as I am ( that would be 5 feet 4 inches) and AT LEAST 4 feet in diameter.  And is unfortunately LOADED with tiny green tomatoes.  Oh, how I'd prayed that that thing would turn out to be some kind of infertile mutant, but no such luck. And by the way, I don't like cherry tomatoes.  I like the bigger varieties.  Mick loves cherry tomatoes.  Yes, Mick who isn't here to either help pick them (which should be one of the punishments doled out in Hell) or to eat them. 

Perhaps you'd like to hear more in the continuing saga of Samantha's underwear?  No, me either.  However, the poor kid has been without underwear since she got home from school on thursday and ripped her last remaining pair and I did NOTHING!  She just had to live life bottomless at home.  Oh, I let her out of the house and we went to the store and the park, but she had her swimsuit on.  Striving to have a productive weekend, after friday being an almost complete waste, I mended 11 pairs of panties this evening.  That should last a week.  Hopefully.  Sorry about that.  I wasn't going to talk about our underwear tragedy but I can't seem to help myself.

Or I could share saturday's experience where I attempted to poison weeds.  I've mentioned before how opposed I am to using poisons.  It's bad for everyone and everything.  Plus, as I've told Mick repeatedly, everyone in my biological family dies of cancer so I don't really feel like pushing my luck by playing around with poison.  But as the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures.  So as luck would have it, when I went to refill the canister and opened the lid, pressure resulted in me spraying poison in my face.  Because I'd misunderstood what Mick had told me about the little doo-dad on the side.  I thought I only needed to open that when I was all done to help the container dry out.  But no, it was a pressure valve.  So, yes, the paranoid person sprayed her own face with deadly poison.  So there I stood in my yard, hosing my face off.  I appear to be fine.  I seem to be no more blind than I am on any other day and as for the cancer, well...these things take time.  And who knows?  I may get it from all the fruit that I used to eat without washing.  I wash now.  My paranoia increases with time.

I was discouraged when Mick and I were talking about the future, once Miranda goes off to college, and he mentioned possibly selling this place and getting something smaller.  Not really what I want to do, for all my complaining.  I just want to find a way to make it all easier.  Maybe we can.  A riding lawn mower would be a great start.  Drip irrigation throughout, and not just to some of the garden, would also be a big help.  Soaker hoses, bark mulch, and sprinkler timers.  These are all things that could make the up-keep on this property much less exhausting.  I observe my neighbors on one side of us.  He works and is only interested in using his riding lawn mower and shooting gophers (which he doesn't seem to have much talent for).  She does all the planting, weeding, and harvesting.  She's ready for a smaller place.  If I have to continue maintaining the home front in the summers on my own, I may change my mind and want to go smaller also.

Every time I talk to Mick there is just one more thing added to what needs to be done in the morning.  Today, it was taking Sam and the dogs for a walk.  No, I didn't take them for a walk, but that was Mick's suggestion.  Add that to watering, weeding, painting, and oh, yeah, writing this blog while Sam is in school.  Not to mention any important phone calls.  There definitely aren't enough hours in the day, let alone the morning.  It's the heat that is turning life into a morning show.

This heat...monday is supposed to be 100 and tuesday is supposed to be 101.  Then maybe 103. I didn't sign up for this.  Then we get a break at 98, 97, and it goes on and on.  I think next weekend is supposed to bring us relief at about 87 degrees.  Since when is 87 a break?  Up to 85 and I'm pretty much ok.  Above that and the air conditioner has to run.  I turned it on at 1:30 today and shut it off at 9:00.  It ran that entire time.  I have it set for 72, but the lowest it got was 75.  Then I opened the windows because it was about 75 outside, too. Plus, I have this thing, this thing that just bugs Miranda to death.  It's called a strong need for fresh air and light. Tonight, while watching True Blood, I opened the curtains to see if I could see the TV with them open.  Naturally, I couldn't.  So we were back to our cave-like atmosphere.  That's when Miranda says to me,"You know, it's true, Mom.  You'd make a terrible vampire!"  To which I replied, "No, I'd just be a depressed vampire, depressed for eternity." Back to the heat, though,I have to wonder whatever compels people to live in Arizona?  And you know what they always tell you when you ask?  The weather.  Go figure.

Well, we will work on finding excitement and adventure.  Or not.  I may have to break down and watch the news for inspiration, or more likely horror, disgust, and the need to vent.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 20

 

Warning:  adult language and situations, proceed with caution.  You have been warned.  Can you believe it's installment 20?  I may need to take a break from posting the novel in the future in order to do some more concentrated work on it.

 

The black cod hit hard again.  Boat after boat, truck after truck.  My hands felt like claws.  The days passed, one just like another, all of them miserable.

The only good thing was that I hadn’t had to deal with Tim and I was relieved—because I had no idea how to deal with him or even a clue to what I wanted.

I just lost myself in black cod.  Tim was lost somewhere in the depths of the freezer.  The freezer crew was the first to clock in, last to clock out, and their breaks never coincided with the main crews’.

Joy and I would spend at least a two-hour period sliming together, but began mingling with others, looking for any kind of new stimulation.  We both tried to avoid Mary Catherine, who was usually up on Second Floor, when we were lucky, but was indeed a possessed little freak when working on  First Floor.  We also tried to avoid Enrico like the plague, but with less success.  Also low on the list of sliming buddies were Sandy and Jaimie ( the Bitch and the Brat) and Matt and Dan (who were turning out to be Whiny Wimp and Whinier Wimp).

When the first ferry appeared, Matt, Dan, and Sandy all disappeared—as did some of my clothes from the laundromat—that Bitch.  Jaimie seemed like an orphan.

The monotony, fatigue, and hand pain were getting to all uf us.  One evening, when we got off at 10:00 p.m. straight up, about 25 of us, in varying degrees of cleanliness, bee-lined it to the bar.  We took over the dance floor of the Brown Bar, the core locals still hugging the bar, and there was safety in numbers.  I briefly glimpsed Tim at some point in the night, but kept on dancing.

Clark turned out to be my favorite dance partner.  He was such a freak and didn’t care that it was just sheer joy and fun.  Plus he never tried pushing an erection against me or grabbed my butt or any of the other “smooth” moves some of the guys had tried.

I noticed Tim frown at us, but turned my back, still completely at a loss as to what I should do with him.  So I ignored him.

I danced and drank and danced and drank.  Then a new drink would find its way into my hand.

When I squinted at the clock (very near-sighted), and then gave up and walked close enough to see it, I gasped.  “Oh, God!”  I looked wildly around for my partner in crime.  “Joy!  Joy, it’s 3:00 a.m.!”

She blinked.  “No effing way.”  Then she giggled.  Then whined, “But I’m having fun.  I never get to have fun anymore.”  I blinked two, three times at her and yes, I realized, Joy was really, really drunk.

“We’ll hate ourselves in the morning,” I said.  “We’ve got to be there at 7:30 a.m.”

“Fine!”  she sulked.  “One more dance?”

I acquiesced.

Four dances and two drinks later, Joy and I found each other and shook off all would-be suitors (that damned Enrico was still such a persistent spaz), and we stumbled home, arm in arm, very drunk.

Joy crawled into her bunk and collapsed in a drunken stupor.  I showered off the stink of cigarette smoke, though I’d smell like dead fish in just a few hours.  The water was hot and my bed was bliss.

The next day was no worse than any other.

Investing in the Future of Small Communities

 

Pelican City Hall, the Inlet Cafe, and the old fuel tanks.  What does the future hold for the city pf Pelican?

Correction:  this post was first published on July 22, 2009 and I made a big mistake.  I identified a former seafood processing plant as being Campbell River.  To make matters worse, I said it is a ghost town.  I'm sure the people of the THRIVING community of Campbell River would be surprised to read they're a ghost town, but I doubt if any of them actually reads Chicken and Sponge.  I have made corrections and the former community, the ghost town I meant to identify is Namu.  My apologies.

 

Having a bar is like having a window, or in this case an ear, to the world.  The local world, that is.  A bar can be a confessional or a bully pulpit, whether the bartender wants it to be or not.  Just add booze and listen to what pops out of people's mouths.

Yes, it is often tedious and uninteresting.  But an eavesdropper or captive audience i.e. the bartender can't help but find out what people think about all manner of things.

I am even beginning to get emails from people who have never been to Pelican, but are very interested in what's happening there.  The recent question I received was, "Why doesn't the city of Pelican purchase Pelican Seafoods?"

That is a question that many people ask and wonder about.  In my conversations with Mick, I've found out that most of the fishermen who have come into the Wheelwatch wonder that same thing and for the life of us, WE CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHY THE CITY WON'T!

It makes no sense.

Fishermen fear, and we, as business owners share this fear, that no other seafood company is going to come riding in to the rescue.  The plant is old and neglected and out-dated.  The location is superb.  Always has been.  The ice is the best.  But these are economic hard times and few companies want to proceed into a new venture.

The City and the citizens of Pelican are the only ones who have a compelling, vested interest in the future of Pelican Seafoods, which is the past, present, and (hopefully) future of Pelican.

In April 1994, I accompanied Mick from Ballard, Washington to Pelican in his dad's boat the F/V Mona Lee.  It was a 12 or 13 day trip and something I will never forget.  I won't forget HOW DISGUSTING I FELT GOING FOR DAYS AND DAYSWITHOUT A SHOWER!  I cleaned up nightly with a little bowl of water, but talk about inadequate.  When Mick shared, after reaching Ketchikan and showers, that he'd had to peel his scrotum off his leg, well, that was special.

But what I remember most from that trip were two different spots where we spent the night as we traveled through Canada.  The first was called, I believe, Namu.

Namu reminded me so much of an old plantation.  It was beautiful and green with little, tiny rolling hills ( so small that they might not even be considered hills--though they'd be a mountain range in Oklahoma), and empty, deserted building after empty, deserted building.  There were two young, very stoned guys who were working as caretakers and they let us into one of the houses to take a shower.  It had been the big boss's house.  It looked like the scene of an alien abduction.  There were still belongings everywhere--furniture, dishes, paintings...no personal pictures, though.

Namu had been a thriving little community.  Not an actual city or town, but definitely a community.  And it had been a seafood processing plant.  And it had failed.  So, it became a ghost town.

The next stop that permanently found a home in my head was called Butte Dale.  We couldn't go into Butte Dale, but had to anchor up, because the dock was so decrepit and dangerous.  Butte Dale, also a former seafood processing plant, is a ghost town.  A ghost town that looks like a ghost town.  It is hauntingly beautiful. And very disturbing.

Some of the people with voting power in Pelican, those who determine what gets discussed, what gets put on the agenda, what gets voted on, seem to think that THAT fate can't happen to Pelican.  I have no idea why they think so.  Common sense and simple observation tell most everyone else that total failure is a real threat to the future of Pelican.

Diversification?  People have tried it; some have succeeded on a small scale.  But the city depends on more revenue than what any of the present business owners can provide.  That's a fact.  And wake up, Pelicanites.  I know Pelican feels separate from the rest of the world.  That is definitely one of its most appealing aspects, but there is an economic crisis going on, not only in our country, but abroad as well.  Tourism is way down.  Though it will make some curmudgeonly types very smug, the ignoramuses, charters are way down, too.

Look at your population.  What is the median age?  What is going to draw younger people to the community to keep the life blood going?  What is going to keep the young people that you have?  Pelican has a number of citizens who are not in the best of health.  There are many people in their eighties and some approaching 90.  When a fifty year-old is one of the younger ones, you're in trouble.  And yes, I know, there are still school kids, but the younger adult crowd is mostly in its thirties now. 

There are new fuel tanks and a new water system being built.  That is all very nice, but that work won't last forever.  Where will the funds come from to pay for city services?  New boardwalk planks?  The other businesses, like ours, Rosie's, and the Inlet Cafe?  Don't count on it because our businesses have ALWAYS depended upon an influx of commercial fishermen.  There aren't enough locals to support the local businesses and the local economy.  Ignore that and you're ignoring reality. 

Is it fear or is it simple ignorance that keeps these people from taking charge of their futures?  Why don't they want to be in the driver's seat?  Are they afraid that individual people who currently reside in Pelican would do the actual organizing and running of the plant?  Because, of course, that is simple nonsense.

Experienced, knowledgeable people would have to be brought in.  Workers would be brought in.  The people who do feasibility studies would figure out the best course of action for the plant to take.  Mick and I love gourmet food and have eaten out a lot down here in the lower 48.  One thing that we have never seen ANYWHERE is pickled black cod.  With good marketing people, brought in from outside, pickled black cod could make the City of Pelican disgustingly rich.  Seriously.  Filthy, filthy rich!

Not the mayor, not the council members, not any one person, but the city.  And everyone would benefit.

Workers and workers with families could be encouraged to move there.  The person who wrote today's question pointed out to me that Tenakee had advertised in Craigslist for families.  The school was in danger of closing due to low enrollment.  You know what?  There were families who responded and moved to Tenakee!  Unemployment is so high right now!  People are sick of the cities.  People are sick of the traffic!  They're sick of the pollution and crowding and crime!  There are people who would just LOVE to pick up and move to Pelican--if there was a job for them.  If they even knew that is existed.

I would really love to hear from Pelicanites who are opposed to the idea of a City purchase of Pelican Seafoods.  I'd really like for someone to make sense of that for me.  Because it makes NO SENSE.  As for the Pelicanites who want to continue to live in Pelican, for those who never wanted it to change, SPEAK UP!  CAMPAIGN!  BE FORCEFUL!  Everyone used to say that they didn't want to see Pelican change and it changed anyway.  Here and now is the perfect opportunity to get some of that old flavor, that vitality, that fishing community spirit back.  No, Pelican will never be exactly what it was in the past.  Nothing is.  Life isn't static, but always in flux.  But Pelican is at a crucial crossroads.  It will either dwindle and die a tragic death OR it could thrive and become even more than it ever was before.  Courage.  Take courage.

Loneliness for the Parents of Autistic Children

 

This is an old picture, taken on the last day of 5th grade when Sam was getting ready to transition to Middle School.  She, along with another autistic 5th grader were having a very difficult last day.  Sam chose to spend her day sitting in this cupboard.  She will start 7th grade in September. 

The Beatles sang, "Look at all the lonely people..."  And they're everywhere.  I wouldn't dare to claim loneliness as the domain of autistic families, but I venture to say most, if not all, of us are familiar with the concept.

I'm writing on this subject for two reasons.  First, I've been thinking about the subject of loneliness for a long time.  After I graduated from high school, I wanted nothing more than to get away from Seeley Lake and start living a life where I felt that I fit in.  Don't get me wrong--I had friends.  As I've come to realize, those friends mean more to me than I ever thought possible.  However, I've lost touch.

I made friends in college--good friends, close friends, and have lost touch with all of them.  When I moved to Pelican and started working at Pelican Seafoods, I made an interesting variety of friends, some quite close, and yet, have lost touch with most of them.  When the Japanese closed the doors and most of the workers left, my friends were in that exodus of people.

Now, living in Dallas, I know very few people.  My neighbors are much older and involved with their families (as am I, of course) and I'm friendly with neighbors on both sides.  Friends and friendly are two different concepts, though.  I'm overly-friendly (I fear) with the cashiers at the grocery store--not all of them, of course, but several.  They remember me and it doesn't seem to be one of those silent, "Oh, God, why did she come to my line again?" situations.  The check-out line, unlike a bar, is one of those places where you really can't loiter for more than 90 seconds.  That would be unlike the bar where you can loiter for more than 12 hours.  You may get to know someone better in the bar, but they may also get to know more of you than they really want, and even grow to be thoroughly sick of you. Besides, not being in Pelican at our own bar, I can't very well desert my kids for hours on end to pursue a life of alcoholism, as glamorous as that might seem.  Some readers may find that shocking.

I decided last December that my New Year's resolution was not going to be to lose weight.  That's been my resolution, and a daily one, for as long as I can remember.  So it's not much of a resolution.  I don't know what it is, but that special January 1 needed to be something new.  So I decided to re-connect with old friends.  In particular, I wanted to re-establish friendships with  people from high school.

One effort has remained unanswered.  Via the grape vine, this friend has been having a hard time of it and so I'm biding my time before making another stab at it.  But I did re-establish contact with my old friend Christine.

Chris and I went to school together for only our freshman and sophomore years, but we were close.  We were the only two girls in Mr. Baretta's P.E. class and did we ever abuse that situation!  We started emailing and this led to a phone call.  No one would ever guess that we hadn't talked in 28 years.  That's friendship and that's the kind of friendships I'm hungry for.

It can be difficult for anyone to make friends when moving to a new town.  Definitely an advantage for church-goers.  Church is a built-in network. There are other social groups people can join, too, like the P.T.A.  But frankly, that doesn't appeal to me.  After battling for decent services for Sam when we lived in Pelican, I'm not up for it again.  I know I would get too involved, which might benefit the parents and students, but would take too much out of me.  I did it with the union and I learned my lesson.

Besides, when you have an autistic child, you aren't free to just go be-bopping around.  Try finding babysitters who aren't family.  And good luck with that family angle because they work and have lives, too.  My kids grand-parents on my side are two days away, and Mick's dad is a day away and has his hands full with his sick wife.  They can't come babysit while I run off to a meeting or fund raiser or whatever.  Yes, we have respite care, approximately 100 hours per year, but that takes some arranging and our worker is a college student, so we work around her schedule.

Just take my child with me, you say?  Yeah, right.  That's a good one.  Actually, I have dragged her to a variety of things and she is usually very good.  For as long as she is able to be good.  But when Sam is done, we are all done, because if we push it, all effort goes into trying to placate her.  And what fun is that?  As with any autistic child, once discontent, the agitation starts and it can take a variety of forms:  humming, shrieking (which tends to really hurry things along), hand flapping, scratching, loudly scripting ( in Sam's case this used to mean that she would shriek, "Piglet!"  over and over.  Now she has decided on, "Thumbalina!"  and, her aunt's favorite, "Stop! Or I'll shit!"  And for the record, she means, "Stop! Or I'll shoot!"  Oh, well). 

There's a time, especially when the autistic kids are younger and seem to be at their most autistic ( ages 3-6 is my guess) when families feel the most isolated and lonely.  This is an overwhelming time.  The child is in major distress: sensory overload and not understanding expectations,because often, the child isn't even understanding language at the time.  Families are in distress as well because all of their expectations for the future have been turned upside-down, they don't know enough about the disability or how to help yet, and they are probably sleep-deprived and watching their house get destroyed at an alarming rate.

They also aren't used to the stares yet, those disapproving, judgmental stares of the ignorant who seem to be thinking, and God help us, sometimes saying, "Can't you control your child?"  "Some people just shouldn't have kids" (and I couldn't agree more, but that's a different subject).  "What is wrong with that kid?"  Well, you get the idea.  Show me the parent of an autistic child who doesn't know what it's like to be completely mortified and I'll show you a kid who has been mis-diagnosed.

It gets so much better with time.  I say that and I must tell people that my daughter is considered severely autistic.  And yes, it gets so much better.  In fact, I'm taken aback these days when she has a melt-down because they're so rare.  But they do happen because she is severely autistic.

A support group would be great, but to be honest, I hate that sort of forum.  I don't want to go to a room filled with rows of chairs and then be recognized by a speaker and stand, state my name, and share a little tale of woe.  It's too much like an AA meeting.  I just want to meet fellow-sufferers and SOCIALIZE.  I want to go have picnics or (can't believe I'd ever say this) POTLUCKS.  Oh, woe is me.  Look at the level to which I have sunk!  I'd love to get together with other families and their weird kids and go to the zoo or the fair or a movie.  You get the idea. Safety in numbers. We don't need to stand up in a room of strangers and relate tales of mortification.  We could share those as we try ( and possibly fail) to keep our kids from throwing their toys into the gorilla exhibit ( Sam threw her favorite stuffed animal into the shark tank at Sea World and an employee had to fish it out) or any other socially atrocious activity that they feel compelled to implement.

At Sam's last I.E.P. ( individual education plan) meeting, Mick and I pushed for swimming.  It's no secret that Sam loves the water, but the water is also very therapeutic for her.  One, it helps her get some necessary exercise, but also, it is calming, soothing, and a great sensory experience.  She seems more content and focused when she's done.  It's also a great motivator.

Sam's teacher, Alan (originally from Hoonah), went a few steps further.  He campaigned or cajoled or did or said something right to the powers that be.  He was able to get the school and Aquatic Center to let his entire Special Ed classroom come in a half-hour before open swim and have their time at the pool. An hour every Friday! This was so great!

This was not swimming lessons.  This was just an end-of-the-week treat that all those kids loved and deserved.  Let me add that Alan and one of his aides put on their suits and got into the water with those kids.  Alan had kids climbing all over him as they went around the river and he went down the slide with them, too.  All I have to say is he'd better still be teaching here when school starts in September.

The other great thing about the swimming?  We got to spend some time with other parents.  The pool was empty enough that it didn't matter that our kids are "weird".  They were free to just be who they are.  And we were able to sit around and share stories of total mortification, property destruction, and our fragile mental health.  It sounds like friendship.

Friendship...I'm starting to get emails from people I've never met and it is thrilling!  Especially since I haven't been blessed with any hate mail yet.  But, hey, something to look forward to.  I answer these emails and I fear I may come across the same way I do when I go to the grocery store--too friendly, too familiar, too chatty.  So, if I do, please forgive me.  Parenting an autistic child can be a lonely road.  It's so nice to meet fellow travelers along the way. 

The Home Spa Experience: Our Weekend of Pampering ?

 

Scene of the crime.  Dear Readers, you are SO lucky that I am so self-conscious or you might have found a nude picture here.  Because I was quite a sight.  Instead, just use your imaginations--or not.

 

The damage to my brain seems to be permanent.  For the life of me, I can't remember how Sunday began, and as of this writing, that was only yesterday morning.

Sure, there was only the 1% milk for my morning tea, major disappointment in my daily life, having given up coffee and toxic, sugar-free creamer.  As for any other disasters, catastrophes, or indignities, my brain seems to have blocked out all trauma.  Hey, maybe it was a GOOD morning.

I do recall that I was feeling remarkably blah, unmotivated, and glad of the excuse (hey, it's Miranda's pamper day) to not do any major yard work.  Even though it desperately needs to be done.  I was hoping, in fact, with no rain, that the brown grass wouldn't grow.  It hasn't much, but the proliferation of big, tough, mutant dandelions are going strong and I will be compelled to either kill them, or more likely, just chop them off.  But I digress...

My plans to work on a vision board and listen to some inspirational CDs never panned out.  I simply lacked the motivation to get started and just hung out on the couch and watched old movies until Miranda joined me.  Sensing ever-increasing boredom on her part--she thought Cary Grant was a monster of a father in Houseboat with Sophia Loren and by today's standards he was--I gave it a rest.  We decided too hit the park early and beat the crowds to the swim holes.

It appeared that the citizens of Dallas, Oregon were all still in church as we arrived at the park.  The swim hole was deserted.  It was also in the shade at only 11:30 a.m.

And it was cold.  So they told me.  Sam and Miranda swam for a short while and then decided enough, time to get out.  As we were leaving, people released from church arrived for a variety of potlucks.  Being allergic to the whole pot-luck culture, we made our escape.

Miranda was eager to turn our home into a spa.  Sam was eager to do her own thing, as usual, music and art work in my bedroom.  And I was eager for...well, I wasn't eager for anything. 

After sitting like a lump for a little while, observing Miranda give herself a foot bath, trying to locate the foot file for her, I got up and decided it was time to tackle something.  For some time now, my closet has been a symbol of chaos, inefficiency, and impending insanity.  I had to do something about this.  If for no other reason than being able to put away clean laundry.  The balancing act in the top of the closet had failed into a cascade of clothing.

Don't mistakenly think that my closet is now done.  If all it was going to take was one afternoon, I'd have conquered this mess long ago.  I only dealt with my clothes.  There is still a closet full of CRAP that is living underneath the clothes rod.  That's a battle for another day--or two or three.

I took ALL my clothes, even the ones in the dressers, and threw them ALL into the living room.  This strategy guarantees that the project will be completed.  Then I went out to the shop and brought in all the empty wet-lock boxes that Mick had used to bring fish home.  No sense having a bunch of empty boxes taking up space.

Sorting was relatively easy.  I simply folded, stacked, and hung the clothes that I actually wear and that fit.  This includes pajamas, exercise clothes, disreputable-looking, ratty gardening clothes, and then the clothes that actually fit and that I can wear at this time.  Then with the remainder, I kind of sorted by category and size (too small, but hopeful), boxed them up, and took the boxes back out to the shop.  Five or six items went into my "to give away" box.  Sounds easy.  It took more than two hours.

But I felt much better for my effort.  The leaning tower of laundry that had been living on my washer/ dryer and kitchen table had been eating at my emotional health for some time.  Now it is easy to put the laundry away.  Miranda had already re-folded and organized our one hall closet which holds towels and bedding.  It had been such a mess that I had to use my shoulder to get the door to close.  Now all is well.

All that accomplishment made me feel as though maybe I could enjoy a spa treatment.  My lack of participation hadn't slowed Miranda down.  Though we hadn't given Sam the full-blown treatment we'd originally intended, she did get her finger and toe nails painted, making her very happy.  Then she just wanted to be left alone.  And what Sam wants, Sam gets.

The main focus of Miranda's spa experience was found in a book we'd given her for Christmas a few years back.  The book is Spa Magic by Mary Muryn.  What she wanted to make was a deep detox: The Boreh Body Scrub, originating in Bali.

We didn't have all of the ingredients.  Miranda substituted and omitted.  Still, the scrub accomplished what it set out to do:  chill, warm, tingle, and eventually burn.  Lacking rice powder, I thought Miranda would use rice flour.  Turns out we were out of that, too, so she just used plain all-purpose flour.  This may have affected the detox portion of the experience.  We lacked a couple of spices, but Miranda did use black pepper, cinnamon, ground ginger, nutmeg, and although not on the list, cayenne pepper.  This, I'm sure, contributed greatly to the whole BURNING experience.  She added some oil and the whole thing resembled nothing so much as thick, sticky, spice cake batter.

I got on with my evening, made dinner, did dishes, etc.  Miranda did the front half of her own body while I was busy with the mundane tasks of everyday life.  In other words, I was kind of oblivious.  Knowing that this detox body scrub would require a shower afterwords, I wanted to wait until just before bed time.

Miranda's new and improved bedroom was the spa location with her bed being center stage.  Sam was settled on her air mattress and naturally didn't want to go to sleep with all this strange activity going on around her.  I'd thought it would be preferable to be near her so that she wouldn't be hopping out of bed to find us and then feel left out.  I also thought this whole process would take about 15 minutes, maybe 10.  I was wrong.

Operating under this mistaken idea, I'd located an ancient tube of Avon Anew Dramatic Smoothing Mask. This is a blue-green clay mask that one spreads over the face resulting in a hideous zombie resemblance.  It's also supposed to draw out impurities and tighten pores.  I hadn't done one in ages.  As the mask dries, it becomes very tight and tingly and needs to be washed off.  It's only supposed to be on for about 10 minutes.

So with my face encased in a blue mask, I proceeded down the hall to Miranda's spa.

In her defense, she'd checked with me before.  I just hadn't really thought things through.  "Mom, I need to change my sheets anyway," she'd said.  And I'd replied, "Well, sure."

Yeah, sure.  I stripped and lay down in her bed which kind of looked like it had been pooped in.  She wouldn't do my whole body, both sides, at once, because I needed to "cook".  If ever we were to do this again, and I can't believe my fingers even typed that, she would be required to do both my sides together. 

Miranda took her big bowl of goo-batter and a spatula and coated my whole back side with cold, clammy, thick yuk.  Then she covered me with a sheet and blanket and left me to "cook".

Initial application was unpleasant to say the least. I gritted my teeth and endured.  Miranda put Enya on the Ipod docking station to soothe me.  This might have ruined Enya for me, but after awhile I realized the music had stopped.  I don't think I'd shouted in protest, but Sam may have dealt with this matter.

Because Sam was, well, definitely not wide awake, but awake and waiting for all the nonsense to end so that she could go to sleep.  She'd confiscated Miranda's laptop and was watching a Winnie the Pooh movie on You Tube.

The goo began to warm...and dry...slowly.  The warming was pleasant at first.  I'm not sure about the drying.  Perhaps.  Wet goo is certainly not my idea of a good time.  Meanwhile, my face was as dry and tight as could be, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.  I wanted to jump up and wash it, but Miranda had slapped goo onto the soles of my feet.

My back side was becoming HOT.  "I think I'm done on this side," I called out.  Miranda miraculously appeared at my side, eager to proceed.  I thought about calling the process to a halt, but I've been enough of a drag the past few weeks.  So I decided to be a sport.  I flipped over.

Now my burning backside was really pressed into the bed and the heat was increasing.  Miranda slapped ice-cold goo down my legs, on my stomach and down each arm.  She stood over me, with goo dripping fromher instrument of torture and hesitated over my chest.  "Uhm?.." she inquired.  "NOT my nipples!" I said sternly.  She slapped cold goo across my upper chest and covered me up again.  To Cook.

As I lay there, trying to ignore my cold, disgusting top side, and my ever-increasingly burning back side, I pondered, "Just what the hell is the matter with me?"  Was it a good thing, this weird ritual I'd consented to?  Did it make me open and tolerant, encouraging and involved with my child?  Or was I just an idiot?

I thought about what my mom would have done, had she walked in on me at home when I was Miranda's age, and found me in my bed, ON HER SHEETS!, covered in cake batter!  Well, it would never, I say NEVER would have happened.  I wouldn't have dared.  She would have either killed me or been a victim of spontaneous combustion.  Oh, just the notion of it. 

Then I fantasized about what she would do or say if she could see me in my present predicament.  Probably, she'd just sadly shake her head, speechless.  After all, what can you say to a 44 year-old woman who lets her child throw cake batter on her and on the GOOD SHEETS!?

Discomfort penetrated these strange imaginings and I suddenly threw back the covers desperately and announced, "I'm done!"  And I was.  I needed out of there fast and I needed a shower in a bad way.

I coated Miranda's front side in goo, because of course, she enjoyed this whole spa experience and was only half done, then I bolted for the bathroom.

I stood there in the shower and rinsed my aching, cracked face.  Once my face was freed and rejoicing, I stood there and watched cake batter run into the bottom of my shower.  And collect.  I was suddenly panicked with images of paper mache, hard tack...permanently clogged pipes...plumber bills...the telephone call to Mick when I described just why we'd had such an expensive plumbing disaster. 

I let the water run and run.  And run and run.  Then I scrubbed myself some more because that stuff was not coming off.  It was one of the longest showers I'd ever had.

When I was done, I felt refreshed.  I felt relieved, relieved to have all that goo and hard tack off of my body.  My back, especially, glowed bright red like a sunburn.

Miranda was cleaning off in the other bathroom and I went back to her room.  Sam was almost asleep. I stripped Miranda's bed and shook my head sadly at what I hauled away.  I should have taken a picture, but the thought didn't even occur. It was 11:20 p.m. and a school night for Sam.

Sam was so tired the next morning.  I let her sleep as long as I could before I got her up and off to her two hours of summer school.  Then I went to start the wash.

I almost put those sheets in the washing machine, but extreme caution seemed to be advised.  I took them outside instead and hung them on the railing, and then I hosed them down.  And I kept hosing them down because the dried goo didn't want to let go.  Again, I shook my head and wondered what my mother would have thought of this situation.

A word about sheets in my family.  Sam has been very hard on our bedding from almost the beginning.  Miranda never has.  But Sam has spilled nail polish more than once, and as pretty as the colors may be, sheets never recover from nail polish.  There have been permanent poop stains, markers, makeup, and even glue.  Currently, my nice cream-colored king-sized sheets have HUGE  yellow stains that will not come out, because Sam decided, while eating in my bed, that she didn't like the mustard on her sub sandwich.  Which had never been a problem the many times before that she'd eaten sub sandwiches.  So she peeled off the bun and WIPED it on my sheets!  Permanent stains.

Miranda's sheets?  Soft...lovely...stain-free.

The Pamper Weekend

 

NOT a scene from Saturday.  Hopefully this is in our near future, though.

It started like this:

me:  Aaarrrghh!  No!  No! No!  Not AGAIN!  Ugh!  That is mine, do you hear me?  Mine!  THAT is yours, this one was supposed to be mine.  Do you understand me? 

Sam:  Oh way.

me:  (voice full of self-pity)  Now I have to drink CRAPPY 1% milk in my morning tea instead of my organic half and half.  (sigh..sigh..sigh..)

Sam smacked her lips, having totally enjoyed her nice, refreshing, LARGE glass of organic half and half.

And yes, she will do it again.  Because she doesn't want any crappy 1% milk either, even though I buy organic for her, too. 

I had crappy 1% on Sunday morning, too, and Monday morning as well, since I was too lazy to go to the store and buy more.  The thing is, one never just goes in and buys the one necessary item.  One small carton of half and half could end up costing me about $60.  So I decided to do without for a few days, very grudgingly and with poor humor, until I needed, yes, actually needed,a few more things and possibly even had an errand or two.

Continuing with my mid-summer malaise, we went to the park on Saturday, late afternoon, for the girls to swim.  Other than the creamer incident of 6:00 a.m., Sam had been very good and not at all demanding.  Extreme heat was negatively impacting my life out-look.  I felt limp, unproductive, and overall pretty dissatisfied with my lot in life (tired of being without my husband). I was ready to sit in my trusty lawn chair and read some escapist crap while the girls swam and I wasn't going to feel guilty for not getting more done in the heat.

Too crowded.  Miranda refused, absolutely refused to swim anywhere in the creek.  Sam, of course, was baffled, indignant, upset, and shrieking in protest, all the way home!  And I just felt sorry for myself.

What fun.

Miranda and I had a little talk.  I certainly understand her feelings--not like I'm putting on my suit to go swim with the masses, however...well...we came to an understanding.  I think.  I've never been tough with her and have always tried to let her do the things she wants--she's a pretty reasonable person--but lately she's been pretty inflexible.  As I pointed out, it's unreasonable to expect the autistic person to be flexible when inflexibility is part and parcel of the disability.  In other words, don't expect her to be something that she simply isn't.  And don't keep expecting to get to do everything you want if you can't be a little more flexible and help me out with Sam.  And she understood.  That is one thing about Miranda, or two things:  1) she is emotionally and ethically intelligent, and 2) she is very loving and caring.  But she's also 14, so we have these little moments and she'd better just hope that I don't suddenly descend into full-blown menopause--because I'm due.  It can happen at any moment.  Then watch out.  People think Sam can be unreasonable?  Just wait.

Also on Saturday, after we returned from the park fiasco and tempers had cooled somewhat, I went out to the shop, thinking that if I accomplished something, perhaps I'd find myself in better humor.  Instead, I found out why we're told to not paint when the weather is too hot. No, there were no real disasters, just momentary panic as the paint turned stringy and bumpy, drying as I painted the two dressers with the ten drawers.  I wouldn't give up, though.  I simply slapped the paint on thicker and brushed back and forth like a mad woman.  Generally, I'm not a sweaty person.  I was wearing very light clothing, the shop door was open to allow fresh air in, and the sweat poured off of me.  It's hard to be in a good mood when it's that hot.  I was glad for a moment that Mick wasn't here to witness my idiocy, or worse, to point it out.

That was just Saturday.  Miranda had designated, on the calendar no less, that Sunday was going to be "Pamper Day".  No, not a day that we all run around in diapers, but a home spa day.  I'm afraid I didn't show much enthusiasm for the plan.  I don't like to be fussed with and I'm overwhelmed with projects I'm afraid of never finishing.  I complained on Saturday night about really wanting to get some indoor projects and housekeeping done, that I couldn't take a whole day and not get anything accomplished because that would just stress me out.  So Saturday night, Miranda began cleaning house.

Her ultimate mistake was letting me see that she really can clean house when she wants to. I was grateful and quite impressed with what she'd accomplished.

The day was by no means a total wash.  I checked emails before going to bed and to my utter amazement--I had a fan letter!  Yes, other people have written kind words of praise and encouragement, but this was the real deal--a letter from a complete stranger!  A big shout out to Daria in Michigan.  She saved my day.

Feeling like I was floating, I crawled into my king-sized, lonely bed and was going to drift off to sleep ( and eventually did), but as I lay there the scent of my child's sweaty butt was filling my nostrils.  Large, naked ( she's saving her underwear for summer school since she can't quit picking them apart), sweaty kids who sit in bed on the pillows, no less, leave behind an odor.  Not pleasant.  At all.  It was midnight.  I flipped my pillow over and waited for the delightful fragrance of resident skunk to drift in.

Tomorrow, more on the Pamper Weekend.