Chicken and Sponge

The Newest Nightmare in Computer Viruses/ Worms/ What Will They Think of Next?

I have no idea what this is.  I planted it.  It grows in my flower garden.  And now that my computer is running again, it reflects the inner-me.  If I were to take a picture of how I felt last night when my computer was infected, you'd be looking at a picture of a dog turd right now.

Last night I was prepared to sit and write about a couple of different topics and will hopefully get to them later this week.  Hopefully they don't fall into the category of "Missed Opportunities".  But my plans were suddenly and drastically derailed and I found myself in the middle of a waking nightmare.

First lesson to me is to write my post before checking my emails.  But last night, I thought I'd check emails first and then get to Typepad and write my post.  Ironically, the email I had clicked on had the subject matter "Stress Test".  I still haven't figured out if I passed or if I failed.

Before I could read it, boxes and alerts started popping up all over my computer telling me I'd just contracted viruses and a worm!  Hackers were after my passwords!  My brain reeled as I thought what my passwords would allow someone access to, namely all of our bank accounts.  I froze and then I started trying to click on some of the boxes in order to fix the problem.

The messages all said that my computer had the "Trojan. Win32. Agent.azsy".  Soon it was telling me that I had the "Bloodhound.PDF.8" Trojan.  The bloodhound trojan claimed to wipe out people's personal files from their hard drives.  I started wondering if I still had a novel and how long ago I'd backed it up. I went to www.blackle.com(google) to research and see what these Trojans are.  Difficult, because after a little while, the address bar automatically switched from blackle.com to blank.com.  And the alert messages continued.

Panic.  No, I didn't start running in circles, screaming, hands thrown up in the air.  I didn't pull my hair or have my eyes roll crazily in my head.  I just stared in numb disbelief, occasionally shaking my head and trying to remember to breathe.

I ran my Norton Anti-virus and it said that it had fixed any problems when it was quite obvious that it hadn't.  Crap.  I called Mick.

I had put Sam to bed.  She wasn't asleep,  but was ready for bed.  And I was ready to write and couldn't.  I couldn't seem to do anything with my computer.  So Mick and I talked.  Maybe, he suggested, maybe you'll have to drive over to Salem tomorrow and take it to the Geek Squad.  I sighed and said that I didn't want to drive over to Salem and that the Geek Squad was expensive.  Do they work on computers that you didn't buy there?  Still not sure of the answer, but I imagine, for a price, they work on about anything.

So then Mick told me to look up tech support for Hewlett Packard (because that's what kind of computer I have.  And let me add that when we bought it a couple of years ago, it was considered fancy-schmancy).  He has a Dell and he's called for tech support before and they just walked him through it over the phone.

So I manage to get to the Hewlett Packard website, in spite of all the angry alerts that are still popping up EVERYWHERE and I go to tech support.  I see that the first minute is free and every minute after that is $1.99 per minute!  I stare in disbelief ( and not a little disgust) and consider.  And consider and consider and now my eyes are rolling around crazily in my head, I'm ripping my hair, and I'm beginning to drool a little bit.

Then I call...I'm thinking, or justifying, that if I took it over to Salem to the Geek Squad, it's going to cost me money, probably quite a bit.  So if I can get it fixed that night, over the phone, then so be it.  However, I grab my clock and sit it next to me on the desk.  I'm praying for a ten minute phone call fix.

Didn't happen.  Not the ten minutes and not the fix.  Not only that, the guy actually started getting impatient with me for a bit and that is just not ok when I'm paying $2/ minute.  Sorry I'm not tech-savvy.  If I were, you wouldn't be getting this call and ALL MY MONEY!

The guy said it would be faster if he could take over my mouse by remote.  Fine by me.  Except that this nasty Trojan kept closing him out of Internet Explorer and we'd have to reconnect him.  Did this three times.  Every time he got into where he wanted to be, he still couldn't get rid of this Trojan.  In fact, I don't think he even located it.  Because, like the Trojan Horse that it's named after, it looks like something other than what it is.

The next thing we tried was for me to access a website from another computer ( tried Miranda's first but she has 5000 pictures stored and Explorer shut down on me, so we went on to Mick/Sam's laptop) and then to download a program into a thumbdrive.  I was then to take the thumbdrive to the infected computer (aka my computer) and download the program.

DID NOT WORK!

I've been on the phone with the tech support guy for an hour now.  That's right, $120!  I'd already told him that I couldn't stay on the line much longer.  So he tells me he's going to send me an email with a site that will walk me through getting rid of the virus.  You heard me.  I'm not going to write that again because it absolutely galls me to even think about it.  Obvious question, after the first few minutes on the phone, why didn't he give me this site?  Answer:  because NOW WE ARE PAST THE $120 MARK AND MY BILL IS CLIMBING!

We hang up.  Thank you, thank you, God.  I go to Mick's laptop and open up the emails.  Three options are there for downloading something that is supposed to help me get rid of this mess.  I'm supposed to download and put it in my thumbdrive and then take it to my computer and install it.

It turns out that this "free trial offer" will only scan for problems and not fix them.  So I find out that my computer has 15 threats and 59 viruses.  And no fix unless I want to pay $39.95 a year.  Deep, disgusted breath and I get out my debit card to purchase.

And guess what?  I get everything filled out and when I get to the place where I need to give them credit card info, that little alert box pops up and blocks everything and I can't purchase the solution.  I try and try.  I give up at midnight.  Head pounding.  I feel like I've been given a venereal disease I feel so violated.

Let me explain something about this Trojan.  When you come across it and it invades your computer, it, the Trojan, is what starts sending you all these alerts and dire warnings.  The hook, the scam, is that the Trojan offers you a solution, bogus, phony spyware protection to get rid of the problem that you're having.  It IS the problem, but you may not know that.  It just won't let you do anything until you purchase their fake spyware and then they've got your credit card info and they have your money.  This is truly diabolical.

I went to bed feeling beat-up, defeated, hopeless, and adrift in despair.  People sometimes point out to me that I deal with a lot of stress and it is true.  More true than they know.  However, Samantha is the least of my stress.  There are a lot of more stressful things in life to deal with.  Unfortunately, my body doesn't deal with it.  My body falls apart.  Right now I have a big, itchy, swollen lump on the inside of my right elbow.  Doesn't sound like much and it isn't, but it's there; I'm aware of it; it's not comfortable, and it's just one more weird thing that reveals my stress level--as if the significant loss of pigmentation wasn't a big enough clue.

I dealt with the computer almost first thing this morning.  Once I'd worked up my nerve, that is.  I beseeched the heavens, Angels of Aries, to get this computer fixed!  My friend Chris sent me "good computer vibes".  Then I took a deep breath and hoped that the Trojan was still sleeping or distracted so early in the morning.  Maybe the Trojan isn't a morning, uh, horse?

It worked.  It worked, folks.  I think.  It appears to have worked.  So far.  For an additional $39.95 for this year.  After paying $147.26 to Hewlett Packard tech support, so that they could tell me to go spend $39.95 to  fix the problem. That hurts.  It really does, but I guess I'll get over it.  I'm contacting Hewlett Packard, though, and letting them know just how unhappy, how unsatisfied I am.  I would feel different if they'd actually fixed the problem, but they didn't.  They also didn't tell me how to get the problem fixed in a timely manner.  Tech support should be free.  And if they can't manage free they should have a different pay scale.  I think Dell computer tech support is free.  I'll check on that before I vent.

Your current virus protection probably won't protect you from Trojans.  Every system has its strengths and weaknesses.  Norton Anti-Virus didn't begin to do anything for this problem.  What I ended up purchasing was Spyware from PC Tools.  There are others, but this seems to be the one.  So if you get alerts and messages that you've been infected with a Trojan, either shut down that computer and go to another, or just go to PC Tools ( I googled and used the name of the Trojan to get to the right place.  Oh, yeah, forgot to mention, I'd actually seen the solution before calling tech support, but had been unsure), and purchase and install their spyware.

Nothing bad has happened on my computer for a couple of hours now.  I'm not going to get complacent, but I think I can stop holding my breath.  I think, maybe, I'm back in business.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 25

    Short days at work (only eight hours) seemed like days off and Joy and I weren’t too sure what to do with ourselves.

    Second Floor, though much warmer and drier than the first floor of the Fish House, seemed boring.  Making boxes, though necessary ( got to put those fish in something, after all), seemed like totally lame, screwing around non-work.  This might have been because there were far too many of us up there.

    It was fun to be around Tim and Clark again—who traded off throwing fish out of the freezer and into the glaze tank where they ( the fish, not Clark and Tim) then went to a grader and down a conveyor belt to the scale people who packed the fish into fifty pound boxes.  Then the boxes went down another conveyor belt, were banded and stamped, and then Tim or Clark, whoever was not in the freezer, stacked them on pallets.

    The grading job looked boring.  I wanted to try the scale job, but was apparently still so new that I was only fit to tear plastic bags and stick them into boxes.

    Jaimie and Enrico and several others were down on the first floor cleaning up black cod remnants and switching the tables and machinery to prepare for halibut.  It was a nice break for those of us on Second Floor to be away from some of those people.  Apparently Enrico had managed to get on more people’s nerves than just mine.

    I returned from my second bathroom break, having felt a need to floss my teeth and let Hazel ( crusty old woman and the oldest of the old-timers) breathe.  She’d started to squawk when Joy and I had completely buried her in boxes, lined and unlined ( i.e. with or without bags).  Hazel was the official box stapler and no one messed with her.  Except Joy and I, but that was honestly unintentional.

    “Where’s Joy?” I asked Clark.

    He gestured to the sliding door, “Screwing off on the balcony, gazing out to sea.”

    I shrugged and went to hid back in the cardboard stacks.  Hazel, completely ahead of the game, thanks to me and Joy, was back in the stacks, too.  I watched her pull a little bottle of Rose Milk hand lotion out of her purse, look around, and then drink some!  Huh?

    “Hey,” said a voice right in my ear.  I jumped, clutched my heart and spun around.

    “Hey,” the guy said, “are you Petra?”

    I nodded, still speechless.

    “You’re supposed to show me the ropes.  I’m Loki.”

    “Loki?” I repeated.

    “Yes,” he said firmly, “Loki.”

    Spooky guy number two.   This one looked like a descendant of Rasputin.  What was it with me?  I was a magnet.  And why was I supposed to show anybody the ropes?  That seemed asinine. 

    “Where did you come from?” I asked.

    He smiled at me, “Does it matter?”  Loki had long, braided hair, beard, moustache, was tall and wiry, clothed in all black ( like Johnny Cash).  He had an earring, tattoos, and ankh and braided bracelets.  Spooky eyes, yes, a little.  But these eyes, though penetrating, were not cold or soulless.  His ever-present smile and calm demeanor reminded me of someone doing a Jesus impersonation.

    “Well, Loki, welcome to the ever-entertaining and stimulating world of cardboard and plastic.  I will be your hostess and guide, former screw-up now working hard to be a good little worker bee.  Back here,” I gestured, “ is the domain of Hazel, oldest employee and Queen Bee of boxing.”

    Loki smiled.

    “Yeah, well,” I said, “there’s boxing and then there’s boxing, but I imagine she might be a mean little featherweight.  One minute ago, right before you scared the crap out of me, I saw her partaking of Rose Milk hand lotion.”

    “Oh, no.  Really?” Loki’s eyes were full of pity.

    “Yeah,” I said.  “But I can’t imagine it tastes good.”

    “She’s got booze in that bottle,” he informed me.

    I smacked my forehead.  “God!  I feel stupid.  Of course.  Wow.”  I soaked it all in.  I finished the tour and introductions.  Joy eventually returned after Thelma had spotted her from the dock and yelled at her to get inside and back to work.  “Old witch is still yelling at me,” Joy grumbled.

    We wandered, we visited, we sang, and we made up games.  There were too many of us up on Second Floor, but as Clark liked to say, “I’m not here to work, I’m here to get paid!”  Management seemed to want it that way.

    One day, when returning from bathroom break whatever, I could feel that the energy level had changed in the box area before I even got there.  Excitement vibrated throughout the dusty air.

    I should have guessed.  Lauren.  Lauren leaning over one guy’s shoulder, Lauren posed on the conveyor belt, head thrown back and emitting her deep, throaty chuckle.  Lauren, whispering in another guy’s ear and giving his arm bicep a squeeze.  Lauren reminded me of the girls in junior high who would read Cosmo and then tell their less sophisticated friends how to turn guys on.

    And the guys on Second Floor?  Like guys anywhere.  Weak in the knees, eyes adoring, mouths slack—they were enslaved.  Jealous?  Yes, I was jealous.  Damned straight.

    “No need to be jealous,” a voice whispered in my ear, the moustache brushing my neck and giving me shivers.  I whipped around and was face-to-face with Loki.  He looked me up from head to toe and back again and there was nothing spiritual in his smile this time.  Those penetrating eyes bore into me and he smiled even wider.  “No need at all,” he said softly and sauntered off.

    Damn.  That man left me feeling disconcerted at the best of times.

    “Hi, Sweetie!”  Lauren called as I approached, “just the woman I want to see.”  She untangled herself from Clark.  He looked like a nerdy sixth grader fighting off an erection.

    “A little bird told me,” she said sotto voce, “ that Second Floor will be getting off early today, so I thought maybe you and Joy could join me for dinner at my cabin.  My boyfriend and his running mate are coming into town and I need someone to help entertain.  A skipper for me and a skipper for you.”

    “And what about Joy?”

    “Oh, I have someone picked out for her,” Lauren grinned.  “So, how about 6:00?  I, unfortunately, don’t get off early.”  She leaned over and whispered for my ears alone, “Jeff just chewed my ass yesterday for not keeping regular hours so I’ll have to stick it out until 5:00.  Do you cook?”

    “I love to cook,” I replied.

    “Good.  I’ll buy groceries and leave them at my cabin at lunch time.  You and Joy can put dinner together after you get off and cleaned up and I’ll bring home some wine with me.  The guys should be here by dinner time.  See you.  Bye, everybody,” Lauren the goddess called out and took her leave.

    Joy came up to me outside the box area.  What was that about?”

    “We’ve been invited to dinner at Lauren’s tonight.”

    “You’re kidding me!”

    “No,” I said, “there’s just one thing, though.”

    “What’s that?”

    “We’re cooking it.”

    Joy rolled her eyes, then laughed.  I had to laugh, too.  Typical Lauren.  Makes you feel like she’s doing you a favor and then you do all the work.

    A guy I’d never seen before walked up to us and stood waiting for us to finish.  He was about five nine, dark hair, heavy-lidded sleepy eyes, three days growth of beard and about 35 or 40.  We turned to him politely.

    “Yes?”

    “Do you two work up here?” he asked just as politely.

    “Yes,” I said.  “Do you?”

    “Sort of,” he replied.  “Do you think you could be a little less obvious and not stand in the middle of the floor?  Just in case Jeff or the Japanese walk through?  Maybe you could continue your conversation behind those tall stacks of fiber,” he suggested, pointing to the box area.

    “Who are you?” Joy demanded, rather perplexed. 

    “I’m Malcolm,” the man said, “I’m the Second Floor foreman.”

    Joy and I looked at each other.  We hadn’t realized that there was a Second Floor foreman.  Wordlessly, we turned and walked to the fiber stacks in the box area.

    Before we took his suggestion and disappeared from view, I turned and called out, “It was nice meeting you, Malcolm.”

    His eyes sparked with sleepy humor.  “Oh, it was very nice meeting you, too, Petra and Joy.”

Life Was Getting Back to Normal...Then Mom Falls Sick

Well, it's not like I'm going to include a picture of myself.  I've been attempting to capture the perfect Louise picture, when she's sitting in her bulldog Buddha pose.  I'm getting closer.

I never dreamed  that this would turn into a three-part saga.  In fact, after a fairly routine Monday, I thought we were returning to our own version of normal.  It might not resemble anyone else's normal, but it's ours and it's better than many alternatives...Like the reality that hit us. 

Monday I puttered.  I wrote; I did minor cleaning; I walked past projects that need attending to and lamented that today wasn't going to be the day.  I eventually took the cats to the vet for a long-overdue appointment.  Four o'clock is just too late in the day.  It hung over me like some major project when it wasn't.  If it had been the dogs--no big deal.  Those idiots love going to the vet!

But the cats...one must be sly, secretive, sneaky.  It's a good thing that the cats and dogs don't speak the same language or those curs would have ratted me out.  I had to hose out one of the cat crates because it had been sitting on the porch, unused, since last August.  If a cat sees a carrier, that's the last one will see of the cat.  And those two somehow talk to each other without making a sound.  Most of the time Hecate and Hedwig don't seem to even particularly like each other, but in matters of travel, they have an alliance.

So here's how it's supposed to work:  I clean the carriers outside and then place them out of view on the porch.  I discretely put clean towels in each one and leave the doors open.  Then I signal Miranda.  She finds Hecate; I find Hedwig.  We nab them, stuff them, close the cage doors and I drive away to the vet.

Here's how it actually works:  I clean the carriers and the dogs see me and go absolutely ape-shit because they think that they are going to get to go somewhere even though these carriers are so obviously the wrong size for them.  They impede my every move, barking at me, banging my shins with their rock-hard heads causing me great pain.  I yell at them which I know will do no good, but I do it anyway because it makes me feel better.  I let the carriers dry out of sight and Zeus tries to crawl in one and looks like the ridiculous fool that he is.  Sorry, no pictures, I was too annoyed.  Finally, it is time and Miranda and I both successfully grab and stuff our cats--while the dogs jump and crash into us, trying to insert their heads in the crates while we try closing the doors.  More unpleasant words are directed at the dogs with the same effect.  In other words, none.  Then I try to go out the front door to the car, a crate in each hand, and the dogs listen as well as ever, in other words, not at all, and they go running out the front door, trying to get in the car and Louise decides to hide outside in the front.  Finally, the dogs are corralled and herded inside and I can leave.  Hedwig, as is her norm, yowls unpleasantly for the entire drive.  Luckily, the vet isn't far away.  When we've traveled with her to Alaska, she has yowled for the entire hour and fifteen minutes to to airport, and then I've heard her yowling in the hold of the plane.  So the five minute drive was nothing.

After that, everything was anti-climatic.  Thank God!  Compliments on the beautiful and healthy cats.  Good to see a Persian that isn't all matted with gooey eyes [these two are actually Exotic Shorthairs, aka the lazy man's Persian which is why their coats are so nice and matt-free].  And they'd maintained their weights--12 pounds and 8 pounds, amazing for indoor cats.  It might just have something to do with two bulldogs chasing them around the house.

I'm home a half-hour later.  The dogs are insanely glad to be reunited with us as though the cats had been on some spectacular adventure and then Louise annoys me for the rest of the night by very firmly and persistently sniffing my legs.  All those exciting doctor office smells.  Actually, there'd been three huge rescue dogs in the office when we got there and one of the owners apologetically explained that they were cat-killers.  Not that I would have taken our cats out for a visit.  They barely tolerate our dogs, let alone strangers.

So all is fine and dandy and I get to finish my phone call with my friend Chris, which had been rudely and completely interrupted by a bodily explosion the night before.  I had a couple of glasses of wine and a great visit.

Then I woke up Tuesday morning.  This couldn't be a hang-over?  Could it?  Could it?  When was the last time I had a hang-over?  So long ago that I don't remember.

I get up, feed the pets, lie down on the couch to watch the Today Show, and it's the last thing I do.  The last normal thing I do, I mean.  Because it isn't long after that that I retrieve Miranda's barf bucket, but I'm having to sit on the toilet while I vomit painfully into her bucket, if you get my drift!  Then the body aches really begin.  And if I wasn't so miserable I'd feel smug because this wasn't any hang-over!  Ha!  I've got the flu!

Yes, my kids gave me their crud, and lucky me, I get both versions.  Poor Miranda had to take care of just about everything.  I was too achy to lie on the couch for long, so she got out an air mattress and made a bed for me.  Because, of course Sam had kicked me out of my own room for the day.  Which was fine because there was still a lingering scent of her poop hanging in the air.  And I was completely nauseated.  And limp.  Occasionally moaning in misery which I tried to control because that kind of freaks Miranda out.  But it's kind of like giving birth (well, not really, of course), in that the intermittent verbalization, the animalistic groan, brings the slightest bit of relief.

I don't know how Miranda did it, but the dogs spent the entire day outside.  Miranda had traded places with me and hung out watching TV with me all day.  Except that I did sleep through a great deal of it.  This is the only time I nap, folks.  My mom would tell you, I didn't even nap as an infant.  I made every car trip a complete misery for my family because I was the only kid in the world who couldn't fall asleep in the car.  That's still me.  If I'm exhausted, which honestly is a lot of the time, I might blink too long and fall asleep while watching TV for a total of ten minutes, tops.  But not when I'm that sick. I slept. I woke up stiff and sore, rolled over, and I slept some more.  The sleep came after turning my stomach inside out three times, examining last night's dinner (hey, I thought I chewed better than that) and then observing that I was now placing bile in the bucket and my throat was burning. Luckily the diarrhea stopped even a little before that.  Then sleep and more sleep.  I heard Mick call once and I didn't talk to him.  I just lay there and listened to Miranda tell him that Mom was sleeping and couldn't be disturbed.  If I hadn't been experiencing fever, chills, and horrible body pains, all this sleep would have been a pleasant dream.  Remember, I'd been sleep-deprived for about three nights ( or 14 years).

What made this situation difficult is that 1) Sam was getting better and a little more restless and 2) Sam had started her period--which was a relief for me because she hadn't had it since maybe February or March.  Definitely not a relief for Miranda.  And not for me either because I was in no condition to help Sam deal with it.

There was an incredible amount of washing to be done.  Normally this wouldn't phase me.  It doesn't phase me.  I can tell you True Tales of Horror about doing laundry, literally, around the clock.  Two o'clock in the morning, three o'clock in the morning...six o'clock...you get the idea.  But Miranda has never had to do this.  For her, and maybe most people, one or two loads and they think they've done a lot of laundry.  For some people I know that would be a week's worth--but I sure wouldn't want to see their sheets or towels.  I have to laugh when my mother mentions something about it being laundry day because here EVERY DAY IS LAUNDRY DAY!  And some days, and some weeks, are worse than others.  We've been having one of those weeks.

Another problem we have is Miranda's concern about Sam's weight.  This isn't normally a "concern" because I will mostly pay attention to what Sam eats and try to ensure that she eats as healthy as she will allow me without causing bodily harm to me or causing her to run away and attempt to forage in stranger's refrigerators--true story.  And we're ALL concerned with Sam's weight for obvious reasons.  But Miranda is so concerned that she just doesn't like to see any food going into Sam's mouth, and of course, that isn't healthy either.  Fat or not, a person needs to eat. 

So Sam did get to eat, although it was much later than it should have been and Miranda was getting pretty worn out playing nursemaid, house keeper, and sister's keeper.  I know, it's a tough, but rewarding job.

I finally wanted to eat, too.  I wouldn't say I was hungry, but I was feeling that other kind of shakiness, the kind that is your body telling you it needs fuel.

There was no good sick food in the house.  Since Mick doesn't have the internet I'll tell you why there is no good sick food in this house.  Because come winter, an afternoon or evening will come when he doesn't want to eat healthy, he doesn't want to go to the store because the weather is crappy, and then he will spy my cream of chicken or my frozen chicken pot pies.  They are the only things I ever feel like eating when I'm sick and that's the only time I do eat those foods because they've got a million fat calories in them.  Comfort food.  He will deny this, but don't believe it for a minute.

I was grateful to get two short cans of Sprite to help me through the day.  Once Sam discovered there was pop in the house again she started her sneak attacks on the refrigerator and I later found little cans stuffed here and there.

I'm running out of steam again just thinking about all this.  The day finally came to an end.  I was able to help Miranda a little and was amazed that she would rather change the bedding on my bed and Sam's rather than help her sister with her shower.  No problem, I did it.  However, the chi qong session I requested she give her sister must have been too much for her because it was the shortest session ever.  But that's ok.  I walk in those shoes.

Lights out at 9:30.  Almost unheard of for me.  I only woke up to roll over.  No one else puked.  No phones rang in the night.  No dogs barked to go out and make friends with skunks.  And Sam let me sleep until 6:30!  You do the math.  I almost felt like a normal person when I woke up.

A Long, Sick Weekend

Can you tell just how thrilled she is to have me taking her picture?  Just because Miranda hates it so much, I decided to do extra-large this time.  She didn't look this good this weekend.

So everything looked like it was going well.  Sam seemed back to normal, obsessed with my fat and my butt cheeks, laughing,  chattering, incomprehensible... you name it.  But seemingly happy.

It was Saturday.  We'd taken Miranda to Janay's birthday/slumber party.  Dropped her off.  Gone to Abby's and ordered dinner.  Eaten little and gone home.  I really don't remember much after that.  I think Sam, being under the weather, went to bed early.  I stayed up and looked up crap on the internet and wrote, etc., etc., etc.  Felt very productive.  Didn't know it would be the last time in days.

Details don't really matter.  I'd just taken a melatonin, after reading something long and absorbing, finishing the last Sookie Stackhouse book "Dead and Gone", and was sinking down into that delightful, heavy-limbed, comatose sleep, when the phone rang.  Two rings and I leaped out of bed, cursing mentally, and waited for an explanation.

"Mom.  Can you come pick me up?  I'm puking!"

What can you say?  No?  I'm tired?  Tough it out?  No, you can't.  Absolutely not.

"Give me a minute to get dressed and get your sister up."

Because, of course, that is part of the deal.  Sam, the autistic, is asleep.  Here is one of those crappy situations.  I can leave her and there's a 99.999999% chance that she'll be perfect.  There's also a chance that she'll over-react, leave the house, let your morbid imagination lead you to whatever conclusion you like.  I couldn't leave her, just in case...At the very least, I'd hate to have her wake up and feel scared.

Sam was a bear.  Thank God, Janay's house is close because our conversation went something like this:

Sam:   "five three!"  [this is a CD request and has little to do with the placement of the CD because her CDs take up all six slots in the player.  She can't remember what she wants--just get your CDs out of there and pay attention. After all, everything is hers.]

[I try disc 5, song 3 and I get:]

Sam: five three! five four! five five! four five! five three! three four!!! three one!!!!, ...

It's dark.  Because it's midnight.  I kind of have night-blindness.  I'm afraid of all the potential road-kill wandering the roads because I see a lot of it flattened during the day...So tired.  So fed up with numbers being shouted at me.  I'm trying to accommodate, but nothing is working and I'm having a stupid monologue that is attempting to be a dialogue with Sam, but she's not listening.

We get to Janay's.  Janay's mom is behind the curtain and then outdoors, carrying Miranda's stuff.  Soon several girls are outside in various states of undress--awkward, coltish, refreshing, innocently beautiful...and Sam is unbuckling...I have the back open and Sam is kind of shrieking and most displeased with me.  I'm walking around the car to say hello to Janay's mom and relieve her of Miranda's stuff. 

Sam:  [shriek, shriek, shriek...}

me, to Janay's mom:  Hi, never mind her [ I say, gesturing to Sam], I couldn't figure out what she wants to listen to and she's not happy with me.

Shelly, [Janay's mom]:  I'm so sorry.  I'm here by myself with the girls or I would have driven her home.

me:  Don't worry about it.  Sam will survive and you had no choice.  No big deal.  Sam will live.

Shelly:  Yes, two other girls got sick. One was a vegetarian and decided to eat pork tonight...

me:  Miranda didn't, did she?

Shelly:  No.

me:   I didn't think so.  Miranda is usually so rigid about such things.

Shelly:  Another girl didn't feel good and left earlier, too.

Miranda, looking absolutely pathetic and pale came out of the house.

Shelly:  Did you remember your bag? [plastic shopping barf bag]

me:  Oh, I was surprisingly smart and grabbed a bucket on the way out.

At that moment a big, beautiful, and completely comical raccoon came barreling across the road right in front of us and disappeared into the bushes.  Made the trip something of a plus. Shelly told me it was the third one that night.

Sam was a little more pleasant on the ride home.  Not much, but a little.  Miranda started to get impatient with her, but I reminded her that Sam hadn't been feeling well and that I'd had to wake her from a dead sleep.  Not that I was trying to make Miranda feel guilty.  She always feels bad if people's plans have to change because of her.

Miranda:  I would have tried to stay, Mom, honestly, but after the second time I puked I just wanted to come home.

me:  Honey, of course.  No one wants to be sick at someone else's house.  Not to mention that the other girls and Shelly don't need to be around it.  Of course you had to call me.  It's no big deal.  Sam'll survive even if it doesn't sound like it right now. [Because of course there were still intermittent squawks coming from Sam]

Sam continued this unpleasant squawking even after we got home.  I told the dogs (in their crates) to shut up, just for good measure, and eventually just closed Sam's door on her.  Moral of the story?  When Sam's upset, she needs her space to calm herself down, because no one is going to jolly her out of it!

Don't think I was suddenly not tired, that that little outing had somehow helped to wake me up.  The melatonin and lack of sleep from the previous two nights was calling to me.  But it was not to be.

I'd helped Miranda to her bed and left her with her bucket.  Then I returned to bed and was once again slipping into that deep, heavy-limbed slumber, when I heard Miranda using her bucket.

That poor kid sounds just like me--trying to turn her body inside out.  Got up, emptied bucket, reassured her that I still loved her, wasn't mad, etc., etc.

Back to bed, back to sleep...I hear vomiting and rush down the hall only to find...that I must have been dreaming it.  Miranda is fine for the moment.  An hour, maybe two pass, and then I think, of course, THAT is what her puking sounds like, it was too quiet the time before.  And I meet her in the bathroom and rinse out her bucket for her.

I won't describe each and every time.  Suffice it to say, she wishes she hadn't eaten so much junk food, particularly tortilla chips with all the sharp edges.  But once the food is gone and bile is all that is left, then the real misery begins.

This involuntary purging cycle continued into Sunday morning.  Miranda lay limp on the couch and I just kept her company, watching programs off of our DVR list--most of them episodes of True Blood which we've seen repeatedly.  I did minimal housework and no yard work.  Sam was still under the weather a little, some more diarrhea in her case, but Sam only wants to be left alone when she doesn't feel well. 

It seems like I've forgotten something completely abominable that the dogs did, but if so, that will make sense in a moment.  Just thank your lucky stars that you are being spared one gross detail in what turns out to be a WEEKEND GROSS-ORAMA!

One of Sam's diarrhea moments required some bathroom clean-up and spot cleaning on the floor.  OK.  No big deal.

I'm on the phone with my friend Chris at about 7:00 or 7:30.  Our phone calls take some arranging through email because of her schedule and my crazy home life.  So we're chatting and catching up again and it's really pleasant.  It's adult contact with someone I've known forever.  I'm in the tiny room which still isn't a sewing room yet, just completely enjoying myself when Miranda yells weakly from the living room couch:

Mom!  Sam's had an accident!

I apologized to Chris.  Being a nurse and mother, she understands that some things can't wait.  I knew before I reached my destination that this wasn't going to be a dumped plate of food or even a pee accident.  However, I wanted to know how Miranda knew there'd been an accident when she'd been so sick she could barely move.

Miranda:  Because I can smell it, Mom!

And so could I.  OK.  Not going to spare you now.  Consider yourself spared because you didn't have to be here to help me clean it.

Sam had been on the far side of my bedroom, the far side from the bathroom, when that violent, diarrhea-urge to release hit her.  It was foul.  It was everywhere.  It was on top of papers and coloring books, some on sheets, a huge pile (can a liquid constitute a pile?) next to the bed and then a long thick trail with splatters all the way into my bathroom.

I stared in horror and wondered how to even begin.  Had Mick been here we might have just got an upholstery knife and cut out the carpet.  Actually, I was glad he wasn't here because over-reacting doesn't help me in these situation.  I can deal with grim and determined silence much better than swearing, lamenting to the heavens and all other manner of melodrama.  However, an extra pair of hands is sometimes nice. Or someone to say, "hey, watch where you're stepping!" I had already walked into the middle of the room before realizing that I shouldn't have done that--adrift in a sea of nasty, liquid poop.  It was on my bare feet.

In retrospect, I should have cleaned on my hands and knees first, but it had just seemed too overwhelming and inadequate.  So I got out the carpet shampooer.  And I went at it.  Over and over. In grim and determined silence.  That may turn out to be the title of my autobiography.

It looked much cleaner when I was done except for that one initial pile next to the bed.  Still visible.  Still malodorous.  But now it was getting late.  And Miranda was still sick.  It was apparent that Sam was sicker than I'd realized and needed a bath/shower in a most desperate way.  I certainly needed new bedding.

We got everyone as cleaned up as they were going to be that night and into bed.  I decided in the morning I'd do the unthinkable and attack the carpet with bleach water.  Now I only do this because this carpet is far beyond ever being presentable again, let alone attractive.  We've had marker stains, food stains, makeup stains, glue, scorch marks, and more bodily fluids of multiple species than you want to know about.  So what's a little bleach?  What's a lot of bleach?

I went to sleep that night with the faint, lingering scent of diarrhea in my nostrils.  And I slept well because I was exhausted.

The Lone Parent With Sick Kids--One Autistic

Sam, eating her chicken and sponge at an earlier, happier and healthier outing.

Not how I pictured this weekend, but why I try to predict anything is beyond me.  And what's so special about weekends anyway for a stay-at-home like me?  I guess not writing for a couple of days.  So this saga actually begins about Thursday.

Wednesday had been the last normal day in this less-than-normal family.  We'd taken Sam to the park and we'd hung out in the creek--our norm.  It was with dismay Wednesday night when I realized that I was lying in grit as I tried to go to sleep and I was just too lazy to get up and change the sheets.  So I just laid there cursing myself for not remembering that Sam had had creek debris stuck to her damp body when we got home from the park and that she'd immediately commandeered my bed.  Again, the norm.

Thursday, Sam didn't eat much.  Now that's unusual.  Often, though not always, I spend a good portion of the day chasing her away from the refrigerator and trying to distract her.  She usually keeps me on my toes by going out our outside bedroom door and sneaking over to our porch and the kitchen and then back again, instead of using the direct route.  On Thursday, though, Sam seemed low-energy and not interested in much.  I was suspicious, but gave her her space because she seemed a little impatient, too.

Then Friday struck.  Sam had a funny look to her face which I usually interpret as her "sick face". It looks like a milder version of our  customers' "drunk face". It's hard to describe, but I think moms usually can tell these things by subtle visuals.  You have to with a lot of autistic kids.  Sam is like a lot of other autistics and doesn't come up to me and start describing her symptoms in specific, dramatic detail.  Sometimes a blessing, but it also means that we have to guess, to investigate, to deduce, and to pay attention.

Usually when Sam's sick, she's remarkably easy to take care of because she just wants to be left alone for the most part.  But this time, Sam was mean.  Sam was unreasonable.  Sam didn't want a small bowl of popcorn, she wanted the whole big bowl.  And Miranda had made that batch for herself.  She wanted to eat out of the big bowl.  Sigh.

Miranda chose the wrong time to insist on fairness and to think her sister was going to spontaneously turn into a reasonable human being.  Miranda tried to be an enforcer.  But Sam is bigger and she knows it.  I was in the bathroom at the time that the screaming began.  I merely sighed and finished what I was doing.  Why should "hold it" and run out into the living room to get in the middle of a futile struggle for dominance?

The popcorn was everywhere.  I mean everywhere!  It was all over the kitchen floor, the living room floor and on several pieces of living room furniture.  Miranda was loudly and shrilly yelling, "Sam!  Sam!  Sam!  Stop, Sam!  Now just stop it.  Sam, stop.  Now you stop it!  Sam! Sam!..."

And Sam was growling.

And Sam was bending over to pick up handfuls of popcorn and throw them around with fury.  Over and over.  Then she bent over and grabbed another handful of popcorn and furiously crammed it into her mouth!

And then she growled some more.

I did nothing.  I watched.

Miranda eventually joined me and watched in silence.

After Sam had ground some more popcorn into the carpet, kicked it around, gave us both (hey, why me?  I'd been in the bathroom and hadn't said a word) a dirty look and then ran to MY room and slammed the bedroom door, I turned to Miranda and said:

"Hey, I don't think she's pooped in a couple of days."

This comment was not received favorably by Miranda who tried to tell me that it doesn't matter and she shouldn't act that way, yada, yada, yada...

Well, it does matter.  Constipation in an autistic child, at least in MY autistic child, can cause a complete and negative personality change.  In fact, one might think she was the victim of a demonic possession.

I know.  Anyone else just feels sluggish and a little miserable.  The autistic kid feels mean and full of vengeance.  And sluggish and miserable.

So Friday we didn't go anywhere because Sam was too miserable.  My sister-in-law Cheryl and her best friend Joannie came over to visit and take some cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini, and anaheim peppers off my hands.  They laughed when we shared the popcorn incident.  Miranda and I exchanged knowing looks and I said, "Well, if you'd been here you might have still laughed, but I don't think so.  That kid was mad and very unhappy."

Joannie replied, "Hey, maybe she's constipated."

Saturday, I shampooed the living room and dining room carpets.  I vow to do them about once a week for a month until they resemble something closer to clean.  It wasn't all because of the popcorn.  Remember the raw eggs of a few days before?

Saturday was also the day that Miranda had a birthday party/ sleep-over to go to.  She was up at 8:00 a.m. which nearly caused me to go into shock.  I'd known she was excited and had really been looking forward to the party.  It was for one of her best friends and they hadn't spent as much time together this summer as Miranda had hoped.

I was really proud of Miranda.  She put a lot of thought into her friend's gift and actually made her something.  The friend, Janay, has a lot of purple in her room.  She is also obsessive about the music group Green Day and Michael Jackson.  So we bought some really pretty dark purple polartec fleece and Miranda made one of those blankets where you take two large pieces of fabric, cut fringe and then tie knots, thereby attaching the front to the back.  Then she took some of that cool iron-on computer paper and after printing out some black-and-white photos of Green Day and Michael Jackson from the internet, she ironed their images onto the blanket.  It looked so sharp!  I can't believe I forgot to take a picture!

I had to drop Miranda off around 4:00 on Saturday afternoon.  Sam still hadn't pooped as far as I knew, (unless she'd suddenly and unexpectedly started flushing the toilet--which is unlikely), but she'd been requesting all day, "Chicken and sponge restaurant car fast.  Chicken and sponge restaurant car fast.  Aaagh.  Aaagh."

That "Aaagh" isn't a real loud scream.  This is a new, less-than-charming trait of Sam's where she anticipates that we're going to tell her "no", so she covers her ears before we can even open our mouths and drowns out our response with, "Aaaghhh."  I think I will teach her to cover her ears and chant, "I can't hear you, I can't hear you!"  And then when she gets that one down we'll work on chanting, "What you say is what you are.  I can't hear you I can't hear you.  What you say is what you are.  I know you are, but what am I?  I know you are, but what am I?"  That would be so much more appropriate.

Anyway, I stood there and waited silently and patiently for "Aaaghh" to cease then I just said, "OK".  She looked at me in disbelief.

"Sam," I said, " I said ok.  When we drop Miranda off at Janay's you and mom will go to chicken and sponge restaurant car fast."  Before anyone takes it upon themselves to write me and tell me that I should be trying to teach her a more normal way to express herself, rather than reinforcing this odd communication, I KNOW, I KNOW!  I'll work on it.  When I remember to.

Chicken and sponge restaurant car fast is Abby's Pizza.  I've written of this before and of my wonderfully dreadful pizza that I just adore--the one with white sauce, anchovies, smoked oyster, mushrooms, and feta cheese.  The one that the workers at Abby's dread because they think it smells bad.  I think it smells lovely--kind of like low-tide.

Since it was just going to be the two of us, I thought I'd call ahead so that they would have it ready or close to ready for us.  No problem, right?

Abby's is almost never busy when we go there.  That's because we usually go around 4:00.  Hey, we like to eat early.  When Sam and I pulled in, the parking lot was full.  I couldn't believe it.  I went up to the counter to pay and said, "Hey, you guys are busy.  Good thing I called ahead."  The manager replied, "We got busy 15 minutes ago.  I haven't even put your chicken in yet, but I'll get started on that now."

This is where I give the guy a blank stare and keep the inside of my head dark and blank as well.  Because if I don't I'll be having some very uncharitable thoughts. I groaned and we went and sat down.  And watched the table of about 14 people get pizza after pizza, and beer pitcher after beer pitcher.  Finally, "Vicki?" over the loud speaker and my pizza was ready.

But of course Sam's chicken and sponge wasn't because it doesn't fail, and I'm not exaggerating, it does not fail and it doesn't matter where we eat, Sam is ALWAYS served last.  Then at last her platter of fried chicken and potatoes was ready.

And she barely ate.  One wing, five or six slices of potato and she sat and stared off into space.

I got to-go boxes and we headed home.

Realizing that Sam hadn't pooped in two, maybe three days ( just face it, I'm not going to get off the topic of her bowels this time.  The whole point of today's story is poop) and was crabby and miserable, I'd given her a large glass of water laced with Miralax.  I only break out the Miralax in times of great need.  On a daily basis I give Sam water with Benefiber when she takes her morning vitamins to help her stay regular.  But for some reason, that hadn't been enough.

After we got home and Sam had laid in my bed with Mick's laptop on her chest, doing her You Tube thing, I smelled a smell.  Not a nice smell like low tide.  I was quite relieved when I discovered that the smell was coming from the toilet and not some other less-than-desirable location.  Hallelujah! 

Shortly after that and my reminder for Sam to go wash her hands, BOTH of them, she came prancing out to the kitchen, giggling, chattering about only she knows what, and loaded her plate with chicken and sponge.  Later, she blasted music from my room and danced from my room, into the hallway, across the living room and back again.  Completely nude, of course.

Later, when I was trying to adjust the water temperature for Sam's shower, I suddenly felt her cheek pressed against my butt cheek and she squeezed me and giggled.  My Sam was back.

But the story doesn't end there. Oh, no.  Stay tuned for part two tomorrow.

Delay sorry...

Hello this is Miranda! We are sad to say that my mom is sick. So part two of our weekend will be posted tomorrow... hopefully. Sorry  for the delay.

-Miranda and Vicki

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 24

       I could feel the strain between Enrico and Bill when they finally rejoined us.  It appeared that Bill was the alpha male and Enrico seemed a little subdued from his usual manic self.

    The other three talked.  Enrico repeatedly made Groucho eyebrows at Jaimie, making her laugh.  I absorbed the beauty of the view, having no idea how long I might be in Pelican and what the future might hold.

    “Why don’t we go to my place and listen to some music—I got a killer new stereo,” Bill suggested.

    “What kind of music do you like?” I asked.

    “Hey!”  Bill threw his hands open.  “I’m from Seattle!”  As though that explained everything.

    I turned to Enrico and, amused with myself, asked, “Does that mean that he listens to that same crap that you’ve been assaulting my ears with, day after day?”

    Enrico just grinned at me, but Bill glowered, and then tried again.

    “So what kind of music do you like?”

    “I like a variety,” I replied, “but to be honest with you, after all those hours in the  Fish House, I crave silence.  Or maybe not silence, but I love listening to the rain and the birds.”

    Bill slid closer to me.  “I could go for that,” he said softly.

    I stood up.  “Well,” I tried to laugh, “I could go for a nap.”

    “I could go for one of those, too,” he spoke even more softly and his frightening eyes drilled into mine.  I swallowed and picked up my bag.  The others followed suit.

    We walked toward the bunkhouse.  Bill pointed to a building on the right and said, “I live there.  Stop by sometime.”

    “Sure,” I said.  “Hey, Enrico, where do you live?”

    “Man!” he said, not knowing that I hated to be called “man”, “I live in the Ghetto!”

    I laughed.  “No, where do you live?”
    Bill and Enrico both laughed.  “I keep forgetting you’re still a ‘nugie.  I live in the Ghetto here, the bunkhouse above the Crab Plant.”

    “Why is it called the Ghetto?” I asked.

    Enrico looked at me sadly.  “Because it is.  Come up sometime and see for yourself—six guys in a room, one crapper for the whole place, and the kitchen is disgusting.”

    “Sounds lovely.”

    “I’m trying to get out of there.”

    “Don’t blame you,” I said.  We’d reached the foot of the stairs to the bunkhouse.

    “Nap time,” I said.  “Now that Black Cod is almost over, what’s next?”

    Bill leaned against the railing.  “You’ll pack on Second Floor for a couple of days and then Halibut begins.  A small crew will stay on Second Floor while everyone else is down on First Floor doing halibut.  I don’t know yet if it’s a 24 or a 48 hour opening.  In any case, it will be about eight to ten days of intense work.”

    “What’s after that?”

    Those soulless eyes looked deep into mine and Bill gave me a slow, chilling smile.  “After that,” he said, “Crab season opens up and then you’re all mine.”

    In the safety of my room, I shut the door and leaned against it, taking a long, deep breath.

    A bushy red head immediately popped up from the upper bunk and Joy’s animated face peered down at me.

    “Well?”  she demanded.  “How was it?  Were you all naked?  Did Enrico try anything?”

    “Did you sleep?” I asked.

    Annoyed and impatient with me, she snapped, “Yes.  Now tell me about the Steamer.”

    “Have you ever met Bill?  Enrico’s friend?  The Crab Plant foreman?”

    “No.  Why?  Was he there, too?”

    “Yes.”

    “What’s he like?”

    “Kind of scary.”

    “Really.  How?”

    “Cold.  No soul.  You’ll see.”

    “Was he unfriendly?”

    “No, not at all, in fact.  He was too friendly…pushy, aggressive, but no warmth.  When you meet him, you’ll understand.”

    “I don’t know if I want to meet him.”

    “Yeah,” I replied.  “I could have done without the experience.”

    “So who else was there then?”

    “Just the four of us.”

    “How was it?”

    “Weird,” I said, “but that might be because I took a couple tokes of pot.  God, I’m still trying to clear that pathway from my brain to my tongue.”

    “So tell me what happened!”  Joy whined at me.

    “Hey,” I said, “ I thought you were bored with me and didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

    “Well, geez, Petra, we finally did something apart.  Now tell me everything.  Were you naked?”

    “God, no!  I’m not getting naked with Enrico—like I’d really need that.  Besides which, Romeo and his big, spooky friend had on swim trunks or boxers or something.”

    “Oh!”  Joy said knowingly, “not quite as confident as he’d like everyone to think, huh?”

    “That’s about right.  And Jaimie!  If she isn’t enough to drive me nuts!  Brat is a good name for her.  Talk about running hot and cold.  First she’s as snotty as can be, then she’s insecure and nice.  I mean, I like her, I guess.  I just don’t know why.  And I never know what to expect from her.”

    “What did she wear?  Anything?”

    I rolled my eyes.  “That’s right.  I almost forgot.  I’ve got to pick out underwear and bras for her.  With what she has for underclothes, I don’t know why she bothers to wear anything.  God, thanks for reminding me,” I said and began stripping off my clothes and putting on a bra and panties.

    “What?  Did you forget to take clean ones?” Joy squawked.

    “No, no,” I said, “ I thought you understood—Jaimie’s choices were so pathetic, I had her wear mine.  So I got out of the Steamer and didn’t have anything dry but what you saw.”

    “So you wore the teddy in the Steamer?”

    I nodded.

    “How did the guys like that?”

    “Well, apparently their standards aren’t very high because they didn’t seem to mind my less-than-firm ass.”

    “Isn’t Alaska great?”  Joy asked.

Yet Another Challenging Week With Autism (and the pets didn't help)

While Zeus and Louise don't suffer from autism, they can make life more challenging in our household.  But never fear, the cats don't help the situation either.

It has been a challenging week.  It was hard to put Mick back on a plane after having him home for only ten days.  So this challenging week started with getting up at 2:00 a.m. on monday in order to get him to his plane on time.

I made it home about 5:30 a.m. that same morning to find both Sam and Miranda in my bed.  Miranda removed herself back to her room and Sam and I slept together for a little while, but I really couldn't get back to a sound sleep.  So I spent most of monday fantasizing about sleep and feeling kind of like a zombie.  It was noticeable that all of us were feeling a little down, a little deflated.  Pets included.

Monday night/ tuesday morning should have been bliss.  Sleep deprivation continued with Sam getting up at 4:00 a.m. and being active.  Excuse me, I meant ACTIVE.  At 4:00 a.m.

Sam had demanded we go to the grocery store on monday and she went there with a purpose.  It was all I could do to keep up with her as she marched up one aisle and down another with great deliberation, knowing exactly what she was going to throw into our cart.  When we got to the cereal aisle I stopped her by saying, "No, we are NOT getting Lucky Charms.  All you do is eat the marshmallows and throw away the cereal.  Pick something else."

She didn't feel so inclined.

So after a trip to the restroom, which is becoming a regular feature of our grocery shopping trips, and we picked up just a few odds and ends in the produce section, Sam started to march with purpose again as I struggled to keep pace.

"Candy aisle," she said.

"Oh, all right," I replied with some skepticism.  I expected to have to use my veto power over and over, but no.  She marched all the way down the aisle, carefully perusing the contents as she walked.  Obviously she had something in mind.  I was kind of surprised, given all the choices that I find so tempting, that all Sam wanted was a small bag of candy corn.  I know she likes candy corn.  So does Miranda.  Frankly, candy fiend that I am, I think candy corn is kind of gross and not tempting in the least.  All the better.

So do you already know where this is leading?

That's right.  Tuesday morning, 4:00 a.m.  Deprived of Lucky Charms, Sam creates Candy Corn cereal.  A big gross bowl of candy corn filled up with milk.  She ate most of it.  Yes, I let her.  It was 4:00 a.m. and I was still sleep deprived from the day before and frankly, check out the cereal aisle at the grocery store.  There is some disgusting crap living in colorful boxes in that aisle.

What Sam was unable to finish eating, probably due to a sickening spike in her blood sugar level, turned to thick, bright goo.  I washed it down the sink.  She went on to eat a sandwich she makes herself, and I do believe about an hour later I heard the microwave and she was ready for Top Ramen.  Deplorable, yes.  An every day occurrence, no.  So tuesday was a wash.  I gave up, got up, and did the best I could even if it was with a total lack of enthusiasm.

That brings us to wednesday morning.  Still haven't caught up on my sleep.  The weather had been nauseatingly hot.  It was close to 100 on wednesday.  And when I awoke, or more accurately, was awakened, at 5:50 a.m., it was already close to 70 degrees.  There was no refreshing morning air, no fresh early morning smells coming through the open windows.  It was already muggy.  I could feel stickiness approaching.

I awoke because I thought I heard the microwave.  Sam has been known to try to cook Top Ramen or microwave popcorn for as long as 26 minutes.  One summer we had a bartender who couldn't see anything to save her life and cooked popcorn for too long in the microwave and we had to get a new microwave.  I didn't want to get a new microwave, so I groaned and hauled my body out of bed.  Sam ran from me when she saw me coming and slammed the bedroom door.

Not the microwave.  Her suspicious behavior was the first clue.  I entered the kitchen and found a broken egg in a bowl.  However, there were about four egg shells on the counter.  I covered the egg and put it in the refrigerator for later.  These were my free-range eggs.  Thankfully, they'd been on sale.

When Sam was really little she had a thing for eggs.  She has always absolutely refused to eat them, but for too long in our lives she had a fascination with breaking them.  On the floor.  A dozen at a time.  Over and over, dozen after dozen, hiding place after hiding place, until finally Mick put a hasp and lock on the refrigerator.

I thought we were finally passed all that.  Breaking an egg into a bowl instead of on the floor is a new thing, though.  Later that afternoon, I found another bowl containing the rest of the eggs.  I found it sitting precariously on my bed.  No clue what she was intending.

Every morning, either no later than 6:30 a.m. or at the first sign of anyone stirring, our cat Hedwig becomes a whiny, demanding pest, insisting on being served breakfast.  She's much worse than Sam because even though I don't always appreciate Sam's independence, Sam is independent and Hedwig is completely dependent.  So each morning, whether Sam is being challenging or not, Hedwig is definitely challenging to both my patience and affection.

When done catering to cats and dogs, I went to collapse on the couch, and I found a small plate on the coffee table that was overflowing with raw egg.  Sigh.  I got up and added it to the bowl with the one egg, deciding that I'd have an omelette once I was truly awake.

So I go to lay down on the couch again and I spot a raw egg just lying there on the carpet.  On the carpet.  Oh, god.  Cleaned that up and finally got to drift off on the couch in the early morning muggy air.

When I got up to make tea and let the dogs in, who'd been enjoying the early morning outdoors, I noticed that there had been cat puke on the carpet in the dining room and someone had stepped in it.  Probably Sam on her way to the little room.

While the least irritating of the two cats, Hecate is the main culprit when it comes to puking.

The thing with our cats is, they puke like a bulimic.  What I mean is, they puke like they don't even notice that they're doing it.  When I puke, and the last time I did I was being sea sick, I always seem like my entire stomach and intestines are going to emerge from my mouth and plop onto the floor.  I puke and little blood vessels in my face break.  No kidding.  I don't puke with any sense of grace or decorum, so it is definitely something I avoid.

Well, as I should have expected, whoever puked did it as they were walking along and left more than one pile.  And Zeus was on it like nobody's business the minute the screen door opened.  I was fatigued enough to actually feel grateful for his assistance.  And then the little freak, having had his appetite stimulated by such a delicacy, hoovered his dog food as he almost never does.  I guess I just need to let him eat cat puke in the morning first.  As an appetizer.

The carpets have suffered terribly.  Garden dirt has been tracked in.  Dog and cat hair is a given.  Now we have puke residue and egg.  Time to shampoo.

Also, for the past week or so, Sam has been having pee accidents again.  She hasn't been staying dry at night, so once she wakes up wet, she moves into the little sewing room and sleeps in that bed until she wakes up in the morning having peed all over that bed.  Then she has also, during the day, had pee accidents on my king-sized bed.  Every day for several days now.  Once I've had her bed stripped while washing her sheets and pads, she has peed on the remaining pads on her bed.  In this instance our heat wave has been a blessing.  Everything has dried very quickly outside.

When Sam has pee accidents, it's a sign that something isn't quite right with her.  Often it's a signal that she's getting a cold.  And I understand that this isn't unusual with autistic kids.  Sometimes it's a sign of something else.  In this case, probably too much restaurant food and now missing her dad.  She has cried a couple of times and has said, "Sad".

It was all a bit much for me.  I haven't lost my mind, nothing like that yet, but yesterday afternoon I decided I would like to have a couple of glasses of wine in the evening.  Sam wanted me to cook pizza, but at 100 degrees, my oven is NOT being turned on.  Thankfully, we now have a Little Cesar's with a drive up window, cheese and pepperoni pizzas always ready and always just $5.  So why turn on the oven?

I made the mistake of asking Sam if she wanted to go with me because she always likes going to stores.  Sam has absolutely no underwear at this time.  She is still ripping them to shreds and I haven't fixed any more Frankenstein underwear for her yet. 

So here's my confession.  Probably more than you want to know.  But I have LOTS of underwear and I keep many pairs of wonderfully ancient, threadbare, stretched out pairs, just to sleep in.  They are completely disgraceful, but they're what I like.  So I thought, why not?  Why not let Sam wear a pair of these old ones of mine, especially since she was insisting on wearing a dress?

We're in the ice cream aisle.  It's 5:00.  The store is packed with people shopping on their way home from work.  In the ice cream aisle, for the THIRD TIME, I turn to see Sam with her dress hiked up around her waist as she tries to pull up my old, stretched-out underwear that keep sliding down below her butt cheeks.  Sometimes I'm so brilliant.

We hurried and paid then drove over to Little Cesar's.

I was so ready for that glass of wine.  Living room to myself, I sat down with my glass of wine, didn't spill any, and watched one of my new favorite shows--Hung on HBO.  Love that show.  Funny, irreverent, and completely inappropriate.  Don't worry, Miranda doesn't watch this one.  Too embarrassing for her.

Miranda joins me later and we re-watch the last episode of True Blood.  She keeps going back and forth on the list like she can't make up her mind which episode to watch when she suddenly says, with a touch of outrage in her voice, "WHO DELETED SHAKE AND FINGER-POP??!!"  [That would be about the fourth episode on True Blood this season.]

"Well," I replied, "that would have had to have been your father when he was trying to catch up on the episodes."

"Great," Miranda said in disgust and shook her head in disbelief that that man can't follow simple instructions like NEVER delete ANY of Miranda's True Blood.

One definition of stupidity is to keep on repeating an action while expecting to get a different result.  So drinking wine when I really wanted a good night's sleep, and drinking wine when it was already so hot, really was kind of stupid.

I woke up just past midnight.  Nobody else's fault.  Not the damned cat--to hot for her to velcro herself to me.  Not Sam, she was sleeping like an angel.  But I  was sweaty and had a DRY mouth. 

I got up, had some iced tea, made some more, changed into some lighter pajamas, and went back and stared at my big empty bed, empty except for the seven pillows I use to create my nest.  Making the best of a bad situation, i.e. Mick's absence, I decided I may as well just read for awhile.

So I did.  I finished "The Little Book"by Selden Edwards, a thoroughly delightful, charming, intriguing, and somewhat educating little book.  After that, I was able to get to sleep.  The new weather front from the Coast was moving in and the air temperature was cooling just enough.

I woke up at 6:30.  That damned Hedwig again.  I looked in Sam's room.  Empty.  I felt the bed.  Dry.  Dry?  Really?  I felt it again.  Yes, really.  I moved through the house to the kitchen.  No evidence of Sam having eaten or having made a mess.  Door to the tiny room closed.  I can hear Penelope playing on the DVD player and Sam breathing deeply.  I feed the pets and go plop on the couch like I usually do and start watching the Today Show.  When Sam gets up, I'm amazed to find the bed in the little room dry.

I move into my room where Sam is already busy on Mick's laptop.  I remind her to go pee--IN THE TOILET, and she does.

Maybe this will just turn out to be a good day.

Sam in her element.

When Long-Distance Partners Are Reunited

Oh, my!  Not exactly the honeymoon, or the second honeymoon, suite, is it?  Please, please, believe me, I swear, that this is actually much worse than usual.  And if the mess isn't enough to derail a second honeymoon, that body in the bed is our child.

Well, it was wonderful to have Mick at home, even though it was only for ten days.  It was a happy reunion and a sad parting.  In between, save for intimate details that no one wants shared, was A LOT of exhausting work.

Case in point, that mess in the picture up above.  We used to have an ugly, awkward, monstrosity of an entertainment center in our bedroom.  Not something we bought, but had gained and had decided to make use of, even though we both kind of despised it.  The dresser in the above picture had once belonged to my dad, definitely the best piece of furniture we own ( no time to attach the mirror before Mick had to leave), even if not to our personal taste.  When our belongings from Alaska arrived, we decided to bring in the dresser and banish the entertainment center to the shop.  Much easier said than done.

We tackled this chore on the Saturday before Mick left.  Because of all our earlier activities, this was more a testament to our strength of will, than our physical strength.  But I must say, thank you, God, for making my husband freakishly strong.

Mick, in his sexy, super-strength, reading glasses is beginning to be a common occurrence.  I think the man finally needs regular bi-focals, but being both stubborn and cheap, not to mention prone to misplacing small objects, like say, uh glasses, he'll probably stick with just wearing his reading glasses of various strengths for years to come.  What I love about Mick is that he is so self-confident, he has no self-consciousness AT ALL about these glasses.

As you can see from the above picture, Mick is holding his beloved chain saw.  He must have missed it while in Pelican, and was just forced by circumstances to split all the wood he and Jon worked up.  I had been watching the little advertising paper we get for firewood ads for awhile now.  We have a wood stove, evidenced by large burn marks in our carpet ( and boy, is that another story), and it helps greatly with our natural gas bill if we regularly burn wood.

When one drives around Oregon, or anywhere else in the Northwest, one will see massive quantities of fallen trees EVERYWHERE.  And it brings to mind that saying, "water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink".  No one will let you gather that wood.  Not anyone.  It can be on public land and just forget it.  Liability.  Vandalism.  Potential profit.

So people have to buy their wood, one way or another.  The cheapest we've seen was $150 a cord, on up to $220 a cord.  That better be pretty L.L. Bean wood for that price.  Mick's sister Cheryl had needed a few trees thinned out last year, and will need a few more this year, but that is about it for free wood.  Then we saw the add.  $60 a cord--U-cut.  Marvelous.

Mick enjoys getting wood, the sawing, the hauling, the splitting, the whole deal.  I'm not sure what is wrong with him but I think it relates to testosterone.  Now, I don't mind getting wood.  I enjoy being outside and a little hard work never hurts anyone, does it?

Oh, my God!  The pain...Mick's brother Randy brought over his trailer for us to use.  It can hold two cord.  We planned to get six cord and leave the trailer loaded for Randy.  By the way, sorry, Randy.  Ambitious plans, out-of-shape back.

Here we are, just getting started.  This is the point where Mick realized that he didn't bring a wrench or a screw driver and is trying to make some flimsy little metal clip/ piece of junk work for him.  It's also the point where I realized that we'd left the house without ANY water.

The area we were in was beautiful.  The weather was in the low 70s.  And I became very aware of what not exercising for six weeks does to a person--nothing  good.  The good news was, the logs had all been pulled right up next to the road, so it was very easy to work on.  Besides all the other things we forgot, we also forgot a tape measure, but managed to saw a thick stick to the right length so that everything Mick cut would fit in our stove without having to be cut again.

He couldn't understand why I didn't want to hold that stick for him as he made the cut marks in the logs over and over again.  I don't know, call me picky, but there's just something irritating about having a chain saw by my ear and sawdust flying into my eyes and down my shirt, front and back.  Mick held the stick himself.

My job was to carry and stack.  Over and over and over again.  I haven't decided if this is a good job or a bad job for a fat person.  A good job if one eats salad.  A bad job if one feels compelled to go eat a huge juicy burger when done.

Then there was the danger element.  It's a good thing that I know Mick loves me.  But in his boundless enthusiasm he almost took me out, more than once.  It was almost as if he were bowling and I was the pin.  I'm still trying to decide if this tender spot on my left temple was due to a wood mishap, and I'm just concussed and don't remember, or if I had some other sort of accident that now totally escapes my memory.  The bruises on arms and legs I just contribute to carrying the wood.

So, Thursday ended and we were exhausted and dehydrated, but two cords richer.  Mick split the wood on Friday as I stacked it in the shed.  His splitting ability amazes me.  He's so good at it that there's no need for me to even try.

We returned for another two cord on Saturday morning.  This time we brought his tool, water, and some oranges that tasted more like lemons.  It went more smoothly.  Less damage done to the wife.  But I kind of felt like I'd been hit by a train anyway.  In any case, it was going to be a total of four cords and not six.  No time, no stamina.  Maybe this fall.  After I recover.

We decided to unload the trailer the following day, Mick's last day at home.  But there were still other major tasks that required Mick's help, and if I didn't have it, I'd just have to wait until he comes home this fall, or winter, or whenever he gets to come home again.  Namely, we had bedroom furniture to remove and more to move in.

I am 5 foot 4.  Mick is 6 foot 3.  I don't know what the difference in our reach is, but it had better be considerable or one of us looks really weird.  Furniture is easier to manipulate with someone of similar size.  But that just wasn't an option.  I didn't have enough crap cleared out the day Randy came to visit to have him help Mick.  That just left me.  With a punky hamstring (but doing so much better now), and a chronically bad back.  Oh, and a bad shoulder, weak wrists, and my thumb joints seem to be deteriorating.  Poor Mick is married to a mess.

To make the ordeal as much fun as possible, our two-wheeler has a completely flat tire and inner tube.That almost made me cry.

The most direct route was in and out of our back master bedroom door, even though it meant squeezing past the hot tub, you know, the broken one.  This required Mick moving the hot tub lid out of the way.  It had been propped against the side of the tub.  The hot tub is looking pretty ugly because some of the outer boards of the surround had been removed to try and find a pesky leak in the hoses.  There just hasn't been time to fix or build a new surround.  I'll put that on Mick's list.

So we're moving this ridiculously heavy furniture, and we're ridiculously lop-sided because of our height and strength difference, and as we are squeezing past the hot tub with me containing my whimpers and grunts, a swarm of angry hornets come charging out of the hot tub surround!  They zoom around us, threaten us, and then they fly into our bedroom because of course we can't get the dresser in if we don't open the door!

Sam is sitting naked in the middle of the bed watching the spectacle.  Miranda is hyper-ventilating in panic and goes running for a fly swatter.  I smack one, but being a hornet or wasp or whatever nasty it is, it is struggling to get up and have another go at me.  So I stomp it.  And stomp it and stomp it and that satanic beast continues to get up.  Now Mick, who can't actually see the thing, because we have the ridiculously cumbersome dresser between us, is getting impatient and irritated because he thinks I'm over-reacting.  I repeat, he thinks I'M OVER-REACTING.

I am NOT over-reacting.  I ignored him and continued my slaughter until I knew that creature of evil was DEAD.  Because hornets are like Rasputin.  You kill them and kill them again.  You turn around and there they are, coming right at you.  I am not afraid of bees.  Not at all and I've been stung (and have had a reaction, no less), but I'm not afraid of bees.  They are benevolent, misunderstood creatures of goodness and light.  Not so with hornets and wasps. They are pure evil, minions of Satan. But I don't panic and I don't freak out when I see them; I just try to keep a healthy distance.

Sam used to pick up hornets off of flowers when she was between four and six.  She would grab them behind the wings and hold them up with their legs and stingers vibrating in FURY and then she would throw them up in the air and call out, "Good bye, good bye" and wave as they flew off.  It was a Winnie the Pooh thing.  She only got stung twice.  I never know when she's going to relive her old pleasures and I didn't want her picking up wasps in our bedroom.

By the time we were done with wood and furniture removal on Saturday, I really did feel like I'd been hit by a mac truck.  Not conducive to romance, but no one was complaining when we collapsed in bed that night.  Mick was already snoring along with the dogs.  I cursed our lack of a bed frame when I tried to get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.  I crawled there to relieve myself.  Found the ibuprofin, too.

Sunday we unloaded the last of the wood.  Thankfully, Miranda helped.  Mick mostly watched, but he'd worked hard in the garden that morning.  And as tough as he is, he gets tired, too.  He tried to convince me that we could stack wood at our leisure, but there was no way I was going to maneuver that truck and trailer through the tight spaces  to get it back in place in front of the shop.

As it turned out, the wood episode ended with Mick saying, "Uh, hon, I'll replace those boards this winter."  Those boards are the bottom part of our porch ramp that he completely crunched while getting truck and trailer put away.  And he thought I could do it?

So the next list starts:  water filter (remember that one?  still on the list), hot tub surround, porch ramp, Zeus-proof gate...

Although I had other photos to choose from, I picked this one simply because Miranda now hates to have me take her picture, a very reluctant subject.  However, she helped unload the trailer and now she is included.

Amazing Real Estate Deal: Turn-Key Business for Sale at Unbelievable Price!

Here we go again.  Beautiful Pelican, Alaska is the location of the Wheelwatch Lodge and Lounge, a business opportunity available at a now-unheard of price!

This is it--the Wheelwatch Lodge and Lounge, and also site of Pelican's only grocery store, Pel-Mart.

Owners are motivated to sell.  That would be me and Mick.  It's time.  We've looked at what we want and what is important to us.  We want to keep our daughters in school down in Oregon and we want to spend more time together.  Plus, we want to get back into commercial fishing.  So, given the current state of the economy and the current state of the real estate market, here's the deal:

The (firm) asking price for the Wheelwatch Lodge and Lounge is $295,000.00.  Yes, that's right--$295,000.00.  Down from the previous asking price of $645,000.  This is a commercial property and quite the business opportunity, just right for someone looking for a unique lifestyle experience and a business and built-in home to call their own.

The building is approximately 5000 square feet.  Downstairs is the bar, commercial kitchen, tiny grocery store, two restrooms and storage.  Upstairs houses three separate units.  We remodeled after moving to Oregon for the school years, making the upstairs at the Wheelwatch now less than ideal for our family of four humans, one of whom is autistic, and four pets, two of whom are bulldogs with apparently tiny bladders.  For the right person, though, the configuration upstairs is great. 

Our living quarters have that fabulous, uninterrupted view of Lisianski Inlet and those incredible mountains.  Large living/ dining area, snack bar with sink, good-sized bedroom and bathroom.  The "old" guest quarters are what we used most recently for employees and/ or additional family members.  That consists of two good-sized bedrooms, a huge bathroom, and a kitchenette.  The new guest quarters also look out the front of the building and is really very nice.  One locking bedroom and another open bedroom/ sitting room and a bathroom.  This guest suite contains four double beds and two futons, in addition to tables, lamps, and drapes.  All included in the price.

There is a large shop right across the boardwalk from the main building.  This provides a great deal of storage as well as freezers and a large cooler.  Next to the shop and right across from the dining room/ store is an empty lot.  An empty lot with that breath-taking view.  That lot is part of the deal, too.   When you own it, you needn't worry about someone building on it and blocking your view.

There is a box van that is thrown into this deal.  Ugly Truck is a life saver in Pelican.  We have used it for hauling freight and then bring it out on the state ferry.  This has saved us a great deal of money since we purchased the eyesore.

All the stock, equipment, furniture, fishing pictures, pool table, ALL OF IT, is included in the price of $295,000.

In addition to the business is a 26 foot Bayliner for sale for $12,000.  It was recently appraised for more than twice that price.

With all these bargains it would be natural for a potential buyer to wonder what is wrong with the place.  Honestly, nothing.  If Mick and I didn't have kids, we'd live up there full time.  It was a lifestyle that we loved and one of the most beautiful and unique places on earth.  Living in such a small community is quite the experience and a personal education, too. 

But our youngest is autistic and in order to meet her needs, we can't live in Pelican year-round.  We've been doing the long-distance marriage, but this year was harder than most because the kids, pets, and I didn't go up to Pelican for the summer, so we've spent much more time apart than in the past.  As the saying goes, that's a real drag.

So as I suggested before, we've done some soul-searching and have asked ourselves some serious questions.  What do we really want?  What is really important to us?

Sure, it hurts a little to think about selling the place for less than what we paid for it.  No doubt.  And a lot of Americans are having that same experience.  I'm sure the real estate markets will eventually rebound.  But do we want to wait that long?  We could, but no, we really don't want to.

We thought we'd sold this business this past spring and when that potential buyer backed out at the last minute without explanation or any attempt to work out WHATEVER the problem had been, we were stunned, placed in a  precarious financial position, and VERY disappointed.  We hadn't realized until that point just how much we'd looked forward to living the commercial fishing lifestyle again.

Because of this sour experience, we decided that we can't carry a contract with anyone.  There is just too much room for disaster to strike.  And we want to make a clean break and start a new life.  We can, however, lower our asking price to make it very inviting, one could even say IRRESISTIBLE to the right person.

This offer is on the table for only a very limited time.  If we don't sell it soon, we won't sell it.  We'll either hold on to it and keep working it and figure out how to address the challenges of pets and an autistic child, or we will wait until the real estate market recovers, and then sell it at a much higher price.

If you know anyone who might be interested in this intriguing proposition, this real estate steal, please direct them our way.  Serious buyers can email me at chickenandsponge@yahoo.com.  You can also visit www.wheelwatch.net to see more pictures and to get a feel for the place.

The float plane is one of the main modes of transportation in and out of Pelican.  There are regular flights.  Honestly, it's not bad at all.

The fishing around Pelican is unbelievable and there is much fun to be had.