Chicken and Sponge

Final Evening of the Long-Distance Marriage

Zeus and Louise will look far more excited and delighted once Mick returns to the fold.

Today I cleaned.  I should have gone in to work.  No, I wasn't scheduled, I didn't skip, but I do need to continue with my orientation materials and training.  But I wasn't scheduled today and Mick will be home tomorrow.

So I felt the need to clean, to organize, and to do so many different things that I ran out of time for.  So, what's new?  Not the mending.  Definitely not new.  No matter how much mending I do, Sam keeps the stacks growing.  Since I found two pairs of panties that were complete enough to wear (though Frankenstein-ish they are), the mending got put on the back burner. 

It was kind of a luxury, as ludicrous as that sounds, to stay at home, all by myself, and really clean.  I can't really clean when anyone is here.  Apparently I hadn't been alone in awhile.  You know how you can vacuum, dust, sweep, and mop, and then look down one day, even after immediately finishing these tasks and then scream, "Oh, my God!  Filth!"  Because that is the moment that you realize that there are edges and corners that have eight-eyed monsters lurking in the fluff aka dust bunnies (what a phrase--to make something so gross sound so benevolent and sweet!); base boards streaked with grime you don't even want to know the origins of; light switches, outlets, door knobs all carrying the plague; and then you notice the walls in the hallway and you can't believe that you never saw the remnants of dirty hands that rubbed every surface ( and you have to wonder if your children can walk without the aid of the walls for support).

I don't know how I missed all this grossness.  I blame the commercials on television that try to make cleaning one's house just a piece of cake if only you will buy their product.  It's such a lie.  We all know, if we open our eyes, that clean houses can only be achieved with ladders and /or on our hands and knees.  Today was a hands and knees days.  And then when I declared myself done, I looked up at the ceiling fan and just shook my head.  Save it for another day.

So Mick is home tomorrow afternoon while I'm at work.  The advantage for me is that brother Frank agreed to go pick him up at the airport.  This means that I don't have to re-schedule an orientation class and also that I don't have to drive up to Portland, which is among the least favorite things that I dread doing, but will actually do.

Partially, I cleaned the house in anticipation of Mick's homecoming.  Truthfully, it was more of a pro-active  attempt to improve my mental health.  Seriously, dirt (unless it's outside) and clutter mess with my psychological functioning and emotional well-being.  I will be doing a lot of cleaning at the house I'll be working at.  We are there to support the individuals we serve and improve the quality of their lives.  So among many other things, a clean environment is a must.  I couldn't bear to clean someone else's house all day and then come home to squalor.

Last night in my nest.  I don't mean that to sound like Mick isn't welcome.  Of course he's welcome.  That's why we bought a king-sized bed (which suggests a limited welcoming, but, hey, a good night's sleep is important and a hard thing to come by).  I must say that there has been something very satisfying about tossing the seven pillows about and then throwing myself into the middle of them and then either sinking into slumber OR thrashing about, tossing and turning, turning the light on when I can't sleep and reading, turning the fan on and off and maybe on again, window open, window closed, or open three inches or twenty inches, back and forth, up and down, and never the least bit of concern about disturbing anyone else.

My side of the bed has been the middle.  And the left side.  And the right.  I sometimes sleep diagonally.  I've been known to sleep sideways.  Tomorrow...back to my trench.  Back to being considerate.  Moving gently.  Moving carefully.  Fighting for the covers...

I even bathed the dogs today and I have to admit that that was done semi-grudgingly.  Mick had actually, unbelievably, offered to give me a break and bathe the dogs when he got home!  This has never, ever, ever happened before.  And those damned dogs stank too much for me to wait even one more day.

Yesterday, I was patting Louise on the head, patting, not rubbing, just a gently pat, pat, pat, and then my hand reeked of skunk!  Still.  I mean, really!  When does that stink wear off?  Why does bathing and towel-drying not do the trick, but my hand can absorb the odor? 

Mick gets to give her the sniff test tomorrow.  I just couldn't face it after the bath.  They both stink like wet dog until they dry, but Louise was smelling like wet skunk-dog, so I just ignored them when I was done.  Because I am done.  Done, done, done.  And I want a rain check on that dog-bathing offer.  I was never sure how that ended up being my sole responsibility anyway, except that I give in, I'm weak, once they start to stink.  Men, just naturally, seem to be able to handle foul smells better.

Our fingers are crossed that the Pelican era of our lives has come to a close.  After getting burned once, we're cautious in our optimism, but it's looking good this time.  It will be so good to be back together again.  Mick takes all my ribbing with good humor, and that is all it is--a gentle ribbing.  Not that he can't be annoying, but isn't nearly as much as I like to pretend that he is.  This has been a long, strange year.  We are all, and by all I mean, myself, Miranda, Sam, Hedwig, Hecate, Louise, and Zeus, ALL of us, looking forward to having Mick home again.  Looking forward to being complete.

Coming next week:  "How Annoying Can A Man Be?",  "Can You  Give Me a Break With the Non-stop Sports?",  "Will I Ever Get to Watch 'Keeping Up With the Kardashians' Again?", "What is That Smell?" and "Housework is NOT Just for Women!"

Just Another Weekend With Autism

 

6:50 a.m. Sunday morning.

 

It was a weekend like any other around here.  What is amazing is how much I love being home and having a weekend.  Yes, everyone likes the weekend, but not everyone has daily experiences like we do.

Weekend highlights:

Friday when I got home from work (training, actually) there was a pathetic message from my aunt asking, no begging, for me to call her.  This required a quick trip to the grocery store to pick up a bottle of wine because Gladys is long-winded, in fact, long-winded doesn't cover it, but I can think of no other adequate description at this time--how about long-winded to the tenth power?  It also requires great patience and artificial fortification for these phone calls.  It turned into a pleasant, if tipsy, visit.  I felt saintly afterward.

Saturday:  All day Saturday, Sam, with frantic insistence, kept announcing," Chen's restaurant car fast!"  I'll spare you and myself the repetition.  Every few minutes.  It started at 9:30 in the morning and Chen's doesn't even open until 11:00.  Naturally, Miranda says she'd rather go there for dinner.  Thanks, Miranda.  Thanks, and oh yeah, sorry.  We went about 2:00.  Sam was very happy.  She'd been asking for days and just doesn't understand that we're not eating out four or five nights a week.  She'd like to, though.

So all was well.  All was good.  Then I remembered, finally, that I needed to pay bills.  That necessary evil that had somehow escaped my attention all week, even though it is written on my message board.  So I was at the computer paying bills and Miranda was taking a bath.  Miranda's baths are long, drawn-out rituals.  No idea what spa treatments or meditation techniques go on behind that closed door, but I do know that if Miranda is taking a bath, someone else must be on Sam-duty (which means being in the house and mobile as opposed to being in the shop or the garden).

So I'm paying away and Sam comes up to my bedroom door and gives me that look that says something like, "what are you doing in here?"  So, I replied to her silent query with, "Just a minute, honey, I'm almost done".  She turned around and left.  My minute turned into five and then I realized it was too silence.  Silence tends to be ominous in our household and inspires a sense of impending doom.  The question always is, "If it's quiet, where is Sam and what is she doing?"

Occasionally these fears prove to be unfounded.  At other times our fears are not only realized, but far surpass what our imaginations could concoct.  This was one of those other times.

Quiet in the house.  First stop: Sam's room.  I open the door and she is not there.  But there is a small, toy teapot in the middle of her floor.  It is wet on the floor as if she spilled something while filling her teapot.  No big deal except that it looks like she filled it with Mountain Dew...I don't buy Mountain Dew.  I pick it up and sniff it.  Yep...She peed in her teapot.

Unsure what to do with a teapot full of pee with Sam still missing, I walk around carrying it.  And I search.  Quickly.  The first impulse is to run out the front door and check the street, because if she's bolted, for whatever reason--usually boredom--she can get far fast.  But she usually doesn't leave the property (usually, I said, meaning that there are those nightmarish times when she has left), so not checking out back would be stupid and put ideas into her head.

I go out the sliding door to the porch and I find Sam.  She is returning from the shop.  She is running.  Her dress is hiked up around her waist and her panties are around her ankles and she is heading to the back door which opens into my bedroom.

"WIPE!!!"

I enter the shop, thinking I know what to expect.  Her old porta-potty (hospital-style) is stored in a tiny room in the shop.  It had been removed from her bedroom because she'd been using the bathroom consistently and I hated having it in the house if she didn't need it.  It had then been removed to this tiny room because I got tired of her going out to the shop to poop.

So I enter the tiny room and I lift up the lid...And I will spare you all my powers of description and all the adjectives that sprang to mind.  Let us just say, this was not Sam's first trip to the tiny room.

I could not face it.  Don't forget, I'm still carrying a teapot of pee.  I went back to the house and into my bathroom, because of course, Miranda is still having her bath.  I dump the teapot and am pleased to see, especially since she's now sitting in my bed, that Sam had followed my desperate command or plea.  Unsure what to do with the teapot still, I just stick it in the dishwasher and figure no one will ever know.  Right.  Then I fill up a plastic dish pan with HOT water and return to the tiny room.  The porta-potty bucket needed a soak and I figured I could deal with it the next day.  And I did.

Sunday morning:  Sam awakes around 5:00 a.m.  This is so unfair.  Saturday had been a 4:00 a.m. morning.  I continued to doze.  Occasionally awoke to check on her and dozed some more.  Then that ominous silence penetrated my subconscious and I sprang out of bed in a panic.  I happened to glance out my bedroom window, since I never close the curtains properly, and I could see Sam standing at her pool.

She hasn't swam in it in a couple of weeks.  It looks like Shrek's swamp.  But she wasn't quite in the water yet and she was MESSING  with something.  Slippers, robe, and out the door.  Then I came back and got my camera.  By the time I got back, Sam was in Miranda's kayak with the paddle sitting in the bottom of the pool.  Six to eight inches of clearance on either side.  I did nothing.  I shook my head a few times and tried to get pictures that wouldn't get me arrested for child pornography.

She had fun.  When she was done she ran in through that back bedroom door again and I tried to straighten up the pool area.  When I returned indoors I went to check on Sam.  She hadn't used a towel, not even a little.  She had been sitting submerged in Shrek's swamp, remember.  And now she was sitting in my bed, in between the sheets.  Here's where I give a small sigh.

Later we went to the park and she had a last swim in the creek.  Miranda made it to mid-thigh.  Sam submerged and said, "Cold, cold" several times.  No one else was in the creek, save a dog who was fetching and swimming.  When the dog got out it was shivering all over.  But it was a lovely Fall day.  A gentle breeze, leaves on the ground.  All things considered (and put into perspective), it was a nice weekend.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 29

 

 

 

 

Warning:  the following is more than likely offensive or ridiculous.  Proceed at your own risk.

 

   

    The fog was clearing in my head, reason and awareness of my surroundings gradually returning.

    My body was warm, but not sweaty.  Thomas’s, against my left side, was warm and dry, too.  Lovely.

    “What are you staring at?” I demanded with a grin, but used only peripheral vision.

    “Eleven months?  Why?”

    I tried to look inscrutable.  “Are you complaining?”

    “No, not at all.  I just can’t figure it out.”

    “Well, that’s just a part of my mysterious past.  Think about something else.”

    Then I gave Thomas something else to think about.

    Twenty minutes later I climbed the steps into the wheelhouse and took the Hagen Daz out of the ice bucket he’d put it in.  There were clean spoons  by the sink.  I felt a little full of myself and kind of like I was filled with helium as I floated back down the steps to the bunk and Thomas.

    He looked pleasantly taken aback as I straddled him and began to spoon feed him ice cream.  I got my share, too.

    I later awoke to find Thomas staring at me.

    “What?  Is something wrong?” I asked.  Thomas smiled a little smile, the expression in his eyes warm. 

    “No,” he said, “nothing wrong at all.  Go back to sleep.” And he kissed the side of my head and curled himself around me.

    The next time I awoke, the sun was up.  I had to pee desperately and quietly climbed the steps to use the tiny little closet of a bathroom.  I returned just as quietly, not wanting to wake Thomas up.  He looked very appealing and masculine.  I hadn’t asked Lauren how often they came to Pelican.  I stared for a moment.  He looked vulnerable in sleep, the cockiness and ego temporarily at rest.  Well…I was tempted to climb back in.  I was guessing it was about 4:00 a.m., but then I spied the alarm clock next to the bunk.

    Crap!  It was 6:00 a.m. 

    I didn’t have to feel weird or awkward or try to come up with any conversation at all.  I silently and frantically climbed into my clothes and then crept up the stairs.  I tip-toed across the deck and tried to get off the boat without too much motion.  

I slid over the bullrail, onto the dock, and quietly made  my way through the harbor, very aware of the eyes that watched me from wheelhouses, bait sheds, and docks.  “Nosy, effing men,” I muttered to myself.

    As I came up the ramp I came face-to-face with Enrico and Creepy Bill.  Silently, both smiled knowingly at me.  Behind the slight sneer Enrico’s eyes looked pained.  Bill’s eyes were colder than ever.  I felt chilled and anxious, not to mention awkward, but hurried past to the bunkhouse.  I felt those cold eyes on me until I rounded a bend, out of sight.

    I opened the door to our room to find no Joy.  “Shit!”  I shouted and turned around and sprinted up the stairs, then down the boardwalk.

    As I said before, there are no alternative routes in Pelican.  You either walk this way or that way.  There was little chance that Bill and Enrico had already passed.

    I took a deep breath, tried to ignore them without looking silly as I walked past.  I had to glance over at them casually (yeah, right) in order to pull it off.

    “Forget something?”  Bill called mockingly, stepping aside to allow entrance to the harbor.

    “Yeah,” I said, breezing past, “my roommate.”

    I knocked on the door to Sam’s cabin, but received no answer.

    I knocked again.  “Go away!” Joy’s voice yelled.

    “I am not going away,” I yelled back.  “Get your butt in gear so we can get to work on time.”

    “I’m not going,” she responded petulantly.

    “What do you mean you’re not going?”  I felt incredulous and outraged at the same time.

    The door opened and Sam gave me his gap-toothed grin and kissed me smack on the mouth.

    “Morning, doll,” he twinkled at me.  Not kidding, he did twinkle.  “Can I walk you to the cafeteria?”

    I glanced down at last night’s clothes.

    “Oh,” Sam grinned again.  “May I escort you home so you can change?”

    I tried to look past him to find my wayward roommate.

    “Joy, come on,” I wheedled.

    “Look, hon,” she came to the door in beautiful disarray, clothed only in a large t-shirt.  “I repeat, ‘I’m not going’”.  She said this slowly to her idiot roommate.  “I’ll stop by later and explain.  Now you come here,” she said to Sam, grabbing him and kissing him deeply, lingering on his lips. “You be a good boy and I’ll see you at lunch.”

    Sam grinned lasciviously at Joy.  “Uh-uh.  You’ll see me at 10:00 break.”

    I rolled my eyes and started to drift away in shock.

    Sam walked me to the bunkhouse, friendly arm around my shoulders.  Talk, talk, talk.  I didn’t register a word.  Yeah, I knew how great Joy was.  She’d been my Joy.  Now she was Sam’s.  God that sucked.  I felt lost.

 

Making the Most of Involuntary Employment or The Best Job I Never Wanted

 

 

 

Again, this photo has nothing to do with anything.  This is my contorted filbert tree.  For some reason, some of the new growth is refusing to contort.  Maybe the tree, like my kids, doesn't like having its picture taken.

 

My life is suddenly very busy.  It was busy all summer, but it was the stay-at-home life.  I love that life.  My new life will make me once again appreciate weekends.  I've been busy, going to orientation for my new job.  I will be a Direct Care Service Provider.  Caps were probably not necessary.  I have never had a job that had such an extensive orientation.

When I worked at Pelican Seafoods, orientation consisted of the plant manager giving a very stern opening lecture on everything that you could do to get fired.  Now get back to work.

Now, working for Partnerships in Community Living, I have a binder with all kinds of materials and classes to attend within a time frame.  Today I had CPR/ First Aid.  The scary thing about this is that we were told that WE WILL USE IT.  "Some of our clients will have four seizures a day and you just have to know what is normal for that person and how long their seizures usually last.  But don't worry, you will find all that information in the person's binder at the house".  That was just one example.  The other thing we were told when practicing CPR is, "Oh yeah!  You will get puke on you."  So I said, "I hadn't thought about this, but I suppose it would be a good idea to have a change of clothes in my car."  The response, "Oh, yeah, and a change of EVERYTHING.  ALWAYS.  Because you're going to need it."  Well, as long as I know what to expect.  It won't be that much different than having a bar (or kids).  Think about it:  seizures, vomit, poop.  Sounds normal.  The seizures makes me a little nervous, but they said that was perfectly normal, too.

It has occurred to me the past few days, that I'd never worked at a place where all the workers seem happy.  They seem fulfilled, happy to be at work, love their clients and love each other.  That is a novelty.  And a rare accomplishment for any organization.

They use a video during orientation called FISH and it is all about the Pike Place Fish Market, and about how those guys have fun, and that having fun is a requirement of the job.  It goes into great detail, talking about choosing your attitude and including your customers in your fun.  All I could think while watching this video, besides just noticing what a fun atmosphere those guys do create for their clientele and each other, was that we used to get SCREAMED at at PSI: "THIS IS NOT PIKE PLACE MARKET!  IF I SEE YOU THROW ANOTHER FISH YOU WILL BE FIRED!!! THAT IS A FOOD PRODUCT!!!!!!!"

I wonder what the response would have been if someone had replied, "Yeah, but we're having fun and that's what counts, right?"

Yeah, right.  I'm sure they would have had a change of heart, a change of vision.  Uh-huh.

I also think about what my friend Jimmy O. used to say on returning from bathroom break # I'm-not-sure-because-we-lost-count-because-there-are-too-many-people-working-up-here-right-now.  Jimmy was known to bark (tongue-in-cheek, if it's actually possible to bark with your tongue stuck in your cheek):  "I'm not here to work!  I'm here to get paid!"  And often the company was content to have too many bodies on the clock.  I'm not sure why, but they were always afraid that everyone would be at the bar, otherwise.

PCL has already warned us that we will not get rich working there.  Obviously.  But the head of maintenance told us on the first day of orientation that he has been employed at PCL for 19 years and has only worked a couple of days in all that time.  He didn't say he was unproductive, but these people love their work, love the people they serve, and they believe that having fun is an important part of the job.  The maintenance guys seem to have the most fun of all, being pranksters, they seem to think that having fun IS their job.  Who am I to complain?  I just wish I were the least bit handy and could  work in maintenance.  Unfortunately, I'm not the least bit handy.

I've loved my stay-at-home life.  The life of a housewife, free-lance writer, amateur gardener.  My posts will probably not be quite as frequent.  I'm going to try, but some days will be crunched.  Some days, my house, my bills (Oh, dear God, please help me remember to pay those things tonight, unpleasant tasks are so easy to forget), my dogs (yes, thank you, Louise, you idiot, for making friends with skunks at 1:00 in the morning on a work night), and my kids, will demand my attention and my time.  But, as I said, I'm going to continue to try.  I haven't decided on a schedule yet, but my desire to work on my novel is strong.  My desire to finish it, rewrite, and finish it again is even stronger.  Another goal of mine is to not babble on and on for so long.  Like now.  I would love to master short, witty posts, but I've always worked in a more "organic" style, stream-of-consciousness, which is why I babble on and on so much.  It's not so much my writing as my brain.  Unfortunately.

So today, tonight, that is where I am at, that is what has been happening.  I may have become involuntarily employed, but so far, I drive a pleasant little commute, while listening to the soundtrack to "Mama Mia" and my good mood has continued throughout the day.  And that is a novelty.  This is going to be the best job I never wanted.

Picture Day in the Special Education Classroom

My favorite pictures of Sam are usually the candid, in-motion pictures of her on the beach.  Believe it or not, this was taken last November, but it was a very warm day.

I just got off the phone with Sam's aide Sam.  It sounds as though picture day was a success.  Of course, that wasn't why she called me.  A recent development with our Sam is that she takes over the bathroom at school and won't come out.  At first, I thought menstrual cramps.  Now I'm thinking that she has some other objective--a new way to not have to do anything that she doesn't want to...I'll feel so bad if I'm dead wrong.

Back to picture day, though.  Last year was an absolute, total disaster.  That should probably all be in caps, but I know that annoys some people.  It was a disaster of magnificent proportions, and it was ALL my fault.

Last year I had a cute outfit picked out for Sam.  It was a fancy, bell-legged, scoop-necked sweat suit in a dusty blue color with silver swirls.  It fit well; it was a great color; in fact, it is in one of Sam's favorite colors.  It is the color she ended up wearing for her pictures, but it wasn't the outfit.

Oh, no, not at all.  Sam wanted to wear a stained, skin-tight shirt and too-small pants that were so too-small that the pockets hung out.  Horrifying.  She looked like a poor little street urchin.  She liked the outfit I had picked out because she had worn it many times before.  But not that day.  Not on picture day.  Street urchin clothes it had to be.  Unfortunately, I did not accept that in a timely manner.

So for all my trouble, like turning on a switch, I ignited a firestorm of screaming, tears, and more.  Now she didn't want to cooperate with anything.  Not anything.  Her hair looked like she just got out of bed and when she brushed it--not wanting me anywhere near her now--she tore at her hair with the brush.  When she brushed her teeth she got the toothpaste everywhere, and Sam is the one who is most careful and meticulous when it comes to toothpaste clean-up.  Usually, not that day, though.  She left for school tear-stained and still crying, ragged, stained, and not at her best.

She arrived at school in the same state.  Still crying.  Still upset.  And I had upset the plan.  The plan had been to take Sam and a couple of the other kids in the Special ed. classroom and let them get their pictures done first before anything could go wrong, before anything could upset them.

Uhm, yeah.  Sam was unable to get her picture taken for some time because they tried to wait for her to calm down.  When the proofs came I decided to not purchase.  I didn't want a portrait of ABJECT MISERY.

Picture day today.  Sam was in a good mood.  I gave her a choice of two new tops.  She picked a short-sleeved, completely ruffled, chiffon, pull-over tee.  She added black pants, black mary janes, and then I offered her jewelry.

One of my readers, Daria, makes beautiful jewelry and sent me a big box just FILLED with jewelry for me and the girls.  Sam, not having pierced ears, even got clip-on earrings.  I don't know if she wore  the jewelry for the picture or not, but if she did, it should be quite striking.

I don't know if the ruffled shirt will survive the day.  There is certainly a lot of stitching to pick at.  But if we get a good picture out of this day, I will feel like it has been a successful day.

Now to go see if we can get Sam out of the bathroom.

Milestones in Autism: What you may take for granted

This was taken a few years ago.  The hot tub is now out of commission, but needs to be fixed soon.  We are supposed to have weather in the 90's this week, but Fall is still in the air.

I saw evidence of more milestones being reached this week.  Actually, it was kind of a funny week.  I'm still not sure if that is funny ha-ha or funny odd.

The skunk disaster, for the most part, is behind us.  Louise still gives off a faint aroma of eau d'skunk, but even that is getting better.

Sam's aide Sam assured me that even though she has a cold and can't smell anything, no one complained about Sam stinking and she thought that I probably didn't either.  My sister-in-law assured me on Sunday that the house doesn't stink of skunk.  So that is why I say it is more or less behind us.  Just so long as I never forget to never believe those dogs when they act desperate and pathetic, wanting out in the middle of the night.

Sam has been difficult lately.  One afternoon I got a call from Sam the aide who said, "I'm calling because I'm just too tired to write in the book".  Not a good sign, but I do understand.  However, I can't remember what that day's drama was because it's always something lately.  That may have been the day that she called me to tell me that Sam had had a stressful day and the clothes had born the brunt of it.  I inquired whether or not Sam was naked yet and if I needed to bring clothes or pick her up, and was assured that she could make it to the end of the day.

Sam arrived home in tatters, barely clothed.  Pants and shirt ripped up both sides and that was the second set of clothes.  I'm having a sense of deja vu here, so I think I've written of this before.  Part of the weekend has been devoted to trying to sew and salvage clothes for Sam.

The other Sam incident occurred on Friday.  I got THE CALL.  Anytime my caller I.D. indicates that the school is calling, my first reaction is "Oh, no.  What now?"  Sam had been in the bathroom for most of the day.  Was she sick?  What did I think?  I asked them to ask Sam if I should come get her and Sam responded with, of course, "Oh way!"  So we left her. 

A half hour later it was the school again.  Sam was still in the bathroom.  Could she be constipated?

Here, we approach milestone number one.  Something most parents of a twelve-year-old take for granted.  I didn't know the answer to the question and at that moment I realized that Sam has been, sporadically, flushing the toilet after use.  Maybe she was constipated and very uncomfortable.  Maybe not.  But gee, yeah, she has been FLUSHING!  Sometimes.  Hurray!  And sorry, no, I don't know if she's constipated or not, but apparently I should come get her either way since she's not going to get anything done if she spends the whole day in the bathroom.

When I got to the school, other people were very grateful and relieved to have use of the bathroom again.

After we got home Sam didn't even go into the bathroom for about the next three hours or more.  At first I was afraid that she'd played us and got out of doing any work.  They had said that she had rearranged the contents of the bathroom at one point (this isn't one of the main bathrooms in the school, but a private bathroom for the special ed room complete with a changing table.).

But then Sam started her period and I realized that she must have been having cramps all morning and had misinterpreted the signals.  This, too, though, shows signs of progress.  When she was young, she would have just had a diarrhea accident.  Now she thinks about those things.  She worries.  She doesn't want to embarrass herself and she cares.  So no big deal that she can't tell a menstrual cramp from diarrhea distress.  Now we know.  Now I can go through the rigamarole of taking Motrin to the school office and checking it in for Sam.  Then next time she tries to commandeer the bathroom for the day, they will know the right questions to ask.

Another milestone:  today when Sam dressed herself ( a milestone she achieved a while back) she actually put a sanitary napkin in her panties, all by herself and without any prompting.  That's huge, folks, that's huge.  I always say that when we go through a difficult spell, on the verge of despair, it is usually the set-back that precedes real progress.  Last month was a nightmare of laundry because Sam didn't want to wear ANYTHING during that time of the month.  This month, she's being all grown up.

We had another first the other night.  To understand just how significant this is, you have to understand our night time history.  For years, Sam's bed was made in layers:  waterproof mattress pad, 4-6 smaller waterproof squares, sheets.  Then we'd repeat with another identical layer, and then another.  This was because Sam might pee her bed twice in a night, and maybe even more than that.  Changing the bed and being awake so much in the middle of the night was killing me, so that's when I started the layering.  I still had to get up, but boy did it save time and energy.  Except that Sam always had trouble falling back asleep.  People would, with good intentions but completely off-the-mark, ask me or suggest that I wake her up in the night and make her sit on the toilet.

I pause in horrified remembrance.  A remembrance of things past.  This was not what Proust was referring to.  We did try.  Sometimes we would be met with looks of skepticism and cynicism when we'd tell people that we'd already tried that and it didn't work.  Their silent looks dripped with a sarcasm that if voiced would have been, "Yeah, right" and then eye-rolling.  Believe me, we tried everything we could think of, including cranial-sacral therapy.  Don't give me those "yeah, right" looks.  You get up night after night with wet beds, massive laundry, and one furious autistic four-year-old and then have the nerve to think that we haven't tried everything.

Because that's what would happen when we woke Sam up to stick her on the toilet:  Fury.  Confusion.  Tears.  Screaming.  Screaming.  More screaming.  No pee.  No pee to speak of.  Not until, when weary to the bone, we'd give up.  We'd just get back to sleep.  Then we'd hear Sam up, tearing around the house, ready to be up for the day, though it was only 1:00 a.m. or 3:00 a.m. or any too-early a.m. you please.  Sometimes this would happen more than once in the night.  And let's not forget that during those years, these accidents happened throughout the day as well.  The only  people I know who have done more laundry daily than me are hotels and hospitals.  The nerve of anyone to think we were too lazy or too stupid to try this or that method.  So that is the history.  It went on for years.  Sam was not potty-trained until she was over six.  With many accidents after being "trained"--what an insulting term that is.  It was not until sometime during her sixth year that she ever pooped in a toilet.  I remember feeling crushed by the routine that was my life, so tired and with a future filled with diapers, accidents, and cleaning up an adult autistic looming in front of me.  Those were dark days.  That, too, is our history.

So fast forward.  Let's move past piles of poop being hidden in my bed.  Let's move past piles of poop being disguised by blankets after being excreted on the floor.  Let's pause to consider how if I'd ever had the money I should have bought stock in Bissel, Chlorax bleach, Depends, and any kind of alcohol.  Let's move on to when life began to improve.

These things both sneak up on you and then again, they don't.  The first morning we woke up to our daughter's dry bed was with a sense of wonder, bated breath, and not wanting to put too much stock in it, too much hope, only to find it was a complete fluke.  But that pattern repeats.  And repeats.  And yes, there are some wet mornings, but at some point, I start only layering the bed in two layers, instead of three.  Then the time comes when I actually only have one layer on.  That's where we are now: one layer of waterproof mattress pad, five waterproof squares and a set of sheets and blankets.  Hey, when she was little, I wouldn't make the bed, except for waterproof pad, until bedtime because she could bomb it four or five times during the course of the day.  This is big progress, people.

But what all this was leading up to was another couple of milestones.  Sometime this summer, without prompting, Sam often would and still will, wake up in the night, go pee in the toilet ( I know this because her shrieking and humming as her pee hits the water wakes me up--and this time I don't care if I'm awakened.  That soft shrieking and what it means makes my heart sing), and then go PUT HERSELF BACK TO BED AND GO BACK TO SLEEP!  Or get up, make Top Ramen for possibly 26 minutes in the microwave, eat all the grated cheese, drink all my creamer, and now she likes to make nachos, too.  But hey, that's only sometimes.  As annoying as that is, it's progress, too.  And she's listened to my lectures of not doing her Top Ramen for 26 minutes because now she does it in 10 second intervals, about 12 times.  Did you miss it?  Did you miss the punch-line?  Did you miss the theme?  The point of the story?  She gets up by herself, pees in a toilet ( and hey, I could really give a rip if she flushes or not at this point) and puts herself back to bed.  Like you.  Like me.  Like your children do.  A milestone.  And though you've taken that simple act for granted since your child was about four or five, my child is almost 13.  And this milestone is all the sweeter.

But I'm not done.  You know how wordy I am.  And I'm drinking a glass of wine, so now you know that I'm REALLY wordy and on a won't-shut-up roll.  There was yet ANOTHER milestone, and honestly, I never allowed myself to think that this one would ever be achieved.  I just thought it was asking for too much.  Like wanting doors held open for you or like expecting people to say "excuse me" or "may I get you anything to drink?  Tea?  Coffee?  I've got filtered water?"  You know, the niceties of a by-gone era that you just don't feel you should expect anymore because if you do, you will only be disappointed.

Here's what happened:  I woke up the other morning, too early, of course.  Sam, well, honestly, I can't remember if Sam was awake or asleep, but I think awake.  I think awake with Mick's laptop in her, well, her lap.  As far as it being Mick's, Sam's response is, "It's MINE".  And that is a very firm, verbalized expression of her deep, innermost convictions.  So I poke my head in her room only to see sheets and pads on her floor and pajamas, too.  No big deal.  A little, because they are actually off the bed.  No, the big deal occurs when I examine further.  Her trunk, which holds sheets and pads, is semi-open, and on closer examination, I see that her bed has a sheet on it not put on by me.

Ok.  Yeah.  You're right.  She peed her bed that night.  She did not wake up in time and go use the toilet.  And flush.  How I sometimes wish that all I had to worry about or obsess about was whether or not people around here flush.  So no.  According to some people, that would be an "accident".  Not around here.  It has just happened with too much frequency to ever be regarded as something as random and rare as an "accident".  I'm actually glad she didn't wake up in time that night.  Because that "accident" shows signs of further progress.  Folks, she changed her own bed.  Sure, she didn't take the sheets and pad to the laundry.  I CANNOT care about that.  It is so inconsequential.  She changed her own bed.  She cared enough.  It's a multi-step process and an indication of social learning.  And she did it.  She did it all by herself.  It came from within Sam.  It is her achievement, not mine, not anyone else's.  Hers.  Sam's.

Why do I write this?  Why do I share these personal moments?  I know some people who read Chicken and Sponge and I don't know others.  Though, hey, Readers, send me an email once in awhile because it's great to know who reads what and what they like.  I have a Site Meter widget, so I know how many visitors per day, how many page views, and how many minutes are spent at my site.  But I only know what people think if they will write to me or respond in some fashion.  It's an odd sensation.  Kind of like being naked in a room full of strangers with just a few familiar faces ( who may or may not be saying, "hey, put some clothes on, you're naked!)

Sometimes what I write is a quick way to let family and friends know what we're doing, where we're at.  But a lot of what I write is for people I've never met in person.  Some of what I write is for parents of autistic children that can be anywhere in the journey.  Often I write for people who may be on that one or a dozen sections of the journey marked by fear and despair.  Parents of disabled kids have to know that it gets better.  Even when you don't expect it.  Usually when you don't expect it.

I know my niche jumps all over the place.  I don't simply want to be an autism blog because we are more than the sum of our parts.  We are more than autism.  But let me tell you, I know there are people who read this and say to themselves, "Thank God!  Thank God I don't have to deal with that!  Thank God I'm not having to deal with autism.  I feel blessed."

And you are.  You thank your lucky stars or thank God, because you are blessed.  Blessed with a healthy child.  Blessed with the normal childhood problems and teenage angst.  You are blessed.

What you don't realize is how blessed we are. This isn't brave talk.  It's not smoke and mirrors.  Mick, Miranda and I are blessed.  Sam must be blessed, just in a different fashion.  Unless you've experienced something similar, you can't realize what Sam has added to our lives.  Additional stress?  Oh, Lord!  You betcha!  Stress coming out our ears...But a sense of grace, a sense of purpose, and an overwhelming love so fierce that I really can't describe it.

Miranda's not left out.  If anything, her own extraordinary brain and psyche have made her more of her parents' equal than most children will ever experience in their lifetimes.  Sam has blessed us.  So has Miranda.  We're not perfect.  If you look at my carpet you will see scorch marks and dog hair (though you will have seen worse).  If you look at my furniture you will see dust.  If you look at my children, look close now and open up your minds, you should see a beauty, a grace, a certain indefinable something.  So here we are.  Ready or not, here we come.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 28

 

    I hadn’t been down in the harbor since I’d landed in Pelican.  I’d been so overwhelmed at that time that I’d barely taken in my surroundings.  Of course, everything looks different at night.

    The harbor was like a little city in itself.  Some boats were dark, the occupants probably occupied at the bar, but other boats had lights on in their wheelhouses and the sounds of music and conversations drifted about.

    “It’s like an apartment building,” I told Thomas.

    “Really?” he replied, “never lived in an apartment before.”

    “Really?”  I was astounded.  We walked past the first two fingers.  “I wonder if the harbors in Hong Kong where all the junks are have this same communal atmosphere,” I said.

    “Oh, more so, much more so.  Whole families live there—a lot more than what you see in an Alaskan boat harbor.”

    “How do you know?” I asked.  “You’ve been to Hong Kong?”

    “Yeah.”

    “But you’ve never lived in an apartment?”

    “Right.”

    I shook my head in wonder.  We turned down the third finger and were almost at the end when he pulled me onto a narrow much more tippy walkway beside a large white boat.

    “This is it,” he said proudly, “The Siren’s Song.  Let me help you aboard.”

    He jumped over the side first, then held out his hand.  I climbed aboard and he gave me the tour.  After admiring the deck and being shown where they hauled fish aboard, where they cleaned fish, and then, by God, he pulled off the hatch cover and showed me where they iced fish.

    Then he took me into the wheelhouse and turned on a light.  It was very clean and sparse with lots of windows all around.

    “Well?” he asked, chest puffed out, “what do you think?”

    “Very nice,” I said matter-of-factly.

    “Very nice?  Is that it?  Very nice?”  Thomas seemed a bit miffed.

    “What would you like me to say”  I felt a little bewildered and defensive.  “Very, very nice?”

    Thomas shook his head.  “Forget it.”

    I looked at his profile.  “Boy, you look let down.”  I got a cold glance in return.  I sighed.  “I’m not sure what to say, Thomas.  I’ve never been on a commercial fishing boat before so I have no basis for comparison.”

    Apparently I’d said the right thing finally.

    “Really?” he asked.  “Well, you should see some of the other boats, most of the other boats.  Not that I’m suggesting you come down to the harbor and start checking boats out, but believe me, the Siren’s Song is sweet.”

    He opened the wine, poured two glasses, then turned out the light.  “I was just beginning to think that I shouldn’t have told my deck hand to get lost tonight.”

    To this, I had no reply.  I took a small sip, aware of Thomas’s eyes glittering at me.  He looked like a bird of prey, stepped forward, and took my glass, setting it aside.  Then he pulled me into his arms and softly kissed the side of my neck.

    I drew in a shaky breath and a tremor ran through my body.  No kidding.

    Thomas pulled back and looked at me with a trace of suspicion.  “Are you for real?”  He seemed to fear that I was making fun of him.

    I shook my head and my voice was a little hoarse as I whispered, “Yes, can’t help it.  I haven’t been with a man in almost eleven months.”  And I pushed the image of violent Steven Kane out of my head and focused on the present.

    “Why?” Thomas demanded.

    I shook my head vigorously from side to side and whispered against his lips, “Way too long a story.” 

    Thomas pulled me in close, sweeping his hands down from my shoulders to my hips.  My trembling intensified and his eyes sparked.  His mouth approached mine and the touch was soft, passion held in check.  My knees buckled and an animal sound tore its way through Thomas’s body.  He swung me up in his arms and carried me down the four steps to the wide bunk in the bow.

What is That Smell???

You know I didn't take this picture last night--taken during more fragrant, pleasant times.  Cute though, huh?  Forgive me any idiocy--part of the game and a definite part of tonight's plan.

That's a favorite bit of scripting that Sam says.  "What is that smell?"  Sam manages to say it loudly and with great distaste, usually at inappropriate times, like when entering a restaurant or public restroom.  But "what is that smell" may be what you'd say if entering my house.  Yes, my paranoid fears have been realized.

At 1:00 a.m., the dogs woke me up, begging to go out.  I plead fatigue, being half asleep, and thinking that I'd allowed them to go to bed too early due to rain and cooler weather.

At 1:00 a.m. yesterday, Zeus and Louise had a Close Encounter of the Skunk Kind.

OH, MY GOD!  I could just keep repeating that, but eventually someone will get really offended if I do.  But I have to say it again.  OH, MY GOD!!!  To put this in perspective, the last time I walked around the house saying, "what is that smell?", I discovered a pile of poop on the carpet that had been camouflaged by a blanket.  And pressed.  I will take the poop pile.

I thought I had smelled skunk before.  That had only been a teaser.  That was just the skunk's natural little skunky aroma as it walked around the property at night, content and smelly.  That was not the smell of a skunk who had a Close Encounter of the Bulldog kind.  The effect is much different.

This is chemical warfare.  This is like breathing mustard gas.  Not that I've ever breathed mustard gas, but what's a little hyperbole between friends?  This is what I imagine breathing ( a tiny whiff) of mustard gas must be like.

Folks, my lungs are still burning.  But I jump ahead.  Here's what happened:

The dogs awake me, and being completely and apparently brain damaged, I let them outside.  I proceed to use the bathroom, refill my iced tea and sip my tea while I wait.  And I wait.  No one is at the back door.  It is 1:00 in the morning and had been raining.  Really, the dogs should have been there waiting.  At least Louise the Lazy and Unmotivated.  Louise loves her sleep.  Louise loves her crate.  Zeus, on the other hand, usually prefers to use the "facilities" in the back 40 of the property.  Zeus loiters and Zeus will avoid his crate and try to fake me out to sleep elsewhere.  My curiosity is peaked.  My suspicions awake.

I walk outside.  It is a different world.  It was the perfect night for vampires and were creatures and creatures that go bump in the night. Very atmospheric.  The  air is charged and there is a current of excitement and expectation in the air.  I can hear dogs down the street, across the back field, barking and aroused.  The sky is gorgeous and moody, very light, but wispy clouds float and whirl around.

I have my first OMG moment, a moment of "NO".  Then I call, not so loudly as to wake neighbors, though I might have, certainly loud enough for my two mongrels to hear and respond, loud enough to let any beasties know that I was there.

I heard Louise first.  I didn't hear Zeus at all.  If this were a popular, paranormal novel, Louise would be bitten by a vampire bat or tortured by some psychotic killer on the loose.  However, Louise, from somewhere in the dark, was making happy, soft, snorting noises.  Noises that animals with pushed in noses and friendly natures make easily.  Kind of a wet, slurpee, snuffling noise.  As I write this, I find myself shaking my head back and forth.  With disgust, dismay, resignation.  My head is shaking the same way it was last night, but last night my heart was filling with panic and dread at the same time.

"Louise.  Louise?  Come here, Louise.  Come here!  I can hear you.  Louise!"  As Louise slowly shuffled toward me, kind of bear-like in her gait, a wall of odor approached.  Here is where I don't know if I can forgive myself for or not.  Please, allow me  a moment to make excuses and explain what was going on in this deteriorating brain of mine.

I've mentioned before, that we have skunks on the property.  I've never seen them during the day (since they're mostly nocturnal) and in fact, I've never seen one at all on our property.  But I have smelled their presence many times.  We've had warm spring and summer evenings where we were watching tv with the windows open ( one of my great vices according to Miranda who would prefer the house to be a dank, dark cave) where suddenly waves of skunky odor waft in through those open windows and fill the house.  I thought it was kind of stinky.  Ha!  How wrong could I be?  That same odor had on several occasions drifted in through my bedroom window while I slept, actually awakening me with its pungent, musky odor.  But that odor would dissipate.  It would take an hour or so, but then it was gone.  Nothing but a memory.  And a warning.

So what I was thinking when that wall of odor approached?  I was thinking, "Hurry up, Louise!  Hurry up before that skunk gets us!!!"

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  So don't write me and tell me.  I know.  And I'm the one (one of six living bodies at this address) living with this mistake.  And I'm the only one living with regret for poor decision making.

Because Louise was already "got".  All that snorty, slurpy, snuffling noise I'd heard was Louise saying, "Hi!  Pleased to make your acquaintance and gee your butt smells good!  Let me put my face in it!"

I did not realize.  And because I didn't realize, I hurried Louise along, "Come on, Louise, come on...ZEUS!  HERE, ZEUS!  Hurry up, Louise, get inside."  Yes, that's what I said.  GET INSIDE.

And the good little girl hurried inside and thankfully (?) didn't loiter, but ran straight for her crate.  I locked her in and went back to the slider to see if Zeus was there and to check his condition.

He wasn't there yet, but something started to happen in the back of my brain.  A sense of impending doom.  The realization that a burning, an intense burning was starting in my lungs.  My nose hairs felt as though I'd been too close to a fire.  I wasn't even quite smelling it yet, but when it came, when that odor ripened, it hit me like a freight train.  And that's when I said it.  At 1:06 a.m.  Oh, yes, this epic battle...what battle?  This is just plain ignominious defeat without a battle being waged except in my own psyche.  This epic nothing took all of about six minutes initially.  So where was I?  Oh, yeah...1:06 a.m.  That's when I first said it, "Oh my god!" That one was a whisper.  Then, "OH MY GOD!"  Brain delay...brain delay...then..."Oh my god I've got to get her out of here!"

"Louise, Louise, come here, girl. Oh, come here, oh, good girl.  That's right.  Let's go outside. Oh, that's such a good girl, come on."  Cooing, I was cooing.  If you've never met me in person, I'm not a natural cooer.  But damnit, I cooed.  Door slammed shut.  Didn't even give a damn about Zeus at that point.  Who, by the way, was jumping up against the slider like the happy idiot he is.

Change in tone of voice.  "You stupid dogs!  You stupid dogs!  Aaarrgh!  It's the middle of the night.  I don't know what to do.  I have a Meet and Greet to go to at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow for my new job--you stupid dogs!....Oh, I'm sorry.  I can't let you in.  No, don't look at me that way.  I still love you.  But you stink TOO MUCH.  I'm sorry, I can't let you in.  Oh...my poor stupid babies.  Please leave the skunk alone.  Good night.  I still love you.  Oh...no...I can't let you in.  Crap.  You're clueless.  At least you're dogs and will forgive me."

I went to bed.  I didn't look at the clock, but it couldn't have been much more than 1:15.

In the night, they stood outside my bedroom window and tried to get my attention.  The house reeked and I had opened the windows to get rid of that nose and lung-burning smell.  Except that even more odor was pushed in by the presence of skunk-soaked dog bodies.  I got up and shut the window and let the remaining odor just brew.

My brain would not rest.  It was trying to strategize.  It could not leave alone the question "What will I do?  How will I deal with this?  When will I deal with this?"  Because my new job is very important to me.  This may be the first job I've ever had where I've felt wanted and capable and all kinds of other important things.  I can save that for another post, though.  At this point, I was just trying to juggle and schedule my responsibilities.

No way, I thought, though maybe I was wrong, no way could I take care of the dogs at that moment.  For one thing, I thought I needed tomato juice.  However, according to the INTERNET, and the internet would never lie, it said " Forget the tomato juice.  Then your dog will just smell like skunk and tomato juice."  But I didn't know that at 1:20 a.m.  At 1:20 a.m., I was planning on buying just a ridiculous amount of tomato juice when I got done with my Meet and Greet and PCL around 12:30.  Which meant that my poor dogs would be skunk-soaked for many hours.

I eventually drifted off to sleep.  All my dreams involved my skunky dogs, trying to clean them, buying tomato juice, being at PCL and smelling like skunk and everyone thinking I really skunk, oh, I mean stunk.  Oh, and yeah, my friend Jimmy O.

On the INTERNET, oh, great source of knowledge and hoaxes, my friend Jimmy O. is known as Jimmy Havock.  I hope that wasn't a state secret.  In my own life he is known as Jimmy O and he is actually the inspiration for one of the characters in my novel.  Oh, no, I didn't admit that out loud, did I?  The novel is a work of fiction, a work of fiction I repeat.

Anyway, I'm indulging myself a little here, Jimmy and I have re-established contact and I am so thrilled and a little weirded out.  First, my New Year's Resolution was NOT to lose weight, because that has been my resolution since about fourth grade and it's daily, not annually and it's a given.  No, my resolution this year was to re-establish contact with old friends and make old friends new again.  I haven't been successful in my attempts to reach out, but it must have been meant to be.  An old friend from high school, Chris, and I are in close contact, though she made first contact. and now Jimmy.  Last year I called an old phone number and after some passing along of messages, Jimmy called me.  Last year.  One phone call. It was great, but that was it.

Then out of the blue, he calls me this year.  We talk twice.  I DEMAND email info. and we now have contact several times a day.  I can't describe what Jimmy O. means to me.  But it's all good stuff.  Oh, and he and Mick are oil and water, but hey, that's ok.  So the point is...we've been communicating via the all mighty INTERNET.  It allows him to tell me how wrong I am about whatever without my pesky interrupting.

But back to the story...I eventually fell asleep...and among other annoying dreams, the most memorable one(s) were about Jimmy.  Here is how I knew that I actually had fallen asleep, since it didn't feel like it:  Jimmy was my house guest.  He was my house guest without a bedroom because I vowed I'd never boot Miranda out again unless it was for my parents.  Jimmy was staying at my house and sleeping in the living room, but he wasn't sleeping.  He was on his laptop, surfing.  First, Jimmy gives me a lot of tech advice, because frankly, I'm a retard.

But in my dream, Jimmy is chagrined.  I love that word.  He is chagrined because Miranda is up and she tried to show him how to do something on the computer, to do it faster, BUT HE KNEW BETTER.  Oh, and she is also making him homeade burritos for some reason.  And now his computer was completely screwed up and SLOW...OH, SLOWWWW.  And he knew it, so even though this didn't have anything else to do with my dog/skunk situation ( except that they have cameo appearances as stinky, skunky, exiled-to-the-porch dogs) this dream was so worth it.

Of course, I wake up exhausted.  All I've done, all night long, is try to buy products, or clean, those dogs.  All night long.  And all night long I HAVE WORRIED---BIG TIME---that I will go to the Meet and Greet and I will smell like SKUNK.  Or just smell bad, and everyone will be too polite to say, "Oh, my god, you kind of stink.  Why?"

The dogs looked pathetic on the porch this morning.  So sad,  so sorry, so oblivious to why I was mistreating them.

I went to the Meet and Greet.  This is probably a different story, but I got a better job, a better schedule.  Do I ever feel loved and I vow to prove myself worthy.  It will be an 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. job.  Mostly accompanying this guy who likes to go to movies and get fancy coffees.  OMG.  It's a tough life, but someone has to do it.

Yes.  Good news on the job front.  But then I opened my front door.  And my nose hairs burned off, fell out of my nostrils, and are now waiting for me to vacuum them off the carpet.  SKUNK, SKUNK,SKUNK.

Geez, I thought I was done, just because I'm weary of the saga, but I'm not.  So since I meandered my way through this story, forgive me if I rush it now.  The All Mighty INTERNET says 1 qt. of hydrogen peroxide, 1/4- 1/2 cups of baking soda and about 1 tsp of dish detergent.  Saturate your dog.  Rinse, rinse, repeat, repeat.  Dog shampoo, rinse.  Hope and pray.

I forgot to mention, Zeus doesn't stink nearly as bad as Louise.  I think he stinks from rubbing and rolling with Louise.  I don't think he got sprayed.  But he does stink.

But nothing like Louise.  Louise stinks to high heaven.  And if you recall, Louise is the one I herded into the house.  Ergo, the house reeks.  Zeus needs some work.  Louise needs an overhaul.

So I started.  I tried.  It may be better, but it's all a matter of degree.  And my nose and brain are fried.

Feeling overwhelmed, I begin calling groomers.  The one I use, the one I love, is closed on Thursdays.  Oh, of course.  I call a couple of others.  No openings  So...

I went out and tried again, but we will see at bedtime.  Those poor idiots may spend the night resting their stinky bodies on my formerly-nice, upholstered lawn furniture for one more night.  Shannon MUST have an opening tomorrow.  MUST, MUST, MUST.

I always welcome visitors.  I am desperately lonely and people-hungry after all. Don't come for two weeks.  Let it dissipate.  Spare me.  Do your nose a favor.  Your lungs.  Oy vey.  Please, please, wish for us the best.

An Evening of Irritants and the Season Premiere of the Biggest Loser

Zeus, weilding his weapon, Louise, in the background.  They've done it again.

Late at night.  Much to do.  Don't want to be  lame... Yeah, good luck with that.

Not every day brings exciting developments.  Sometimes I get weary with my own brain obsessing about the same old stuff.  That's when it's time to be shallow and petty or at least observe the little irritants in life.  Tonight, personal irritants.

There is the screen door.  This is the screen door that goes to the sliding doors which exit onto the covered porch.  The canine exit.  The poor excuse and no substitute for a dog door.  Mick, can you hear me?  Dog door, dog door.  What?  No?  CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW?  HOW ABOUT NOW?  DOG DOOR! DOG DOOR!  DOG DOOR!  Come on already.

We have this "thing" with the sliding screen.  I don't know how to define "thing" but in this case it is like bad karma.  Bad sliding door karma.  I'm not sure how many times that thing has been fixed, but trust me, it has been several times.  The last time was when Mick was home a couple of weeks ago.  For the past couple of weeks that door has been a dream.  Swish, swish, swish.  Glide, glide, glide.

Now please realize that this door in its entirety is a cheap piece of crap and this wonderful dream of gently sliding doors is not going to last.  Someone should really have been reminding me of that.  Because tonight, that insistent, hyperactive idiot, Zeus, did not have someone immediately at his beck and call and he found himself on one side of that screen and Louise on the other.  Oh My God, the HORROR!

So Zeus gave a sharp bark and threw his body against the screen.  It now bows out.  Kind of saggy and floppy looking.  And it no longer goes swish, swish, swish.  Glide, glide, glide.  It now goes Ugh-eek- screech, screech, damnit, damnit, THIS DAMNED THING DOESN'T WORK ANYMORE!

Mind you, Miranda was sitting right there in the living room.  But will she get up to let the dog out?  Not on you life!  It almost takes a very polite written request with promises of bounty for her effort.

Stupid dog.  Stupid door.

I am ticked.  I am disgusted.

Irritant number 2:  I have lost an important notebook.  Probably misplaced would be more accurate, but until I find it, it feels lost.  This state of affairs is probably not surprising.  I have a notebook fetish.  Mick always thinks we have plenty of notebooks around if someone needs one, but he is wrong.  He is assuming I'll share.  Want a notebook?  Well go buy onethen and quit writing crap in mine.  Each notebook serves a different purpose.  It's like being in school and having notebooks for each subject.  Just because I'm not in school doesn't mean I don't have subjects.  I'm missing my blogging notebook and I'm really quite disgusted by this.  All the user names, user IDs, passwords, and other malarkey are stored in this notebook that looks like so many others except that its dots are orange.  I can only find green, blue, and pink dots at present.  This is what one gets for cleaning the bedroom.  Leave it a cluttered mess and be able to locate anything and everything.

Irritant number 3:  Just why, oh why, did Sam decide to take the ice cube tray, a long rectangular plastic container, fill it with ice cubes and water, and take it into her room?  Is this her idea of a new drinking glass?  Really?  Would you believe that she managed to not spill any in her room?  She's done worse, much  worse, but please don't let this phase last long.

Irritant number 4:  Biggest Loser started the new season tonight.  If I don't carefully pick and choose on this one, I could be writing for hours.  I don't want to do that.  To start with, this is season 9 and each season is like the start of a new year, meaning each season Mick and I resolve to lose weight along with the contestants.  I've been watching for the past four or five seasons.  I should be there by now.  Instead, I've gained about 26 pounds since last year.  Mick assures me he'll be fat when he gets home, too.  Maybe we need to quit watching.  The show is making us fat.

Also, you can't watch this show unless it's on Tivo or DVR.  You just can't because they repeat the last thirty seconds after each commercial break.  It's a two-hour show that is probably less than one and a half hours.

Then there is the emotion.  Biggest Loser Season 9 is the worst for very moving, very touching, and very tragic personal stories.  It's what makes people care about the show, but there is just SO MUCH EMOTION!  The tear, and tears, and more tears.  Everyone is crying.  Tonight everyone cried at the same time.  HEY, ONE OF THE CONTESTANTS MADEJILLIAN MICHAELS CHOKE UP AND CRY!!!   Don't worry, Jillian, I cried too. Over and over. I hate this because I am such a sucker.  It's got to be a hormonal thing.  It's got to be, but God help me if anyone gives a eulogy, a rousing performance, or rescues a damned puppy.  There I sit, in a puddle of tears.  How I loathe myself.  I want my own room to watch TV in.  No company, no witnesses.

Last irritant (for tonight):  people who call me "dude".  Come on.  Please quit.  Please.  I don't get it.  I don't appreciate it.  I just don't.  Please, oh please, don't call me "dude".  Miranda calls me Dude.  All the time.

OK.  That's it.  Over and out.

Getting Hired in Today's Economy

This photo is not a mistake and no, it has absolutely nothing to do with today's post.   This is for my sister-n-law Cheryl who wanted to see just how it is that Sam messes up my photos that I have stored on the computer. I call this one :  Example One.  And I have no idea how she achieved this.

I'm sure no expert would agree with me, but it seems to me, and for me, the only guaranteed way to get hired is to be completely ambivalent about getting the job.

I had a job interview yesterday.  I had very mixed feelings about getting a job.  Many, many reasons for this, some reasonable, some less so.   I finally feel like I'm actively pursuing some life-long goals, and I certainly don't want my writing to derail due to lack of time or energy.  That is a big one.  I'm also intending to go forth with a business venture with my friend Chris (more on that at a later date when I get it off the ground).  Again, time and energy concerns are factors.  On the plus side for the job I applied for, it could really help me with this business venture.  I like my stay-at-home life.  Oh, I know I complain ceaselessly.  You didn't really buy that, did you?

Yes, the gardening is time-consuming, back-breaking and very satisfying.  I can't really adequately describe what writing means to me, but it is second in my life, only to my family.  And of course, my family is my greatest concern.

Sam provides hours of chores for me, usually requiring a sewing machine, but hours are also spent just keeping her occupied and content.  Will I still be able to do so?  If I didn't get a job I don't think we could afford  to keep her clothed or content since her idea of entertainment usually requires money.  It was a tough year all around for this family this year.  We've managed, against the odds and against some opposition ( you're not paranoid if people really are out to get you), to stay afloat and may I say it?  Thrive.  We don't always feel like we're thriving, but we have and we are.

So the new job?  I won't be able to speak in much detail in the near future.  Advice from Dooce.com, the first blogger to ever be fired from her job for blogging, is to be VERY careful about what one writes about work.  Unless you work for yourself and then you're fair game for your own humor.   But other people sometimes don't appreciate that humor.  That humor or little detail can get one in a lot of trouble.  And in my case, with my new job, I have to be very careful about confidentiality.

I've been hired to work at a place called Partners in Community Living (PCL).  I have yet to go through orientation, but my current understanding is that I will be helping developmentally disabled adults in whatever capacity they need help.  Sometimes it will be a group home setting, sometimes not.  I may be feeding and bathing some people, helping them on the toilet.  I continue to hope that some day, oh please some day, the only butt I will wipe will be my own.  But that isn't in my immediate future.  I may be  taking people to doctor appointments, their job or job workshop (where I think I'd like to eventually work, come some openings), we may go grocery shopping or just on some outings.

Full time is considered 30 hours a week or more and comes with retirement, earned paid leave, and medical/ dental/ vision for the whole family.  That isn't easy to find these days.  And as one of the forty-some million Americans without health care, that means a lot to me.

But so do the rights of the disabled.  This job gives me a chance to see what opportunities await Sam in the future.  PCL only serves adults at this time, but time flies.  Miranda started school in Dallas as a fifth grader and is a high school freshman now.  Sometimes it seems like we've only been in this house for a couple of years.  Of course, one look at my carpet and one thinks it's been twenty very tough years.  So I'm glad I can see what is available for Sam and maybe we can steer of influence situations that will aid her in the future.

Right now I'm just hired as a caregiver.  One of the great things about PCL is that they have over 600 employees and a great variety of jobs.  I see room for advancement, room for change, but in the meantime, I will humbly and graciously be the best care giver that I can be.  When you truly believe in equality, you realize that while we aren't all equal ( it's not a level playing field) we need to all be treated equally.  We all have the right to be treated with respect, dignity, and consideration.  We all have the ability to learn and we are all capable of teaching.  I am ready to learn.

But just to stir up my continued ambivalence ( yes, I know I'm being contradictory, what of it?), I learned that the only shifts that are available are graveyard shifts.  Let's pause for a moment of grim silence.

You'd think someone who owned a bar in Southeast Alaska, a bar that could legally stay open until 5:00 a.m., a woman who prior to the purchase of said bar actually did stay up on numerous occasions until closing time, wouldn't hesitate to work a graveyard shift.  Well, think again.

Graveyard shift?  This may just kill me.  That's only a slight exaggeration.  I'm not just talking about my preferences, nothing so piddly as preferences.  A preference is tea over coffee--which is a very serious matter to some--but that's not what I'm talking about.  I'm talking about the possibility of debilitating exhaustion.  I'm talking about the body protesting, not adjusting, and then just giving out. I know myself and I know myself well.  This is not a touch of hypochondria (Mick).  One thing, with no insurance, you don't run around seeking a doctor's diagnosis, you just suck it up and get on with life.  Which I have done at my own pace.  That's the advantage of self-employment and of being a housewife ( a term I embrace.  I hate the term home-maker and domestic engineer is too ridiculous, domestic goddess hits me in my gag reflex, so house wife it is).

Other considerations with scheduling revolve around concerns about Samantha.  Right now I don't even know for sure when Mick is coming home.  Within a month, I believe.  But until I know and until he's here, Miranda can't shoulder the burden while I run off to work.  They are not going to be left alone all night because Miranda would never sleep out of concern and then she'd be the one collapsing due to exhaustion.

And once the school year is out?  I ask this question as week two commences.  The answer is, I don't know.  We'll deal with that as the time approaches.  I may not get to be a full-time employee with benefits.  I can't worry about that now.  I can only worry about the next two weeks of orientation and whether or not Zeus should eat garbage and over-looked Barbies in the house, or whether he should eat compost out in the yard and try to escape as people walk by.  Compost, I believe, wins that debate.

I started out saying that ambivalence was key to getting hired.  That sounds a little cynical.  Not entirely accurate either.  Ambivalence results in the applicant being more relaxed, more natural.  I used to be frozen with nerves when I'd apply for a job.  On edge, wooden, stilted, stomach in knots.  I had trouble showing the employer who I really was because I felt like I so desperately needed the job.  I know what I'm talking about because when I was in college I went through a ten-month period of being unemployed and actively job-seeking.  It was HELL!

That cycle ended with self-employment.  I ran some ads and cleaned houses for the rest of the time I was in college.  I loved the sense of freedom.  I appreciated not punching a clock and not having a supervisor constantly hanging over my shoulder.  I later took a job in the Dietary dept. of the hospital in Pendleton, Oregon and I enjoyed that until I became bored out of my mind.  After that, on a whim, I called up Pelican Seafoods and got hired over the phone.  Again, I didn't need the job because I already had one.  It is the only job where I got hired sight unseen.  After I saw some of my co-workers I understood.

Talking about supervisors hanging over one's shoulder, Pelican Seafoods was one of the worst for that.  Sometimes it seemed like there was little else for a supervisor to do.  It didn't hurt my feelings when I eventually quit.  A week later I was to find that Pelican Seafoods was done anyway.  I was ready to be self-employed again, to enjoy that freedom and self-determination, and while I didn't put in as many hours as Mick at running the bar, I was busy running a household and taking care of a newborn.  And then it was a toddler and a newborn.  And then it was a toddler and an autistic toddler and at that point I became intimately familiar with EXHAUSTION (and poop).  My tendency to ramble on and on seemed to develop at that time, too.

Even with living above a bar, motherhood brought strong feelings of isolation.  It would have been different if any of my friends were having kids, too, but they weren't.  When I would bartend it was almost with a desperate need for adult contact.  Bar patrons don't always deliver on that front.  It's kind of hit and miss, but I wasn't necessarily the greatest conversationalist either.  Oh, I talked on and on and on.  But I was just full of poop stories.  Many fishermen didn't really want to hear about the variety of strange objects I'd found in Sam's diaper that day ( she had something like Pica for awhile there).  On the other hand, there were a few fishermen who were more than willing.  Or it may have been the huge, lactating boobs in the low-cut shirt that made them a captive audience.  Who knows?  Who cares?  I was just lonely for human contact.

Which brings me full circle.  While I don't miss working for people, I miss working with people.  I need that human contact.  I need to be around some like-minded individuals.  And it sounds like I'll be able to share lots of poop stories.  Who could ask for more?