Chicken and Sponge

Time Flies Whether You're Having Fun or Not

I wouldn't mind being Hecate.  She's the dominant cat and never gets beaten up.  She's beautiful, strong, surprisingly graceful and athletic, incredibly limber.  Oh, yeah, and she gets to sleep for about eighteen to twenty hours a day.

It's that time again.  What time, you ask?  It's that time when I psych myself up for the coming week.  Work's not bad.  No, it's not that.  It's the alarm clock.  It's waking up at 5:30 a.m. (or worse, waking up about 4:30 a.m. and not being able to get back to sleep because I know I have to get up in an hour).  The problem for my brain is waking up at 5:30 a.m. and not being allowed to roll over and go back to sleep.  The problem is feeling like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz when I first awake and try to  move my body.  The situation's made worse by our bed now just being a mattress on the floor.

A small segue:  Miranda says to me today, "Mom, when it's time to get new living room furniture, I think we should just get nice lawn furniture."  My response, "I think that is a perfectly dreadful idea.  No offense.  Great idea for you when you are in college, but your dad and I are at an age where we want real furniture and this next time it's going to be nice."  By nice, I mean not ugly, but very sturdy and well-made.  Along with that living room furniture is a pressing need for a bed frame.  We had one once upon a time, along with a box spring.  Anyone who believes the claim that those mattress sets are good for 20 years is an idiot or is sleeping on a hammock or somebody's couch.  Four years, folks.  The frame broke after one year, the box spring the following year, and here we are, a middle aged couple struggling to get vertical from our mattress on the floor.  I like to think that it's helping to keep us young.  Reminds me of college.  However, our bodies were a little more cooperative back then.

Nevertheless, I spend my week counting down the days until I get to sleep in, past 5:30 a.m., nestled amongst the pillows on my mattress on the floor.  

Saturday, we just made it to about 6:20 a.m. when Sam was dressed and running out the door.  Mick dressed and followed.  Segue #2:  That child of ours is making us lose our minds.  We cannot agree on the sequence of events.  Did she or didn't she leave the house yesterday morning?  We are now so rattled, so rummy, so stressed to the point of over-load that we HAVEN'T GOT A CLUE!  Anyway, I got up too early, got dressed too early, and from that point on I haven't any idea what happened on Saturday.  Mick either, though he might claim to.  Yes, dear, I know she took off after Frank got here and that you followed on foot, called on the cell, and I drove over and picked you two up.  But our brains are missing several hours.  If we drank, this would be called a black-out.

I remember what happened when Sam took off in the afternoon, after brother-in-law Frank arrived.  I remember because I tried to take a walk with Sam and she totally rejected me.  I repeat, TOTALLY REJECTED ME!  She said, "Mom, the door.  Mom, the door!...Dad, take walk."  That stings.

Sunday morning.  Frank had spent the night so he gets Sam's room when he's here.  That's because he's in worse shape than the Tin Man and Sam's is the only bed off the floor.  It is also conveniently located close to the bathroom.  In Frank's world, the less he has to walk, the better.

This was fine with Sam because she gets to sleep in Miranda's room which is now wall-to-wall mattresses on the floor.  Two doubles, about twenty pillows and an equal amount of blankets and comforters.  A real nest.  Sam just takes her jack-o-lantern/ night-light and Bunny-frog and then she's content.  Maybe even deliriously happy.

Back to Sunday morning.  Frank wakes up ridiculously early, because he always does, gets up and gets dressed, makes himself some coffee, and goes outside to smoke a cigarette and LOCKS HIMSELF OUT OF THE HOUSE.

There are three outside doors to this house, and we only lock the front one.  Stupid, yes, but oh well.  In the case of Frank locking himself out, you'd think two other doors that are never locked would come in handy.  Maybe he panicked and thought he'd be locked out for hours.  I don't know.  But that man rang the door bell and rang it and rang it and rang it...ring, ring, ring ring ringringringringringirgnringringring!!!

ENOUGH ALREADY!

Mick went running stark naked to let his brother in the door.  He returned for his bathrobe and then Frank had company for the rest of the ridiculously early morning.

I lay there with my heart pounding and the adrenaline pumping for nearly a half hour before my body settled down and drifted back to sleep.  Oh, my was that an unpleasant sensation.  But then I drifted.  I sank into a heavy-limbed slumber.  I had dreams.  Don't worry, not going to bore you with those this time.  People, I slept in until 8:00 a.m.  I repeat 8:00 a.m.!

And that is what I live for.  That is what propels me through my week.  I live to read for pleasure for forty minutes at night, and to be able to sleep in and dream on the weekend.  I scour a house, make doctor appointments, dodge blows and flying food and a bit of drool, wipe up poop, and basically just go, go, go, all week long with visions of my mattress on the floor, with my seven pillows and egyptian cotton sheets and comforter waiting for me.  Yes, visions of my children, my husband, and our pets play a role, too.  They are my motivators.  But when people say, "you need to take time for yourself, pamper yourself"  then it is my bed that I visualize and long for.

So, it's that time again.  Sunday night.  Five-thirty will arrive too soon.  Five days to go...
 

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 38

    “Lauren?”

    I scrunched down in the covers and sighed.

    “Lauren?  Hey, Lauren, wake up, sweetheart.  I’m back.”

    I sighed again, but this time a sigh of disgust.  I rolled flat onto my back and stared at the bottom of the upper bunk.  With Lauren never home, I saw no reason to climb up into the upper bunk.  I became aware that there was a large man sitting on a chair next to the bed.  Calling me Lauren.

    “I’m not Lauren,” I said.  “She’s not here right now.”

    “But where is she?”

    “She’s up in Anchorage with her fiancée and her ex-boyfriend.”

    “Fiancee?   No, she doesn’t have a fiancée.”

    “Look, pal, I don’t know who you are, but I’m not Lauren, she’s not here, it’s the middle of the night, and this isn’t cool.”

    “But she said she loved me.”  And then this large, very large, balding man began to sob next to the bed that I had been trying to sleep in.  This was the craziness of Pelican.

    I waited, still staring at the upper bunk, striving for patience and sympathy.  Sympathy was in short supply and my patience would soon run out.  I could tell that I wouldn’t be able to see this one through.

    “Who are you?” I asked.

    “Ted.”

    “Ted who?”

    “Ted on the Charger.  I’m a crabber.  I bring more crab into this plant than any other fisherman.”

    “Well, Ted on the Charger, Lauren isn’t here and isn’t going to be here any time tonight.  You need to go.”

    “You’re mean.  Why are you being such a mean bitch?”

    I didn’t answer him, but just stared at him.  If he wasn’t over six feet and over three-hundred pounds, I might have taken a swing at him, but I stared daggers at him instead.

    “My marriage is over!  I told my wife about Lauren and she kicked me out.  And now you’re telling me that Lauren is engaged?”

    I got out of bed and got dressed, not caring at all that Ted on the Charger was in the room.  He was boo-hooing too hard to be any kind of a rapist.  I just wanted out.  I got some boots on, a cool knit hat and gloves to go with my leggings and huge sweatshirt.  Definitely not concerned with my sex appeal right now.

    “Where are you going?” the cry baby demanded.

    “I don’t know,” I replied, “anywhere but here.”

    “Why?”

    “Look, I don’t know you.  I don’t care.  All I wanted to do was sleep.  You interrupted my sleep and I don’t even know you.  Don’t you get that?”

    “Not really,” he replied.

    I just let out a big gust of air to punctuate my disgust and I headed out the door.

 

 

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

 

    The night was as lovely as that afternoon in the skiff had been, but now the moon was out and the mountains were reflected in the water.  Everything still had that quiet, mysterious aura.  Bar noise was a distant hum, but I had no interest in returning there.

    It was a little hazy in my mind, but after leaving the Flats, Joy and I had made our way to the bar.  I’m not sure if we actually drank anything.  Sam eventually found us, bawled us out for a few minutes and then he and Joy started devouring each other’s faces again.

    Big D. had given me a disapproving look for being drunk in the bar again, I guess, and then he’d placed a cheeseburger and fries down in front of me and sternly said, “ Eat it.”

    I had, but then nothing sounded so good as going home and crawling into bed.  So I did.

    Then Ted from the Charger had to come around and ruin it for me.  What was up with Lauren and these men?  Not to sound like a prude, but that woman was like a walking cyclone leaving destruction in her wake.

    I had no idea where I was going or what I was going to do.  I just wanted to sleep, but of course, the more I walked, the more awake I felt.  I was walking toward the bunkhouse, but not sure if there was a door I would feel ok knocking on.  I didn’t want to turn into Lauren Jr.

    Maybe I’d just keep going until I got to the pay phones by the store.  I could call Kitten or maybe Rebecca.

    I decided to call Rebecca because there was no way I wanted to end up talking to my parents at this hour, whatever this hour was.  It was dark, so it was sometime between 11:00 p.m. and 3:00 a.m.

    I settled myself into the phone booth and dialed Rebecca’s number.  I hadn’t talked to my old roommate since I’d reached Pelican so this would be fun.  Except that her phone rang and rang and there was no answer.  Weird.  Was she over at one of the study lounges pulling an all-nighter?  She usually studied in the room.

    I sat there for a moment, leaned my head against the wall of the phone booth and just rested.  But no, I couldn’t stay here.  I pulled myself up and opened the door, stepping out into that lovely still night.

    I hoped it was safe to go back to the cabin.  Hopefully Ted from the Charger had returned to the Charger where he belonged and hadn’t passed out in the cabin.  Though if he had, I could just sneak up into my own bunk and he wouldn’t even know.  God, he looked like a snorer, though, like a big, fat walrus of a man who’d snore obnoxiously.  But there was no help for it.  I turned to head back up the boardwalk.

    “Hey,” a disembodied voice said softly.

    My head whipped around like an owl, trying to locate the source of the voice.

    A soft, warm chuckle drifted over me.  “Up here.”

    I looked up.  Above the phone booth, above the store, were some windows.  They were dark, but I could see a man’s head leaning out one of them.

    “Petra, what’re you doing?”
    “Who is that?” I called in a whisper.

    “Malcolm.”  I wracked my brain trying to remember who Malcolm was and then it hit me.  The Second Floor foreman that almost no one ever saw.  I’d thought he’d left or something.

    “Malcolm?  What are you doing up there?”

    “I live up here.”

    “Really?”

    “Yup.  So what are you doing?”

    “Some big fat guy looking for Lauren is in the cabin bawling and I couldn’t take it.  I just wanted to sleep, so I decided to take a walk and try making a phone call.  No luck with that, though.  I’m hoping that I’ll be luckier and find that Lauren’s suitor is gone.”

    “Hey, want to come up and watch a movie with me?  You can sleep on my couch if you want.  Actually, I have an extra bed, too.  This is a two-bedroom apartment.”

    “Really?”

    “Yeah, really.  Come on up.”

    “How do I get up there?”

    “There’s a door right before the door to the office.  Come in that and then up the stairs.  Veer right and I’ll have my door open.”

    “Are you sure?”

    He laughed that warm, lazy laugh of his.  He was kind of cute with dark, curly hair, permanent five o’clock shadow and heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes as I recalled.  I guess I recalled him quite well, and favorably.

    I gave him my best mischievous smile and said, “Thanks.  I’ll be right up.”

 

A Few Words Written on Thanksgiving Eve

Slow down.  Watch the sky.  Observe the trees, the wind, the birds that stop by.  Stop and feel the love well up in you when you look at your kids, your spouse, your dog.  Feel it.  Then say it.  Tell them how much they mean to you.  It's ok to use simple words.  Be thankful for what you have and no regrets for what you don't presently have. Be patient, with your family and with life in general.  Stay in touch with your sense of humor. Have faith in something, anything.  Believe that life is good, even when it currently isn't.  Be thankful and love.

Dad vs. Autistic Child, Day 2: A Draw? Our Double Losers?

 

This picture of Louise is just too stupid to resist.  She jumped up behind me while I was trying to take pictures and made a liar of me when I said that no one will consent to having their picture taken anymore.  Once again, nothing to do with today's post.

Everything was rainbows and unicorns when I left for work this morning.  Mick was watching the Today Show and drinking coffee, Miranda was in the car waiting for me to take her to school, and my 200+ pound, naked red-head was in our bedroom dancing to the jazz music of Louis Prima.  Nothing better than that.  Everyone where they belonged, no one complaining.

So when I walked in the door at 4:30 this afternoon, and Mick's first words to me were, "Well, I have a story you can use for your blog..."  my central nervous system tensed, my stomach dropped, and I waited for the assault.  We never assume that our lives will go smoothly and certainly not predictably.  However, every day we hope that life will proceed in a nice, hum-drum, UNEVENTFUL fashion.

As mentioned yesterday, Mick made quite the haul when he raided the piggy banks, so today, he took Sam to Dallas City Park and on the way, she asked for, "Subway Eat Fresh".  Ok, some things are predictable.  So they had a picnic in the park and walked around and Sam tried to head down to the creek, but it is high and the current is running strong.  Naturally, Mick said no.

Then about 1:30 in the afternoon, Sam put on a summer dress and little mary janes and took off.  Mick followed and tried to get her to turn around and come back.  She did not comply.  So they walked.  And they walked.  Then they walked some more.

They walked all the way back to Dallas City Park which is about two miles away by the route they took.  In a summer dress.  And mary janes (from Payless Shoes, no less, aka Cheap Shoes That Hurt Your Feet).  In November.  OK, so the weather was quite nice today, but still...it's November.

It's November and Sam decided that she would indeed go swimming.  As I've said before, trying to stop Sam when she is determined to do something is like trying to stop a force of nature.  Think Hurricanes Ike, Ivan, Andrew, Katrina.  Try and stop her, just you try.  Good luck with that.  And while the weather was nice, it IS November and the water is November-water:  dark, dank, frigid, and wicked swift.

She either sensed the strength of the current, the unfamiliar depths of her favorite swim hole, or  the fear and panic in Mick's very loud, very stern DAD VOICE, and these elements prevented her from going in past her waist.

And with that out of her system, they started home.

Sam:  Dad, the truck.

Mick:  We don't have the truck.  We have to walk.

Sam:  Dad, the truck.

Mick:  No, we don't have the truck.  We have to walk all the way home.

Sam:  [ gives Mick THE LOOK--you know THE LOOK.  It's that you-have-to-be-kidding look, followed by resignation].

Then Sam's feet became the issue.  Her little mary janes were wet.  She hadn't worn socks.  Her feet were beginning to blister.  It was a long way home.

So Mick did what a good dad should and gave his young daughter, who has very large feet, his much larger shoes.  And the Good Dad walked home, all the way home, in his bare feet.

Which hurt very much.  And so did Sam's.  And when I got home and got up close to her, where she was typing away on the laptop and looking up stuff on You Tube while stark naked, which is her norm, I noticed that she smelled like swamp thing.  And in fact, had grime and sludge stuck all over her body.  Her dad was sitting next to her.  Letting the air circulate around his tender, blistered, wounded feet.

They both looked rather pleased with themselves. Why, I have no idea.  But  as Cesar Milan is fond of saying, "Exercise, Discipline, THEN affection".

Who knows what tomorrow will bring? 

Update: Father Left With Autistic Kid for Thanksgiving Break

This picture has absolutely nothing to do with today's post.  However, can you see why I run from this tongue?  Zeus explores the world, not to mention the cat box, with that tongue and he thinks there is no better way to say, "hi, how are you" than by dragging that monstrosity against any exposed flesh he can find.  This time of year, that may be your face.  A side note:  see all that white on Mick's leg?  Courtesy of Louise, who sheds more than any other dog I know.

Imagine my surprise when I came home this evening to find that everyone in my household was still alive, in one piece, and not yet certifiably insane.  And to think I was plagued with guilt ALL DAY for having a good day at work while imagining Mick's intense suffering.

Yes, as mentioned before, Sam is home for the week.  Conferences, followed by the Thanksgiving weekend, have caused Mick and Sam to be home alone together.  Miranda, now in high school, does not get conference days and the world remains bitterly unfair.  Miranda needs to see this in a positive light.  Perhaps she will after she is home with her dad and sister while I continue to have good days at work (or so I fervently pray) on Thanksgiving and the day after.

After Sam's determined running off this weekend, I was filled with trepidation for what this week might bring.  Granted, only one day down and four to go, but today was much better than expected.  This tells you something about the human, or more precisely, the male psyche.  The weekend was, UNARGUABLY, hellish.  So today, when Sam ONLY RAN OFF TWICE...AND...CAME BACK WHEN CALLED, well, that can only be considered a huge improvement.  But if the weekend hadn't been hellish, Mick would have been livid in the extreme.  Everything is relative.  I repeat, everything is relative.

But Mick did something else smart and resourceful:  He raided two of the piggy banks.  Make that one big piggy bank and a cup full of change.  Those sources, though, contained mostly quarters.  The only thing better than a piggy bank full of quarters is a piggy bank full of dimes, but we'll take what we can get (or pilfer in this case).  Outraged readers: calm yourselves.  These are not our children's banks.  They are ours.  Mick made a haul of $100.  Sam got a trip to Safeway for lunch meat, cupcakes, and I didn't inquire what else.  But this folks, is what piggy banks are for:  the rainy days, the lean times, the emergency fun fund.  Better yet, Mick didn't see the other bank that was sitting right there before his eyes, camouflaged with clutter.  But we have seed money.

Hopefully tomorrow is as good as today, if not better.  The day I picture possible trouble is Thanksgiving day itself.  I, as mentioned, will be working my usual shift, but making that lovely time and a half.  Miranda will be home and wanting to watch countless episodes of Bones, her new favorite show.  Sam will be wanting to take off and spend money in Acapulco or something, and Mick is going to be trying to watch the civil war game between Oregon and Oregon State to see who gets to go to the Rose Bowl.

So Mick is going to want more help watching Sam than what Miranda is going to want.  For their own reasons, no one is going to want to make Thanksgiving dinner, but SORRY, I JUST CAN'T DO IT AND I'D LIKE DINNER TO BE READY WHEN I GET HOME!

Oh, and Sam always wants to bring in the tree and decorate for Christmas during the Thanksgiving preparations.  Have fun, Mick.  Have fun, Miranda.

You just know all hell is going to break loose on Thanksgiving Day.  You just know it.

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When Autistic Kids Escape Supervision

We can only be mad at her for just so long.  Not very long at that.  Samantha has us all feeling zombie-like, if zombies go around biting their nails and hyperventillating.  This is where Sam belongs, hogging our bed for her own purposes, not wandering the streets.
 

Another exhausting weekend come and gone.  And LIFE IN HELL continues at the Shockey residence as Thanksgiving approaches and Mick has a whole week of Sam at home to look forward to.  Has anyone seen my sense of humor?  I seem to have misplaced it.

Sam has continued to express her displeasure at the total lack of outings, lack of money-spending entertainment that she is so partial to, in the only way she knows.  She continues to bolt on us.  So many times this weekend that we lost count.  I know that wasn't a complete sentence.  That child has damaged me so that I no longer talk, think, or write in complete sentence.  I tend to drool a little, too.  I have a vacant stare.

The first time she bolted was Saturday morning.  Mick quickly got dressed and took off after her.  About 45 minutes later I got a call from Subway to come pick them up and pay for her sandwich.  The sandwich wasn't really Sam's fault, but she gladly accepted it.  The problem was Mick's morning coffee hitting him so far from home.

Unfortunately, Sam's satisfaction didn't last.  Being autistic, she doesn't understand the concept of money.  She may by the time pay day arrives on the 1st.  She has a great memory and can repeat verbatim what she hears.  Pretty soon I expect her to walk around chirping, "Sorry, no money.  Sorry, no money, no restaurant...No money...no money...no money..."   This is at odds with the principle behind the Secret, but frankly, we're at wit's end around here.  So we're trying to drill the concept into her head. 

Sunday morning started late for us.  We were allowed to sleep until nearly 7:00 a.m.  So I should probably quit my whining.  Except that I'm starting to get good at that and we didn't even get to sit down until 8:20, and that was just for a brief moment.

Because...7:10 a.m. what we hear is, "Front Door!"  Which is the alarm system letting us know that SOMEONE opened the front door.  Guess who?  This is why I was driving around town in my pajamas and bathrobe first thing in the morning.  And second thing, too.

Sam took off, Mick followed, and I decided I'd better get out of bed and find them.  Driving in pajamas, peering up and down the side streets as I slowly cruised. It was too early even for the church-goers so I had the streets to myself.  Found them easily the first time. 

Got home, relaxed our guard for two seconds (YOU MUST NOT RELAX!), and she was gone again.  No kidding.  I wasn't dressed yet, but off I went again, cruising in my pajamas, and this time not finding them.  I circled the neighborhoods twice, saw a double rainbow, decided against taking a picture in the driving rain, and slowly cruised home, still watchful, still not seeing them.

Sam was naked on the couch using Mick's laptop.  Mick was making some breakfast.  Miranda was up.  It felt like it should be dinner time, but it wasn't even 9:00 a.m. yet.  I thought I'd better get dressed. Someone was bound to call the police about a suspicious person cruising slowly through their neighborhood over and over again, and I didn't want to have to talk to the police and explain myself while dressed in purple pajamas and a big, white fuzzy bathrobe.

How many more times did she leave?  Two?  Three?  I'm not sure, but the last time, Mick was livid because we only found out she was gone because a friend of Miranda's called from the middle school where she had a game of some sort.  She happened to recognize Sam, who was walking, and gave us a call. Thank God for cell phones and all the teenagers who have them.

This Escape Act is a temporary thing, I'm sure. I have to believe that or I really will lose my mind.  Autistic people generally don't accept change easily and concepts like needing money to do things are difficult for them to grasp.  Sam has had to put up with a lot of change lately, changes at school, Miranda moving on to high school, and her mom going out into the work force.  She'd always had me at home, and when the girls were younger they had both me and Mick RIGHT THERE all the time.  Soon she'll have to deal with both parents working outside the home.  Sam doesn't care that this is the reality for most families.  She probably won't even care that much if she gets to go to restaurants once in awhile again.  Because that is what is truly important to her.

We have kicked ourselves, mentally at least, for having indulged Sam to the extent that we have.  The benefit to that is, Sam does really well in public situations, like eating in restaurants and going to stores, the zoo, etc. She can navigate social situations better than a lot of autistic people. The down-side is that she just wants to go, go, go.  Sam would be happy being a world-traveler, globe hopping.  She'd like to visit amusement parks around the world.  And restaurants, of course.

And now our minds are gone, gone, gone.  Send kind thoughts to Mick as he endures a week of Sam at   home.  I know I will.  May this phase, please draw to a close SOON. 

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 37

Warning:  drunk characters ahead.

 

    We passed a group of guys at the top of the harbor.  They were drinking beer and sitting on the bench in front of the Wet Goods.  Co-workers, but not ones I talked to very much.  It wouldn’t matter, though, because since I’d moved out of the bunkhouse, I’d felt sort of a disconnect from the rest of my co-workers, a sense of no longer belonging.  A large percentage of the guys only hung out with each other and wouldn’t dream of socializing with anyone local or even anyone who wasn’t a slimer.  After spending twelve hours standing across from someone, cleaning fish and making small talk, whether easy or labored, I was ready for new faces.  Of course, being a woman in Alaska made socializing much easier.

    Sam and Joy walked with their arms around each other’s waists.  I followed behind with my water jug and the essential toilet paper.

    “What are you doing back there?  Get up here!”  Sam hollered back at me.  Joy waved me forward with her free arm.  I started to slide in next to Joy, but Sam grabbed me and whipped me around to his other side, arm glued around my waist.  Three dorks.

    “That’s better,” Sam said, “don’t be anti-social.”

    “I wasn’t being anti-social,” I protested, “I was being considerate and giving you some space.”

    “We’re not in bed,” Joy said, “we don’t need space.  Don’t be such a dork.”

    “Ok,” I said as we  awkwardly struggled down the ramp, still three abreast, “but I think it’s too late for any of us to worry about dorkdom.”

    Finally, at the bottom of the ramp, I let myself be pulled along.

    “Where’s the wine and beer?” I asked, since Sam seemed to have no free arms.

    “Hey, babe,” he said, “already thought about it, already loaded it.  Everything is under control.”

    I rolled my eyes and shook my head wordlessly.  Joy giggled.

    It was a beautiful day for Pelican.  This isn’t to be confused with a beautiful day anywhere else.  Those postcards of Alaska that show blue sky and the sun?  Rare, very rare.  Yes, they do happen, but so seldom that if you waited for one of those days to say it was a beautiful day, you’d only be saying that a couple times a year.

    No, it was beautiful, but in a much more subtle and mystical way.  It was high overcast, no wind at all, and a little mist was settling down slowly onto the water.  Ravens and seagulls watched us from the tops of the power lines, from the wheel house roofs, and some just stood on the dock.

    The skiff looked average-small to me, but what do I know?  I grew up in Montana.  Sam helped me in first  (does everyone assume that I’m a klutz as well as a dork?), and then he and Joy proceeded to step on me since he wanted me in the bow, Joy in the middle, while he drove from the back. 

    “Stern,” Sam told me sternly, “Not the back, the stern.”

    “It’s called the stern, even in a little piece of crap boat like this?” I asked.

    “Yes.”

    Joy and I smiled at each other knowingly and then we putted out of the harbor and Sam opened her up and we were off.

    Oh, so cold.  I huddled inside my coat, pulled a cool knit hat out of my pocket and pulled it over my ears.  I made myself into a tiny ball and tried to enjoy my surroundings as the wind made tears leak from my eyes.

    “Cold?” Sam shouted.

    “Yes!”  Joy and I screamed back in unison.

    “Too bad.  You gotta wait.”

    It was fascinating to see Pelican from this vantage point.  I realized that normally being in Pelican is like being stuck inside one of those snow globes.  You’re always in it.  Anywhere else you can get in your car and drive away or walk away.  Go far enough and you hit another town.  But not in Pelican.  The whole boardwalk is a half mile.  And then at each end, wilderness, mountains, water, but no roads, no connecting towns.  Isolation.  Suffocation.  God it felt good to be in that skiff and see Pelican getting smaller and smaller.

    Soon we couldn’t see it, but as we passed the small islands—three of them, First Island, Ing-land (named for the guy that lives on it) and Third Island—how original, I was surprised to see more houses.

    “What’s all this?” I asked, pointing.

    “Phonograph,” Sam replied, “Well, not really.  Not yet, but coming up is Phonograph.  People are just starting to call everything this direction Phonograph, though.”

    I decided against asking for an explanation.  Some of the houses were pretty nice, though.  I could maybe handle something like this.  It wouldn’t be as suffocating as being stuck in Pelican all the time.

    Then we were past all the houses and we kept on going.  A few minutes later, Sam cut the engine and then everything was still.

    “Babe.  Beer.”

    Joy and I both reached for the beer and I sheepishly subsided.  She grinned at me and shook her head in mock disappointment.

    “Hey, you two got to drink that wine, you know.”

    “Glasses?” Joy asked.

    I was shaking my head in refusal.

    “Paper cups, babe.  No glasses here.”

    “You know what I mean.”

    “Yeah, I do.”  More lovey-dovey smiles.  Was I still hung-over or were they causing my nausea?

    “Petra, you, too.”  Sam insisted.

    “Do you guys want to see me puke or something.”

    Sam shrugged.  “Whatever.  Won’t bother me.”

    “Not the point, Sam.  Would bother me.  I hate to puke.”

    “I just mean that it wouldn’t hurt anything with all this water out here.”

    I shook my head again.  Joy tried to hand me a very large paper cup of white wine.  I shook my head again.  Joy looked disgusted at me.

    Then she leaned over and obviously and slowly French-kissed Sam.

    “Hand me that damn glass if you two are going to be doing that.”

    I took a deep breath, started sipping and looked away from the two of them.  Definitely the third wheel, but I didn’t want to be included.

    It was so beautiful and mysterious looking.  Dead calm.  Still.  The water had a green cast to it.  Occasionally a fish would flip itself out of the water.  I watched eagles circling overhead, perusing the depths before launching themselves down at the water and snagging a fish.  I watched the tree tops and saw even more eagles.  I counted…twenty…thirty…something like that.

    I finished my paper cup of wine—thankfully, my two buddies had remembered ice—and I looked back at them to see if it was safe to get another.  They appeared to have paused in their groping to admire the scenery, too.

    Refilled, we just drifted, talking lazily about this and that, and watching the wild life.

    Second cup of wine gone, I handed it over for a refill and Sam obliged.

    “You two are dangerous,” I mentioned in passing.  “All my good intentions for naught.”

    “I can’t believe those guys want to sleep with you seeing how you talk,” Joy said.

    “You don’t see how a person talks,” I corrected.

    “Aa, they’d just plug their ears,” was Sam’s contribution.  “They don’t care about her vocabulary.”

    “And that’s why I won’t sleep with any of them,” I said mischievously.  “They must care about my vocabulary if they want to get anywhere with me.”

    “I’ll be sure to tell them that,” Sam threatened.

    “Don’t you dare or I won’t babysit you.”
    “Oh, yes you will,” Joy threatened me.

    I smiled at them both and realized that once again I was feeling pretty drunk.  Safe, though, but drunk.

    “Crap.  I didn’t want to drink today.”

    “Boo hoo, “said one or the other.

    I shared a finger and spared them my vocabulary.

    At that moment I heard a strange noise and propped myself back up, looking around.  Then I heard it again.  It was kind of like a woof, but not a dog woof.

    “What?” I asked softly.

    “Cool,” Sam said and pointed.  “Look.”

    Something grey and shiny was on the top of the water.  And then it wasn’t.  A moment later, a spout of water blew, then another, and another, and then three grey slabs of something were on the water and moving toward and alongside us.

    “Is that?” I started to ask.

    “Uh-huh.” Sam replied.

    We waited and just watched as three humpback whales traveled alongside us.  They were right at the surface of the water, instead of diving deep.

    “They must be done feeding,” Sam said softly, “there’s been herring up here for a few days.  They must have followed the feed in.”

    They came almost within touching distance.  I made eye-contact with one of them.  It wasn’t scary, but it was awe-inspiring.  That intelligent eye looked back at me and I wondered what it saw, how it perceived us.  So beautiful.

    Then they passed us.  I sighed, deeply moved by the encounter.

    “Wow!  Let’s go!”  Sam started the engine and the next thing I knew, we were flying along on the water and moving alongside our humpback friends again.  They tolerated us for several  exhilarating minutes, and then they let us know that we were in their element.  They just disappeared, leaving us in their metaphorical dust.

    Sam cut the engine again.  “That was SO cool!”  And we all had a refill.  And then another.  We talked in circles over and over about the encounter.  It was its own kind of high.  I realized that we all three were pretty drunk.

    “I got to pee,” Joy announced.

    “So go, babe,” Sam said.

    “Here.  Just go in the bottom of the skiff.”

    “Don’t you even think of it,” I warned her.

    “But I really got to go,” Joy whined.

    “Hold it,” I threatened.

    “Petra,” Sam tried to reason with me, “as soon as I start the skiff up again, it’s all going to get sucked out the back.”

    “I’ve got to pee, too,” I said.

    “So pee!”  Sam sounded exasperated.

    “I can’t pee in this boat.”

    “Why not?”

    “I can’t pee in front of anyone.”

    Joy, for reasons known only to herself, thought this was hysterically funny and laughed until she nearly peed her pants.

    Gasping, she demanded, “Take us somewhere so Petra can pee.”

    “You two are stupid.”

    We giggled.

    Sam looked disgusted.  “Fine, but I have to pee now, so just wait.”

    And with that he turned his back to us and peed off the side of the skiff, both of us watching.

    “Yeah,” I said, “easy for him to be disgusted.  He doesn’t have to bare his butt and squat.  Peeing outside is so undignified for a woman, you know.”

    “Yeah,” Joy backed me up.  Sam just shook his head in disgust and started the engine.

    “We’re almost back to town,” he announced.  “Can you wait that long?”

    “No,” we said in unison.

    Again, he shook his head in disgust and beached the skiff on the Flats.

    “Have at it,” he said.

    “Where?” we asked, bewildered and a little outraged that he took us to such an open spot.

    “There!” he pointed.  “Go behind that big drift wood snag.”

    Joy and I stumbled out of the skiff.  Our feet got wet.  We laughed.  We held each other up.  We got our bearings and started to stumble toward the snag while holding each other and giggling helplessly.

    “Wait!”  Joy shouted.  “I forgot the toilet paper.  Bring me the toilet paper, sweetheart!”

    “Are you going to poop?”

    “For God’s sake, don’t shout ‘poop’.  No we’re not going to poop!” I shouted.  I turned to Joy and said, “hey, you’re not going to poop, are you?”

    She continued to laugh and managed to gasp, “No, but I think I’m going to pee my pants.”

    I started laughing harder, putting myself in similar danger.  We stumbled over to the snag, dropped our pants, hoped no one happened to be watching from a window with binoculars.  We accomplished our mission.  Amazing.

    “Hey!” Sam yelled, “I’m going to the harbor and tying up the skiff.  Meet you at home.”

    “Sure, babe,” Joy shouted.

    “Sure, babe,” I echoed.

    Joy and I staggered arm and arm across the Flats and to the bridge.  “Hey,” Joy said, “let’s stop at the bar.”

    “Great idea, “ I agreed and we were on our way.

Eloping and the Autistic Child

Yeah, yeah, used it before.  Deal with it.  I already told you no one wants to pose anymore, so we may all have to deal with repeats.  Love this picture, though. That expression is so Sam.

Somewhere it is written that this was going to be a week from hell for me.  Sure wish I would have got that memo before hand.  It's like reading your horoscope the day after and saying, "Oh my God!  It was a rotten day!"

I made the mistake earlier today of thinking, "Ah, not a perfect day, but oh so much better than yesterday."  Well, Sam took care of that.

Eloping, you say?  Eloping?  What, did she grab a bus ticket to Virginia and is marrying some 40 year-old pedophile that she met on the internet?  Well, I hate to say NO and then have her make a liar of me, so I'd better go check and see if she is where I think she is.

A sigh of relief.  She is in the house.  She is in bed.  Once again going to sleep to the movie Mama Mia and in case you don't know it, THAT'S NOT A MOVIE TO SLEEP BY.  Believe me, she did the same thing last night and I'm feeling sleep deprived.

So back to the elopement.  I'm probably the only ignorant one who had to have the term explained to me, since what I thought it meant didn't make any sense at the time.  Yes, you all are probably thinking,"Hey dummy, I already knew that."  Sorry, indulge me, I'm sleep deprived.

Sam ran off on me tonight.  In the dark.  Quietly, very quietly.  We were all here when she did it and none of us realized it.  This wasn't a case of everyone being off in their own corners and not paying attention.  This was a case of us all being in the living room and kitchen and not paying attention.  I was making dinner, Miranda was watching yet another episode of Bones, and Mick was getting frustrated searching for a coat that was RIGHT THERE while preparing to leave for a Trailblazers game.  And Sam was there, too.

And then she wasn't.

Mick had just left and two minutes later, Sam's dinner was ready.  I put it on the table and went to get her and...she wasn't anywhere.

We've had this happen before, both imagined and real.  We've had times when we searched frantically only to find her, let's see:  1) under the hot tub lid, 2),under a pile of blankets in her room, 3) hiding in someone else's bed, 4) in a closet eating candy, 5)in the shop in the dark tiny room sitting on her porta-potty and using it.  Oh, and 6) standing behind the shrubs in the dark NOT ANSWERING US!

And then there have been a handful of times when she hasn't been anywhere that is HERE.  Horrible.  Let me tell you, it is just horrible.

Every horrible news story flashes through my mind and I just have to chase those images away and DEAL.  But the truth is, disabled people are very vulnerable to being victimized.  While Sam isn't non-verbal, she isn't exactly a conversationalist either.  Someone could hurt her and she wouldn't be able to describe what was done to her or what the person looked like, sounded like, where they took her, or even where she hurts.  Completely vulnerable, which is why we try to watch her 24/7.

When I got home from work tonight, Sam was wearing a nice shirt, bike shorts, and black mary janes.  Why I share that, I don't know, except that it is so Sam.  I knew she wanted to go somewhere or else she'd have been near-naked.  Or completely.  "Safeway store car fast," she said to me.  "No, not tonight, sweetheart," I replied.  Earlier at school, she'd requested Safeway and also Red Robin.

So I knew.  She hasn't been happy with our decreased income resulting in decreased restaurant visits.  We feel bad about that, but unfortunately, no matter how we try to explain it to her, these are concepts she can't grasp.  They are meaningless to her.

So like I said, I JUST KNEW.  We did a quick sweep of the house and property.  Miranda ran down our street while I went out back.  She wasn't in any of the usual places.  It is dark.  It's cold.  And it is so windy tonight.

I called 911.

I've had to do it before, but for some reason, sleep deprivation I guess, I felt like I was going to lose it.  Tears threatened to spill and my throat was constricting.  I wanted to go look for her, but the dispatcher told me to stay home.

I thought she'd only been gone about 10 minutes, but I must have miscalculated the time.

I got a call back from 911 about 10 minutes later.  They had her and were bringing her home.

Sam had walked clear down to the Hong Kong restaurant.  That's at least a couple miles from our house.  I'm sorry to tell the Hong Kong restaurant that they weren't her destination.  She was heading for the competition--Chen's Family Restaurant.  They are about another mile from where she was picked up and she LOVES their chicken lo mein.  Had she made it there, they would have recognized her, but wouldn't have known how to contact us.

The police officer said she was reluctant to get in the squad car.  I'm glad that she was at least reluctant, but the sorry fact is, she got into a car with someone she doesn't know.  We were just lucky that it was the police.

The police officer was great.  Absolutely no guilt trip which probably would have killed me tonight.  He said we did it exactly right by calling right away.  Too many people wait too long he said, and keep searching on their own.  Always call right away.  A quick look around your house and yard, and then if the person isn't there, call 911 immediately.

Big sigh of relief.  Tears threatening a little again.  Time to go to bed.  Try to sleep through all those ABBA dance songs from Mama Mia ( I love that music, just can't sleep to it).  And when Mick comes home and wants to tell me all about the game, I'll reply with, "Well guess what happened right after you left tonight?"

A Day of Irritations and Burn-Out

You know that this photo just doesn't do that moon justice.

A quick post full of petty complaints.

First and foremost, the keys on this keyboard are sticking and refusing to type. This has me more irritated than anything else I've encountered today. This development may be the only thing that will cause me to choose my words carefully and be succinct.

Was I irritated because my supervisor, who is a petite blonde, dressed up as Gene Simmons, complete with seven-inch, double platform shoes and went to a KISS concert? No. Absolutely not. But I'll blame her anyway because if she'd been there we could have spent the day exchanging insults and amusing ourselves with our rapier wit. So it's her fault and I must remember to tell her this is the morning.

Some irritants can not be discussed. Sorry. Not really. Those are the juicy bits, too, you know.

I am somewhat fed up with my Amazon store right now. I spent HOURS on the weekend building my store, filling it with really cool stuff, only to find that it isn't showing up on Chicken and Sponge. I don't have time to waste. I'm not sure if I even have time to figure this out. But I will try.

My difficult guy at work had a difficult day. For some reason, that meant I had a difficult day. That isn't my usual. Believe it or not, my usual is to keep my sense of humor and my patience. But not today. Today I was quietly and grimly determined to just survive the day. This, as mentioned before, is Tammi's fault. Yes, that is the guilty party's name. Tammi. Get used to seeing it. Get used to hearing about it. Move over Mick, I've got a new whipping post now.

Tammi was supposed to show me how to do a text message today. She is an expert. She didn't of course, because she was too busy dressing up as an aging rocker and going to a concert and having fun. Fun, that thing I didn't have today. I wish she would have shown me how to do a text message because I would be texting her right now. I'd be telling her that I had a surprisingly lousy day. I'd tell her it is all her fault. I'd tell her that she's the new whipping post--Mick has been retired. Now I will just have to tell her in person.

Irritants.

Miranda listens to her programs too loud.

Sam is still a clothes shredder.

Miranda doesn't put her huge pink comforter away (which she stole from her sister, incidentally) and she leaves it in the recliner as to make it so uninviting that no one else feels like sitting there.

Sam is watching Mama Mia to go to sleep to.  That is not a musical to sleep to. That is a musical to stay up all night dancing to.

Miranda leaves her dirty clothes behind the bathroom door.

Mick forgets to do laundry.

Mick doesn't like to fold laundry.

The bathrooms need to be cleaned.

I clean at work all the time.

The dog bedding stinks.

Zeus has a big gross tongue and bad breath.

The cats won't hold still for any good photos. They still puke, too.

No one is cooperating for photos.

The hot tub is still broken.

It is ALL Tammi's fault.

I feel better now. Or I would except that the keys are still sticking. Double letters in words are the worst. Do you know how many words we use that contain double letters?

So I'm done. That's it. Lame or not, that is all I can handle tonight. Tomorrow Mick will work on this problem and get it fixed for me. God knows Tammi won't.

Exhibit A: Hedwig, of course, moved just as I was getting ready to take a great photo, resulting in mediocrity.

OK. That face puts me in a better mood. Louise, laying in the recliner on Miranda's obnoxious comforter, which would really annoy Miranda.