Chicken and Sponge

When Autistic Kids Elope and Other Living Nightmares

Recovering from the Adventures of Zeus and Louise. 

Mick has been too exhausted to post.  Ditto for moi.  We're still recovering from LAST Sunday morning.  Make that 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  Cruel, cruel child.

It is a very bad sign, but a very effective forewarning, when Sam gets up and closes our bedroom door in the morning.  Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.?  And Sunday?  Have I mentioned how much I cherish my weekends?  The need to catch up on sleep?  I get up at 5:15 a.m. Monday through Friday.  I really did, all this past week, and you know what else?  I EXERCISED!  So why is it that when Sam closed our bedroom door so early in the morning and we both knew it was a terrible sign, why was I the one to immediately jump out of bed to DEAL?  Because I didn't want to get into that same old argument about who is more tired, me or Mick, and then have him say with complete disdain that I could get more sleep, but I choose to read.  Because if I hear that one more time, something in my psyche will snap and then I'm either going to punch him or start to ruminate on truly horrible things I could do to him.  So, in order to save my marriage, I jumped out of bed to follow Sam and see what she was up to.

Bad sign number two:  Sam was wearing shoes.  She had her pajamas on, but she had shoes on, too.  And then she grabbed the car keys and things got interesting.

While life turned into a rated NC-17 real life drama ( not really, very little swearing and only mild violence and that was all perpetrated against me), I kept imagining Mick in bed, pretending to sleep.  Pretending, because Sam gave me the literal run-around and I was in and out our front door several times, each time heralded by the security recording that announces, "Front Door!"  In and out, in and out, with that voice sounding throughout the house each time.  Then I made a critical error and Sam gained entrance to our car.  With keys in hand and she was attempting to put them in the ignition.  I feel no confidence whatsoever, that this process would be beyond her.  In fact, I'm pretty certain that Sam is a smart enough cookie, and an observant one at that, and could quite easily start the car and probably get it to move.

I'm also pretty sure that she is unaware of what P, R, and D mean and chances are she'd jam it into D and drive straight into our porch.  Or worse.  Much worse.  And all possible, horrible scenarios played out in my mind while I tried to wrestle the keys away from her and she yelled at me and pushed.

I took a short commercial break to run to the, "Front Door!"  and poke my head in and yell, "MICK, I REALLY NEED YOUR HELP NOW!" 

I'm pleased to announce that he did not go take a hot tub first, yell, "I'll be there in a minute", or even take the time to get dressed.  His sister will be relieved to know that he did take the time to grab his robe first or it really would have been an NC-17 live drama.

As Mick approached, Sam gave me a final shove that sent me reeling backward like a drunk thrown out of a saloon in the old West.  And Mick came in like Black Bart.  His expression was thunderous.  They got into it, Mick won (the first round), Sam was severely scolded and told that uh-uh no way would she be driving, and then we hid the keys.

And Sam ran out the front door and started running up the street to the main road.  Mick looked at me and said, "Just let her go.  I'll go get dressed and get her in the car."  And I said, "Uh-uh, no way" and grabbed my coat and followed her up the road.

At 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning.  In my pajamas...and slippers...in the rain.

For a fat child, that kid can cover some ground fast.  No way was I going to let her go and have Mick try to catch up.  Remember, you remember, don't you?  It was just a couple of weeks ago that we'd called 911 and spent three hours searching for her only to find Sam lying in some lady's bed eating old Halloween candy.  I could just see her walking in on a family getting ready for early church service.  Scaring some elderly person into a fatal heart attack.  So I followed.  And prayed that Mick hadn't taken a hot tub before dressing.  Or had a fashion crisis where he couldn't decide if he should wear the blue plaid or the red plaid that day. 

She sure could walk fast.  I realized that my slippers had big cracks in the soles.  Also, no matter how carefully you step, gravel will find a way inside one's slipper.  And then it gets caught in the long, fake fur.  I also realized that there are quite a few people driving around at 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning and what the hell are they all doing?  I knew what I was doing.  I was tracking.  I was trying to prevent an elderly couple's fatal heart attacks.  But what were all these other people doing driving around that early on a weekend morning in the rain?  Get a life.  Sleep in.  That's what I would have been doing, given the chance.

I saw Mick speed past me and pull into a driveway in front of Samantha, who entered the car without further incident.  Yes, he turned and picked me up, too.  And we went home.  Sam stripped.  Threw off her shoes and we breathed a sigh of relief.  No shoes is a good sign.  Not a guarantee of staying home, but a good sign none the less.

And then I went to the back door and realized that the dogs were not on our porch, where I'd expected them to be.  They hadn't jumped all over us in a crazed frenzy from our twenty minute absence as we'd entered the house either.  I poked my head out the back door.  Uh-oh.

The porch door was open.  The door that led to freedom.  I walked back to Mick and said, "The dogs have escaped."  "Are you sure?" he asked, and he followed me out to the porch.  Then he walked around the yard, the whole acre of yard, the almost treeless, flat, bare acre and he called their names. 

Then Mick stalked back to the house shaking his head, grabbed the car keys, and said, "Why do these things always happen to me?"

It was about 45 minutes later that Mick returned.  I'd had horrible visions of one or both dogs getting hit by one of those crazy 6:30 a.m. sunday morning drivers.  But no, the two lunatics came charging in the door, wet, smelly, muddy and so excited to be home after their exciting adventure.  Mick told me the tale of driving and looking, driving and looking, and thank God that Louise is larger and white because he saw he out in between two fields ambling along.  He called her name and she came running.  Zeus, afraid that he'd miss out, came running from further up the road and the two idiots made it home.  Tired, panting, tongues fully extended, they collapsed on the love seat and slept.

I realized that I hadn't heard any noise out of Sam and went to look, just to make sure that she hadn't escaped again during the current dog drama.

Alas, she was exhausted, too.  And she slept, in OUR BED, until 12:30 in the afternoon.  And Mick and I just sat, limp and vacant eyed, waiting for the next crisis to strike.

Conclusion of the Story or "What Has That Autistic Child Been Up To Now?"

My sister-in-law calls me this morning and says laughingly:  Your husband sucks!

me:  Yeah, but what this time?

Cheryl:  He didn't finish the story!  What was on the porch?

I pause and look at the receiver, roll my eyes and smile.

me:  Well, I'm not going to tell you.

Cheryl:  What?  Well, you suck too.

me:  I know, but I have the state of my marriage to think of.  You're just going to have to wait.  Mick set it up for reader suspense.

Cheryl:  Oh, you're kidding me!  You're not going to tell me?

me:  No way, you'll just have to wait and read.

Now, if I really sucked, I would go on to write about something completely unrelated.  And Cheryl, now I worry that you will feel disappointed, because no, there were no dead kidnappers or possums on the front porch.

I have been amazed at the amount of road kill around here.  Having grown up in Montana, in a wooded, mountainous, lightly populated region, one expects some road kill.  There is a lot of cover for game to hide in.  But the Willamette Valley is a different matter:  farming, vineyards, some sheep and horses, and suburbia.  There are lots of flat, open spaces.  There are trees, but rarely do I feel like I'm "in the woods".  However, the other day while driving at work, I noticed a dead deer alongside the road, and that was unusual.  If I'd been visiting my parents, that would be all too common, but not here.  However, the possums, skunks, and raccoons litter the highways with their little carcasses.  So Mick's fear is not uncalled for.  Also remember, my dogs have discovered that gopher heads, if they are fast enough to decapitate one, are quite the delicacy.

But we deal with more than just critters and varmints around here.  Critters and varmints are like a breath of fresh air (except for the time they skunked Louise and I swear that when it rains her head still gives off eau de skunk).  Because most of the time we are run ragged trying to keep up with "Sam Mischief".  Sam Mischief rules our world.  Like it or not, and frankly, not wins most of the time.

It is amazing what that child will do and now that she is older and KNOWS that she is older, she is all about being independent.  There is some sorrow in this because we know she will never be able to achieve the independence she longs for unless there is some sort of miraculous break-through in autism research.  In fact, her latest bull-headed mischief ( and yes, we do all know where she gets that from, hon), is thinking that she is going to drive our vehicles, by herself and whenever she wants.

Now she knows that Miranda is older and she knows that Miranda doesn't drive yet.  I dread next year when Miranda can take driver's ed and will get her learner's permit because Sam is REALLY going to think that she can drive then.  Three times now, we've had to wrestle the keys out of her hand and once even pull her from the vehicle.

Mick came home the other night and found his car keys on the front step.

But not on the night in question.  On that night he encountered something of a different nature.

Let me share some of what this child has put us through over the years.  Please note, this is a VERY abbreviated list of offenses.

The eggs have to head the list.  Because we had a restaurant at the time and would have five or ten or more dozen eggs at a time.  Sam wouldn't dream of eating an egg, but thought there was nothing better than breaking them onto the floor as fast as she could.  Break one egg on your floor and try to clean it up.  Not easy.  Now break about two dozen of them onto your floor.  This went on FOREVER!  And yes, I do mean FOREVER.  Oh, she eventually slowed down so much that we mistakenly thought she'd outgrown the obsession.  Then one day I found a broken egg on our CARPET!  Oh, foul, foul carpet.  And I found a broken egg the other day on our porch.  Why just one, I don't know.  But I was grateful that it was just one.

She also used to pour out every bathroom product she could find.  Mick likes Pert shampoo for some reason and there was just something about that that was irresistible to Sam and she would dump the entire bottle into her bath water.  Very annoying at any time, but especially when you live out in the bush of Alaska and can't run to the store and just buy more.  I stopped buying it for awhile.  It's not like Mick got to use it anyway.

I'll never forget the time when we were so dead tired that we didn't wake up until it was too late and toddler Sam had dumped a full pitcher of berry juice, and half-gallon of milk and sprinkled a couple of packages of jello on top of it onto the CARPET again, right next to Mick as he slept, at about 3:00 a.m.  I awoke to loud, ANGRY cursing.  But it was already too late.  That escapade resulted in us cutting out half of the living room carpet and living with rough plywood floors because there was no stomaching the sour milk, no matter how pretty the jello splotches were. 

So there were powder sugar parties in the kitchen where Sam opened up a new bag and tossed the contents around the entire kitchen.  That ultimately resulted in the purchase of a new vacuum because you must NEVER NEVER VACUUM SUGAR!  She did this on three separate occasions (only vacuumed it once, though) and she followed up with baking cocoa.

Our water glasses have had any number of objects in them.  We try to sip water or tea throughout the day, but it wasn't unusual to find a Barbie standing in our glasses.

Which beat having her pee in our glasses which was a recent bit of Sam mischief.

And not to gross you out...well, yes, just to gross you out, Sam went through a phase when she'd poop in the bed or on the floor and then cover it with a blanket and we'd have to SEARCH for the source of that stench, wondering where she'd hidden it now.

So, then we come to our poor hot tub.  As disreputable as that thing looks, in fact, it could guest star on My Name is Earl ( if only it hadn't been cancelled--something that I still can't believe), we are quite fond of it.  And there have been any number of unacceptable objects and substances floating in it.

The worst was pee.  When we first got it, Sam used it like a toilet.  And yes, she still floated around in it, though the rest of us only liked to after a water change.

She threw huge clumps of dirt and grass into the hot tub, MORE THAN ONCE, because she enjoyed the muddy mess.

I have sat in that hot tub and fished out popcorn kernels, after she'd dumped an entire bag into it, because I knew it would clog up the filters.  That was time consuming.

And then the markers.  Mick talks about the water being bright blue.  That was a few weeks ago.  The marker obsession continued and continued and that water was murky BLACK.  As in you-can't-see-the-bottom-black.

So the other morning, I had a meeting at work with the county that was three and a half hours long!  Then I went back to the group home and worked through the usual there which can be any amount of grossness and craziness on a given day ( or relatively mellow, just depending), and this was followed by the I.E.P. meeting.  That meeting had lasted an hour and a half.

Mick only got to attend a few minutes of the meeting.  It was either him or me and he'd gone to the last one.  I took off work early to be able to go and we'd asked our respite worker, a very nice and sweet young woman named Anusha ( she looks like Princess Jasmine and Sam loves her) if she could come over and hang out with the girls (namely Sam, but Miranda is social and both she and Anusha are ADDICTED to the Sookie Stackhouse novels).  So I got home at 5:20 and I had a SPLITTING HEADACHE.

The living room was empty.  Anusha's car was in the driveway, though.  I was perplexed and slowly started unloading my bag.  Then Anusha came running from the direction of my bedroom and was trying to contain her laughter and just a hint of nervousness.  "You've got to see this!"  She laughed.  "I swear, I'd been checking on Sam every few minutes!"  That is not a lame excuse.  Sam has managed many a time to start a building on fire or flood the house when someone was checking on her "every few minutes".  She's fast.  She's an opportunist.

I told Anusha that I was going to title this, "When Anusha Babysits":

What I failed to photograph was the ground, looking like a glacier ice flow of thick bubbles that stretched across our deck.

This tale ends in minor tragedy, due to a break-down in communication.  Miranda had told me that she'd turned off the hot tub because she was afraid the bubbles would mess it up.  The hot tub was out of commission for almost 9 months and we really want to take good care of it.  Both Mick and I misunderstood this communication and took it to mean that she'd shut off the power source at the breaker.  But we'd never shown her or talked to her about it.  Miranda had simply turned off the jets.  So when Mick drained the hot tub late that night, the power was still on.  And now we have a hot tub that only heats the water to 53 degrees.  So here we go again. 

 

Missed Opportunity

I was at work last night and decided to call home to ask how the IEP meeting went. After a few minor comments Vick started to chuckle. I thought to myself, what in the hell could be so funny at an IEP meeting? I never encountered such humor when I attended them by myself. Maybe they were talking about me. Don't be so damned paranoid Mick. After all, it is a meeting about Samantha's education plan. And we all know that when Sam's name comes up there can definitely be some laughter(or minor anger) associated with it. Luckily it was something funny.

As I pulled into the driveway after work something didn't look right. I know, how in the hell can you tell something is different in the dark you say. Well after living with Sam for 13 years one gets used to seeing things that don't belong, even in the dark of night. It wasn't as if the object was defined as it was more of a shadow image. But definitely not supposed to be there. And there it was, staring right at me on the front porch. At first glimpse I thought it might be a dead animal. Man was I hoping I was wrong. We don't need critters straying to our house just to perform their last gasps. I can just imagine Sam carrying in a dead possum. I'm sure it would freak them all out it when it suddenly came back to life. Such is their name.

During our conversation Vick mentioned that the hot tub needed to be drained. I was planning on draining it as soon as I got home. You see, Sam has learned all about watercolors. She learned this little trick at school that has ended up being great fun for her. Not for us, for her! She learned how to pull the tips out of washable markers and squeeze the ink out into water. Why the school would teach an autistic mischievious girl this act is beyond me. I think the companies that make these markers should be sued for false advertising. They may be washable, but they leave the worst stain imaginable. Walls,clothes,plastic cups. These are just a few things that stain when she has her fun. Back to the hot tub. I'm surprised we haven't turned into smurfs. Because that is the color our tub has been for over a week. At least my skin hasn't stained yet. One also has to check their water glass to make sure it is clear. At least ink is better than peeing in my glass. Although pee is probably more sterile than the ink. I still refuse to drink either one. Shit that's a gross thought!

The thing on the porch didn't move at all as I turned off the truck's engine. I thought maybe it would run when I opened my door. The door on the drivers side of the truck really makes a grinding squeal when you open and close it. This is due to the hinge being tweaked a little. Since the truck is not worth putting any money into, it will just have to remain that way forever. No such luck for movement. Nobody leaves the porch light on for me so I couldn't see what it was for sure. After making a quick hiss at it, I came to the immediate conclusion that whatever it was, it was dead. I decided then to enter the side sliding door to avoid any stench that might come with whatever this thing was.

After putting my keys and everything else in my pockets away, I sat on the couch for a quick breather. I thought to myself, get the hot tub draining then go out and deal with whatever it is lying on the porch. So out the back door I went. The hose was right where I left it. Nicely coiled on the deck. I unwound the hose stretching it out into the gravel in front of our shop. I grabbed the female end of the hose and started marching towards the hot tub. Holy shit! Whatever was on the front porch had babies and they were all over our deck around our tub. I didn't know what to think. I dropped the hose and headed into the house. "Vick honey wake up", I whispered. She gave me that stare of how dare you but I was desperately wanting to know what had happened. As she sat up in bed wiping her eyes, the laughter started to build.....

The watercolor culprit waiting for her noodles at Olive Garden. Known to Sam as " Salad Garden "

O.K. You Win

No wonder my mom can't say no to us. How cute are we anyway!

It isn't easy for me but I admit that the other computer is really sucky. After numerous hours of trying to get it to run like it should I give up. I hate doing that but I don't know enough about these damned things to fix them. Now I have to resolve to cussing to myself while I am typing. Why might you ask? I'm sure you read Vick's last post. Remember the key board? You don't know how much I hate this thing right now. I'm sure if I try I can come up with a few new cuss words to describe it. I know hon, you have all the keys memorized due to your endless hours of typing, let alone typing 101 in high school. Well if the Mariners or Blazers taught typing classes I would be right there with you. Damned keyboard! The only positive thing I can think of right now is that it will make me become a better typer and not by choice. Maybe that is her underlying deal. Frustrate me to no end and I will quit hogging her blog. I think I just figured it out! No that can't be possible. How else would we communicate if I quit writing love letters to her(LOL). Sorry hon, the letters will continue and yes, I will get better at this crap.

On the bright side, our wonderful bullheaded child( I wonder where she got that)Samantha has decided to stay home today. It's pretty sad when Sam staying at home is easier for me than typing on this keyboard. Maybe I just have more practice with Sam. Honestly, I think she is feeling the effects of that time of the month. Something that I am not familiar with but have been dealing with since my family consists of all females. The only reprieve being Zeus, our french bulldog. Maybe Zeus and I should move into the shop when those special days roll around each month. I better keep my mouth shut or we might actually get voted out there.

My new job. Probably the easiest job I have ever had. Keep the peace between the crew and make sure they are scrubbing toilets properly and then go home. Not to much more than that, really. They are high functioning disabled adults who are striving to be integrated into the everyday workforce. They are easier to handle than some of the workers I had in Pelican in the past. They perform janitorial duties at a couple of the local colleges here in Dallas. Alot of my time is driving to and from their homes. Kind of feel like a truck driver getting paid for driving. Oh well, I like to drive. And I'm getting paid!

Back to this keyboard. Now it is repeating letters. Like thiiiis. I think Vick blows it out with compressed air when that happens. Not me. I'm going to say goodbye for now so I don't throw the f...ing thing in the garbage and get into trouble. Well everyone, have a great day and wish our computer problems well for us.

P.S. I promise to get some video on here as soon as things are working better. Until then.....

Marriage by Blog Replaces the Long-Distance Marriage

Excuse the lack of photos--coming soon!

Oh, this is so not going to work!  And all I mean by that is this computer.  It took me ten minutes to get online after having about 20 windows pop up.  I'm going to rant and it may be all over the place, so if in doubt, read the post before.  This isn't a Mick rebuttal, but close.

Mick and I used to have a long-distance marriage, splitting our time between Alaska and Oregon.  Now we have a blogging marriage with visitation on the weekends.  Marriage is a partnership, after all, and now it is a blogging partnership as well.  How did this happen?

Mick and I are now both living and working in Dallas, Oregon full time.  However, we talked more when we lived apart four months of the year.  Thanks to a $20/month flat fee for long distance, self-employment, and me being a full-time stay-at-home, full-time writer (oh, woe is me! the good old days!), Mick and I would some months log in about 1400 minutes per month on the phone--long distance--$20.  I kid you not.  I slept in the middle of the bed.  I never hung up on him, (perhaps a bit of sulking and terse statements here and there) and all was right with the world.

Now we are apparently living 12 months of the year together.  I see him for approximately 12 minutes a day, Monday through Thursday, about an hour Friday night when he gets off work, and we see each other every waking moment on the weekends.

Mick naps.

I am not a napper.

All told, about 20 hours a week.  I'm not saying it's a bad thing.  It's just compact.

So, a lot of our marriage may end up being conducted via Chicken and Sponge.  It wouldn't have to be, but Mick never thinks to look at our dry erase board next to the sink.  I don't know, maybe he thinks it's a New York Subway schedule or something, but he really doesn't look at it.  Neither does Miranda.  I write chores down on it ("Mom, just write a list for me somewhere and I'll do it".  Uh-huh, uh-huh.) but I seem to be writing in swahili or classical greek and everyone else reads, well, nothing.  As Miranda would say, "that's hyperbole" or to look at it from a different angle, "complete sarcasm".  Bottom line: I write on that board to practice my penmanship.  No, I don't write on the board to nag Mick.

I was calling him from work in the morning when I had a spare moment, but I haven't had much of a spare moment lately.  I have a co-worker who used to have a phone permanently attached to the side of her head, spending hours just hanging out with her forgetful husband while she walked around getting her work done.  But it became blatant enough that someone must have said something.  The phone is no longer sticking out of the side of her  head.  I hesitate to do anything that would cause someone to "have a talk with me".  I'm just now getting over having my nose out of joint after someone looked sideways at me for stopping and having a cup of coffee ( and it was an excellent opportunity to take a coffee break because all hell was scheduled to break loose at the appointed time--11:30 a.m. monday-friday, just in case you didn't know).  My point?  Yeah, I had a point.  I don't call and visit with Mick on the phone while I'm working.  So monday morning until friday night, I kind of feel like I'm operating in the dark.

So I have this horrible head cold.  I thought I was getting over it, but I got dizzy this afternoon, my nose was stuffed up, someone stuffed a letter opener in both of my ears, I was unsteady on my feet, and I realized that I was feeling just a mite bit sorry for myself. Of course, I might just be a big whiner, and probably am, or maybe the cold resurrected itself, got its second wind.

Why do I share such information?  Because I logged on to Chicken and Sponge, just to see, just to see where I left off.  One day last week I asked Mick what he'd done all day.  Yes, there was subtle, very subtle implied criticism.  Hey, dishes in the sink, laundry like I'd left it, flea-infested carpet unvacuumed, and he blasted me!  Oh, was he mad about how tired he was!  Would he tell me that he felt like crap and was sick?  Absolutely not.  He mentioned it in passing several days later, disgusted that I hadn't psychically known this tidbit.

How have we managed to stay married?  Sheer laziness?

How does blogging affect marriage?  To tell my story the long, drawn-out, nonsensical route, this blog may save our marriage, and our readers can share in the journey.  The blog saves me and Mick from the tediousness of actually speaking to each other.  We can just each log in.  At work we use a program called Therap in which we write log notes and record activity data for each individual as well as exciting information like who peed when and how much and what did their poop look like. Endlessly entertaining.  Chicken and Sponge will be our Therap, where we sign in to find out what the other is doing for the week.  I'll try to spare you too much detail in the area of bowels and bladders, unless it's just too entertaining not to share.

First order of business, the first major piece of news I heard when logging in to Chicken and Sponge, was the prognosis for this piece of crap computer.  E machines.  What kind of brand is that?  I meant to write much more on this computer than what I was writing about, but it's so depressing, I'm not sure if I can continue.  Let's fix the old machine.  Mick hates the old computer because I've typed enough that I've worn the letters off the key board and he has to look.  I don't have to look, so I don't care.  Obviously, it annoys him.  But not as much as this computer annoys me.  I'm ready to pause for the night...Let Mick share thoughts tomorrow.  I was so pleased to see a post from him.  Why he won't let the blog go, I don't know.  But in case you don't want endless love letters to the Trail Blazers and the Mariners, I will try to produce.  I will try to explain the whole blog vs. novel debate soon, and I'll welcome your input.

One bone to pick.  Readership increased by half this past week.  What were you all doing the week before?  Let me know.  Reader comments welcome.

The New Chicken and Sponge (possibly)

As I sit here wondering what to write, I can't help but think how tech savvy I am not. Vick's old computer bit the dust so I moved the relatively new one inside from the shop. After hooking it up and checking it out I noticed that it was just about as slow as the dial-up we used to have in Pelican. A few calls to the phone company to check on the internet connection proved that this computer has problems of its own. It's aggravating when you want to browse and you have to wait for pages to load up. This is really going to piss Sam off. I'm sure Vick isn't going to like it any better. Hell, none of us like it! I guess I will be visiting the computer doctor this weekend or buying yet another one. Maybe they can fix our two for less than the price of a new one. What's the chances of that. Slimmer than I am for sure!

We rely alot on having a working pc. A properly working one at that. Entertainment for Sam is hard to come by unless you have an endless supply of money for her to shop and eat at her favorite restaurants. Since we don't have the latter we better make sure the computer is working so she can print off her endless supply of disney coloring pages. I'm also going to take stock in printer ink just as soon as I get paid this week. Man can that girl burn through the ink. Sometimes 2 black ink cartridges a week. Just for the record that is $40 a week. These endless supplies have got to have a light at the end of the tunnel. I know, just shut up Mick and buy her the damned ink! It could be worse. Alot worse.

Vick really needs the computer to be working right too. She is really trying to finish writing her novel (let alone this blog) and that won't happen unless she can use one that is capable of doing the things she needs it to do. At a decent speed mind you. So that brings us to the blog. Vick hasn't made up her mind whether she is going to focus only on her novel or keep writing both. Her time is limited and she really wants to finish her novel. Either way she chooses we will keep Chicken and Sponge going. The only difference being that I will be the main author and you will have to put up with my bullshit most of the time. I'm sure she will jump in and write a few posts when she feels like she has to defend herself. I promise I won't target you sweetie. So please respond to our new idea and let us know what you think. It's going to be a great year!

Work Week in Review: When Psychosis Moves Into the Group Home

The weekend has at last arrived and dammit, I can feel it slipping away already.  After a very strange week at work, and considering that I work in a group home for developmentally disabled adults, low-functioning at that, that is saying something.

I mentioned that the newest resident was a young woman who appeared to be very psychotic, in addition to being challenged with other conditions.  As if her life hadn't been challenging enough.  Those of us that work at this particular home are like family.  A somewhat dysfunctional family, but very protective of one another, we have each other's backs, and we don't appreciate others criticizing us.  And like family, it's ok to criticize each other, or complain to one another about petty little things, but outsiders, yeah, I'm talking to you, WATCH IT!

So the new resident turned out to be more disturbed and more physically aggressive than anyone had been prepared for.  It appeared at first that the rest of the agency thought we were all just a bunch of wimps that couldn't handle a challenge.  We'd been telling them for months that one of our guys had become much more aggressive and unpredictable, but since he looks like a choir boy much of the time, they didn't really believe us.

So our supervisor gave the shout out for help.  And they appeared.  One by one, the behavior specialists arrived.  One by one, they left with bruises, bite marks, and wide eyes filled with shock, horror, and uncertainty.  The worst of it is the uncertainty.  Actually, the worst of it is when this young woman catches sight of her roommate, a tiny, non-verbal woman who has lived in this house for YEARS.  And she's been having to deal with the glaring, the detailed death threats, and having three staff stand around her with their behinds in her face as they face off with her roommate/aggressor.  This poor woman has been so scared, so quietly freaked out, and all we could do is try to reassure her and surround her.

Well, not an acceptable situation.  I'm pleased to say the higher-ups recognized this after a few days and our newest resident is going to move to another house this next week.  The most hard-core house in the whole agency.  We're swapping roommates, so we're getting someone from this hard-core house, which means there will be challenging behaviors and physical aggression, but not of the caliber we dealt with this past week.

The plan had originally been to have a party at our staff meeting on thursday for the two new roommates.  Instead, we had an in-service on the Oregon Intervention System, which is all about restraints using your body.  This was the day that the house was filled with all the higher-ups, and in fact, one was heard to say, "I'm not afraid of anyone, but this girl freaks me out".  When my supervisor offered to introduce the new girl to a fellow supervisor ( the girl having lain in bed all day listening to Elvis and staring at a picture.  The calm before a new storm?), the woman replied, "No, that's ok, I've already seen The Exorcist".

Unfortunately, that accurately describes what we witnessed this past week.  Hopefully, the replacement will be a little more manageable, a little less disturbed, though even she has said, "I'm not moving in until after that other chick is gone."  Here, here.  We all understand that.

Meanwhile, staff longs for a return to normalcy.  WHATEVER THAT MEANS.  At the very least, we'd like all the important people to go back to where they belong, aka the office, to drink coffee, stand around visiting and discussing how the front line teams are not doing their jobs, or who is sleeping with whom, and all the other important stuff they deal with (hey, I know they do more than that, but I also know there's been talk about us not working hard enough.  Big problem for us:  the house smell like urine.  So we mop diligently.  Next visit and next complaint:  the house smells like pine sol.  There is no pleasing some people.  And unfortunately, they're the ones who have to be pleased).

But it is still Saturday, and I'm home, and I need to make the most of it.  Because I know I'm going to blink and it will be 5:30 a.m. Monday morning with the whole week staring me in the face.  Endless possibilities for my time.  Cleaning galore.  Mending.  Organizing.  We have the house, we have the shop, we have the yard.  And oh, yeah, bills to pay.  Fun, fun, and more fun.  Time to get at it.

Now What Was the Title of This Post?

Forgive me, this is a quick one.  I'd been writing it in my head for hours now, as I watched House on dvr, and now I remember almost nothing of my witticisms.  Stupid word.  First, I forgot to mention last night, while whole-heartedly complaining of Sam and the sadistic trek through Suburbia in the dark that I was forced to march, that she also FLOODED THE BATHROOM.  MAKE THAT TWO BATHROOMS.  Yes, water does indeed, Miranda, leak under walls and appear in the next room.  Think HURRICANE.  They are not self-contained.

That said, why mention it?  That's all.  Just one more minuscule irritation.

Except that I woke up and went to work this morning.  Which was a miracle in itself.  Because while I was lying there and debating just which form of physical torture I'd consent to endure, I happened to squint at the clock and have an Oh My God! moment where I realized that I hadn't set the alarm and hallelujah, it was too late to exercise!  OK.  That was the good part..

The other part was the group home's newest resident, a woman slated to live on the "nice" side.  That's because my three guys live in the side of the duplex that has been stripped to  bare bones.  Well, minimalism is a design craze and about to hit the nice side.

I've said it before, but  let me  reiterate:  my guys are considered low functioning; two of the three are non-verbal, we deal in poop, pee, drool, growling, screaming, hitting, scratching, pinching, and oh, etc, etc, etc,... The other people who worked primarily on the nice side used to  say things like, "If I'm expected to work over here all the time, I'll quit"....or "go crazy" or "can't do it" or some other threat.

Today, the new girl arrived.

Today, my side became the nice side.

The nice side was filled with WHINING, oh, how I HATE whining...screeching, slapping, threats, death threats, two-year-old tantrums on the floor with the heels kicking, oh...the most god awful noise!  All day long.  And I snickered to myself while I sat over on the "other side", the side that no one used to want to work, and I felt lucky...so, today, a new resident.  Today, a new reality.  Today, my guys became the easy ones, the "nice" side and...

Today, my supervisor said to me, "Yeah, I have a guy coming in to work 7-3, but I'm going to have him work with the guys.  I'm going to pull you to work over here."

And as my supervisor would say, "Yeah, sucks to be you."

Stay tuned for updates.

New Challenges in the Group Home

Excuse the lack of pictures.  Our main computer has been threatening us with a black screen and it is increasingly difficult to coax life into it.  So we removed all the pictures, burning them to disc, and alas, I am too tired and lazy tonight to pull any up.  Also too tired and lazy to take any pictures, but I'll be working on that one.

So, tonight's topic...life in a group home.  There are many kinds of group homes, but the one where I work is for developmentally disabled adults.  The one where I work happens to have a lot of "challenging behaviors".  Oh, I am being so p.c. 

So the group home where I work got a new resident today and we are all reeling with shock.  And I haven't even met her yet as my shift ended before she'd arrived.  But I was at the meeting this morning where the behavior experts told us all about her.  Boy, oh boy.

Autism, Tourette's Syndrome, mental retardation, and a history of psychotic break-downs.  Oh, and due to abuse suffered in other facilities, post traumatic stress disorder is suspected, too.  She's 20.  She's  mobile.  She has a history of L.S.A. (which is leaving supervised area, for those of you not in the know).

So Maintenance came out while we were having our meeting.  Good thing, because they had lots to do.  New, more extensive locks in the kitchen.  It used to just be the med. cabinet that was locked, but this  young woman has been known to attack people with knives.  So the knives are now locked up.  There are alarms on the doors and windows.  Anyone who has ever visited me and thought our alarm system is obnoxious has not encountered obnoxious yet.  That nice lady's voice that announces, "Front door!" or "Master bedroom door!" is not the least bit obnoxious once you've heard the alarm system at the group home.  Loud is not the word for it.  Perhaps loud to the tenth power.  And it chimes.  Sounds charming, doesn't it?  We were all gritting our teeth and pulling our hair, eyes bugging out of our heads by the end of the day and we just wanted to scream at people, "CAN'T YOU ALL JUST GO OUT THE DOOR AT ONCE?!"  No, not charming chimes.  The phrase that kept echoing through my brain was, "Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for the bell tolls for thee!"  Yes, ominous.  Chimes to make you lose your mind are ominous.

Now, my mother is going to read this and about have a heart attack.  Or to use one of her words, she's going to fret.  Or fret to the tenth power.  But do not worry, Mom.  I work on the other side of the house for the most part.  I'll help out whenever necessary or when I can, but I have my three challenging gentlemen to support.  Today's challenge?  Diarrhea in the one that doesn't use the toilet, who also happens to be the one who hits, scratches, screams, cries, tries to bite, etc...but he doesn't use knives.  This, of course, happened at lunch, but since I wasn't the one trying to eat, well, c'est la vie.  Another day at the group home.

So I come home tonight and I do get to exercise, something that I don't feel like the least in doing, but know I must and that I will feel better for it.  And I felt like a bit of a wimp because I chose to do Jillian Michael's 30-Day Shred.  Not that Jillian Michaels work-outs are in any way wimpy, except this one is only 30 minutes and I feel like I should at least do 50.  So I felt like I was wimping out.  But Sam took care of that.  Immediately after finishing my work-out, before a shower, before dinner (and oh, I was so hungry), she decided that she wanted to go for a walk.  And because she actually asked and waited while I got ready, and because I couldn't stop her anyway, I went on a walk with her.  And did she go on a nice little evening stroll?  SHE DID NOT!  No, she took me through dark fields, down busy dark streets, through the never-ending rain and drizzle, for ONE HOUR!

And then after we finally got home, after I'd finally eaten, she refused to take a bath.  AGAIN.  She is filthy.  Her hair is gross.  Anyone who knows me will know just how unacceptable that is to me.  People, I take two showers a day, and yes, I know that isn't really good for you, I know it dries out your skin, I know it isn't good for your hair, and I DON'T CARE.  I do care that my daughter is gross, smelly, and greasy and too big and ornery for me to do anything about it.  So I gave up and sent her to bed gross, smelly and greasy.  Tomorrow is another day.  She'll either get clean or she'll be even worse.

And now I would really like to take my shower, second of the day, and collapse at long-last into my bed, to only half-sleep until Mick gets home.  Perhaps to have strange dreams about work.  The other night, I dreamed that my most challenging guy had eaten his pant leg and got it stuck in his throat.  Do I need this?  No, I do not.  Woe is me, may my sleep be more restful than usual (Samantha, that means you!), and my dreams more pleasant.  A pant leg, for God's sake.  Where did that come from?

Inappropriate Past Times for the Autistic Child

Inappropriate past time:  nude, under-water kayaking in a twelve-foot diameter pool. 

Sam's latest kicks are, once again, driving us crazy.  Always looking for leisure time activities for our autistic child of an appropriate nature, she much prefers leisure time activities of an inappropriate nature.  They are more fun.  Years ago, we had to buy new markers for her every time we went to the store because she would not put the caps on.  We went crazy back then with re-capping her markers. It was time-consuming.  It was expensive.  This was  happening when we lived in Alaska and I would have to remember to order markers along with the eggs and milk every time we ordered groceries.  We tried to get her to put the caps back on and she would look at us and say, "Sorry, I only speak Swahili". No, not really, but that was THE LOOK. And since it was expensive to have to keep buying more and more markers, and since she was completely unreasonable if she couldn't do her art, we re-capped markers day and night.  Then, at long last, the school made Sam re-cap her markers and all was good again.  Yes, lazy enabling parents that we are, it was the school that succeeded in establishing a good habit.

Sam has had many inappropriate past times in her 13 years.  At one time there was nothing more satisfying that dropping anything, preferably glass, out the upper windows of the Wheelwatch and watching and listening to the crash as whatever it was hit the ground about 20 feet below.  She would toss objects with the frenzy of a madman, anxious to destroy as much personal property as possible (usually other people's property) before we caught her and put an end to it.  More than once I got a phone call from my neighbor Jon who said, "Uhm, are you aware that there are objects flying out the girls' bedroom window?"  There was no reasoning with Sam.  Threats were completely useless.  No punishment could be thought of that she would actually "get".  So we had to thwart her efforts, remove her hobby, by stapling wire mesh to the outside of the windows.  Because, oh yeah, the window screens were the first things to crash on the beach.  We now live in a one-story house.  Throwing things out the window is much less satisfying.

However, Sam is still doing it.  Her bedroom window screen is bent beyond repair.  We can no longer coax it to hang in place and little good it would do because Sam would just push it out again.  There is a broken plate resting on the rocks outside her bedroom.  Other glassware has recently bit the dust, too.  But this isn't her greatest obsession right now.

Last weekend I rearranged Sam's bedroom.  We'd spent about two weeks with Sam turning up her TV to top volume and sleeping with her window wide open.  No screen, remember.  TV on.  Ground floor room.  Now is this an open invitation to come murder us all in our beds or what?  Plus, it was January.  With our poor mattress now resting on the floor, I'd feel that arctic wind rush across the floor, escape through the bottom of Sam's door, and scoot right up to our mattress and try to gain entrance under the covers.  So, two, three, six times a night, I'd get up, quietly open Sam's door, close the window, slowly turn down the volume on the tv, and tip-toe out again.  Sometimes immediately, sometimes an hour later, it would start all over again. 

The assaults on our sanity are continuous.  Sleep-deprivation tips the balance against us and I'm afraid that we might end up in prison instead of a nice psychiatric hospital.  We looked at the night time warfare with clinical detachment, swallowing all that rage and self-pity.  Why was she being such a turd?  Well, the bed was placed right under the window.  So, if I moved the bed, it would at least take more effort to open the window.  Also looking at the placement of the bed, there is a heat vent directly above it.  Miranda would love that.  Sam is more like her dad.  Now that the fire wood is running low and the outside temperature has been around fifty, we're burning less and the heater is coming on periodically.  And it was blowing right in Sam's little polar bear face.

I moved the bed across the room and into a corner.  I think she likes that corner and I know she likes not having hot air blowing on her while she sleeps.  When Sam sleeps better, we all sleep better.

So Sam has been forced to find new ways to irritate and infuriate us.  This time, blame the school, do not credit them.  Sam's former aide, the other Sam, came to visit this weekend and catch up on what's new, now that Sam has decided to go to the high school and they no longer see each other.  I was sharing what Sam's new passion in life is, the newest obsession that is driving me mad, and Sam the aide says, "Oh, she must have learned that in art class."

Deep, calming breath.  Count to 10.  Ok, count to 35.  Our Sam is now dismantling magic markers, ripping them apart to get the ink-soaked core out, and then she is squeezing the ink into water.  Apparently they did this is art class, making I don't know what.  Now she is doing it all the time.  Did you hear me?  I mean it.  ALL THE TIME.  OUR HOT TUB IS BRIGHT BLUE!

There are glasses of pretty water all of the house.  There are smudges of bright colors all over the walls, on the floors, in both bathrooms, and next to Sam's bed.  Their are bright splotches on my pillow cases.  DO NOT BELIEVE THE PACKAGING.  WASHABLE DOES NOT MEAN NON-STAINING.  I've got the pillow cases to prove it.  No unattended water glass is safe.  Neither are vases, bowls, or any other kind of container, and that includes the sinks AND SAM DOES NOT TURN OFF THE WATER AND YOU KNEW WHAT THAT MEANS:  NO SLEEPING ONTHE JOB!

It also means more markers.  And more markers.  Every time we go to the store.  At the rate that she's going through the markers it won't be long and we'll be hearing, "Markers, store, car fast".  Over and over until weak, lazy, enabling parents that we are, we'll be getting into the car to buy markers.  If we don't, it would only be a matter of time before Sam walked into some stranger's house to see if they had markers.  And candy.  We've been to that show, so excuse us, but we'll take the lesser of the two evils.

It could be worse.  I do realize this.  If she were a "normal" kid she would maybe have a meth lab in her bedroom.  She could be busy sending nude photos over her cell phone.  She could be bullying other kids.  She could be lying and sneaking off.  Oh, wait a minute, she does sneak off.  Or, she could resume an old favorite past time:  breaking eggs.  Lots and lots of eggs, on the floor, on the carpet.  Oh, you can not imagine.  But we can.  We've been there.  So, deep calming breath and count to 10.  Markers it is, for now.