Chicken and Sponge

The Independent Autistic Child or It Didn't Say Flammable on the Label

[Apologies:  I have a very strange picture that I wanted to put here, but thanks to my computer's terminal illness, I can't down-load pictures from my camera.  And what Mick told me to do doesn't work, so please, USE YOUR IMAGINATIONS].

My poor mother.  She can do nothing but worry about her daughters, but my sisters should thank me for the chaos that is my life.  Because their families don't cause Mom nearly as much stress and worry, and that is saying something considering that my brother-in-law did a tour in Iraq.

The silly woman actually said to me that she figured when she didn't hear from me, no news was good news.  No, Mom, no news means that I'm trying to spare you.  But she called last week to catch up, hear my voice, and make sure no one had been carted off to a psychiatric hospital, prison, or the morgue.

Our conversation went something like this:

Mom:  I hadn't heard from you in a couple of weeks and I just wanted to hear the sound of your voice.

me:  Has it been two weeks?  Gee, time flies whether you're having fun or not.

Mom:  So how is everyone?  How's your job?

me:  Fine, fine.  Miranda is looking forward to Spring Break and Sam is driving Mick a little less crazy because our respite worker has been coming in for a few hours a couple of times a week.

Mom:  So she still isn't going to school?

me:  Nope.

Mom:  Well, what are you going to do?  Can the school do anything?

And I proceeded to tell Mom what I think will happen and what the school is obligated to provide.  In other words, they are going to have to send someone to our house and provide services here until Sam can be coaxed back to school.  During this part of our conversation, Samantha wandered into view. 

me:  Sam, no more food.

Mom:  Is she still shredding her clothes?

me:  Mom, you don't even want to see my sewing room.  So, yes, the answer is yes.  Sam, well ok, but just one slice.  Yeah, my sewing room is about waist deep.  I think she has one pair of intact underwear left and that can change at any moment.  OH MY GOD!  MY MICROWAVE IS ON FIRE!!!!!!!!!

Mom:  GO!  GO, HONEY!  GO!!!!

me:  Oh, crap.  Call you back later.

LATER...

me:  It was cheese.  Who knew?  I didn't know cheese was flammable.

Mom:  What?  Was there metal on it?

me:  No, it was just cheese I thought.  Sam likes to eat it melted and usually does an ok job by herself.  I didn't realize she'd had it in long enough for it to burst into flames.  So I opened the microwave door and it kept burning so I threw a glass of water on the fire and that made the plate shatter.  Man, it stinks in here.  Miranda, open the window, too.

My mother went on to explain that if I'd kept the microwave door shut the fire may have gone out on its own and then I went on to explain that fire freaks me out and I'm no good with fires which is why having a pyro daughter is a bit stressful. 

While we chatted I wiped out the microwave with white vinegar.  I was reminded of the worst bartender we'd ever had.  This woman caused Mick so much stress that I had to talk him out of firing her about three times.  The fishermen had nicknamed her T-Rex.  Not because she was fearsome (she was 4 foot 10), but because she had curiously short little arms.  T-Rex was blind as a bat and burnt microwave popcorn in our bar microwave so badly, that she had to buy us a new microwave.  She offered, we didn't make her, but then she did it to the new one, too.  T-Rex:  2 minutes for popcorn, not 2 hours.

Anyway, my house smelled funky for about 12 hours.  I think the white vinegar helped.

Anyway, my phone conversation, part 2, ended shortly with:

Mom:  Oh, honey, I worry about you so much.

me:  (sigh)  I know, Mom.  I know.

My Up-Coming Nervous Breakdown

She can't help it and neither can I.  Whatever that means. 

Scheduling change:  My nervous break-down has been postponed until next month.  No sense falling apart until I can actually use paid leave.  After all, I don't want to cause myself even more stress.  The point of a nervous breakdown is to be like Humpty Dumpty and somehow get put back together again.

Oh, wait...all the King's horses and all the King's men COULDN'T put Humpty together again.  Scratch that, don't want to be like Humpty.

Stress?  What stress?  Wouldn't YOU like to know?  You know who you are.  Even though this sounds like the rant of a paranoid mad woman...ok.  Maybe it IS the rant of a paranoid mad woman.

I will not be discussing the elephant in the room.

Instead:  I blame my crazed ravings on the continuing slow demise of my computer.  The HP techie phone consultant said it sounds like the sound card is going out.  Well, that doesn't sound so bad, I thought.  I didn't realize that "sound card going out" is a euphemism for "your computer has the ebola virus, shingles, and an embarrassing venereal disease and will shortly be dead".  But Mick translated for me and since the surgery is too expensive and there is no public option, we are just going to hold the computer's hand and bow our heads in prayer.  Folks, the mouse I am using is a tiny hot-pink mouse that came in a box with one of Sam's Bratz dolls and it works better than any of the other spare mice (?) that we have lying around.  I'm thinking of taking it to work each day with me because the mouse on that computer is a contributing cause to my mental deterioration.  That, and trying to remember who pooped when, how much, and what did it look like.  And remembering to never use the word poop, which is difficult for me.  Luckily I can say it, I just can't use it in the log notes.

The hot tub is broken again, about the third time in less than two months.  We are slow learners.  Sam had just about stopped squeezing ink from her markers into the hot tub water and had begun dumping every bottle of whatever in instead:  shampoo, body wash, lotion, and then I caught her with nail polish remover (she did not succeed in dumping that), but she just didn't stop and the water became disgustingly scuzzy, so we drained it, she turned on the jets, and yes, once again we blew a heating element.  Slow learners, slow learners.  Our hot tub guy put the control panel in the breaker box a couple of years ago, but are we smart enough to lock it?  Let's just say that this is the third heating element we've gone through in short order.

I'm caught up on laundry.  It is not put away, but it's not as stacked up as it normally is.  But this is only Monday, as I write this.  Friday will be a different story.

My sewing room is...depressing.  Sam's clothing is...depressing.  If I could do a magic trick, one little, specialized magic trick, it would be able to conjure underwear out of thin air.  Sam wants to wear big girl panties.  She will no longer wear pull-ups.  And no, she will not stop tearing her underwear apart.  Don't ask me.  Don't ask Mick.  We still don't understand why.  One of the people on Mick's crew mentioned that she takes a medication to stop her from picking.  Of course, she was picking her own skin apart.  Also, it's probably a psych med, which in this country means that when I take Sam to her up-coming doctor's appointment, I will probably be given a referral instead of a prescription.

Note to self:  Do Not schedule nervous breakdown to coincide with Sam's doctor's appointment.

I could go on.  And on and on.  Taxes still to do, Sam peeing in her garbage can tonight (though, frankly, that's better than what Mick dealt with when Sam tried to take her broken box spring and put it on the picnic table to lie on), and it's Spring Break for the kids, pet puke, oh, and I tried to jog the other morning and the state of my body is an embarrassment.  Pain, it caused me crippling pain.  Humiliating.  I'm going to go crawl off to bed.

There it is:  fast, annoying, and nonsensical.  What can you expect from a woman barely hanging on to her sanity?

Return to the Blog

This photo was taken January 13 of this year.  The woman is a co-worker. The guy is one of "my guys".  Working at the group home has enriched my life, made me one of the most under-paid people I know, and strengthened me, given me gifts I can't begin to describe, and provided a whole new repertoire of gross stories.

At long last!  It's been one untyped excuse after another.  After a host of computer problems and a near nervous breakdown--in part induced by computer problems--and being over-worked, under-nannied, and beset by small-town vindictive group psychosis--here I am!  Questionably intact, questionably of sound mind ( or sounder mine than some)  and just so you know,the mouse that came with the computer just gave up the ghost.  And I am successfully using a minuscule hot pink mouse that came in a box with a Bratz Doll.  And it works better than its predecessor and better than the one at work by far.

Spring has come to Dallas, Oregon.  The trees are blooming, noses are running, a certain kind of heady sexiness is in the air...kids and teachers are light-headed and light-minded and OMG I like this mouse so much better than the last!

It was curious delight and a great deal of amusement that I checked my Site meter tonight.  Site Meter is the gizmo that measures my web traffic.  I've mentioned it before:  visitors per day, page views, amount of time per page view.  Imagine my feelings, imagine my cynical amusement, genuine amusement, and everything in between when I saw that this week, this week of all weeks, my traffic was at an all time high.

What gives, people?  I took a week off!  I had aggravating, irritating, serious-beyond-belief computer problems, and more people than ever tuned in.  Why?

Hoping to observe an emotional train-wreck?  Heard a bit of gossip and wanted to witness the pain?  Like the ghouls who drive slowly with necks craned past the worst of road accidents, did you hope for carnage?  Like a shark or piranha, did you smell blood in the water?

For those of you who don't have the skinny, you will.  Although I enjoy being somewhat enigmatic, making mysterious, cryptic remarks, I eventually deliver.

The thing is, life is about so much more than small town b.s....small town politics, small town maneuverings.  I've realized that since moving "down south" from the "great wet north".

It really is.

A different kind of beauty prevails here, but still, when I look out my window and observe the sunsets, the sunrises, incredible cloud formations, and the trees in all their seasons, I'm overwhelmed.

My kids have grown so much that I'm speechless, suddenly startled when I look at the pictures from when we first got here and now I realize that they have figures and God help me, attitudes.

Mick and I both have jobs that some people would mistakenly think are meaniel and don't realize how satisfying  they are.

And I have a feeling of curiosity and competative spirit that sustains me.  Life is quite interesting.  That phrase, "careful what you wish for" often comes to mind.  But does that apply to me?  Or does it apply to you?

Hope and faith.  I have both.  I think we have both.  And if you wish to know what I allude to...if you're really hoping for the straight skinny on all this vague, irritating talk, well, you can either stay tuned...or you can get a life.

Your choice.

I've been away for a week or better.  I'm just warming up.

The Woman Who Fell Off the Edge of the World, installment 45

4
Dear, dear readers!  It's been so long!  Petra has just heard that her mom, sister, and step-father are flying up to Pelican to check on her and drag her home.  Yes, I've been lazy.  Yes, I've been negligant.  Yes, I'll try to do better.  Sorry for the long pause.  At some point in time I'll post the first quarter of the book in one shot and then follow up.  Hey. thanks for hanging in there.

    “And they’re flying up here!  Up here, Malcolm!  Do you know what this means?”  I loudly whined on the verge of hysteria.

    Malcolm’s shoulders shook as he tried to contain his laughter.  He was mostly successful, but the grin would just not go away.

    He held his arms out to me and I flung myself into them.  A temporary safe haven from my own approaching hysteria.
    “There, there.  If there’s nothing you can do to stop them, you may as well stop worrying about what might happen.”

    “Malcolm, that all sounds very good, but you’ve no idea what you’re talking about.  You’ve no idea what they’re like.  I don’t want them here.”

    “Petra, you can’t stop them.  So just stop thinking about it.”

    “I can’t help myself.  I’m obsessed.  My brain will think of no other subject than my impending doom.”

    Malcolm’s sleepy eyes turned warm and a slow smile lit his face.  He took me by the hand and started to lead me down the hall. 

    “Petra, I think I know a way to get your mind off this subject.”  And he opened door number one.

    *********************

    Ferry day.  A big ferry day.  I was sitting on the boardwalk in front of the Wet Goods drinking a Club Drink, a brass monkey.  It was a little foul, but I was willing to tough it out.

    I hadn’t wanted to go down to the breakwater and mill around waiting for the ferry.  No place to sit, nothing to do.  All new hires would have to walk past us to get to either bunkhouse anyhow.  And I certainly wasn’t alone.  The benches in front of the Wet Goods were packed shoulder to shoulder with men.  The harbor entrance was also fairly congested, as well as the railing on each side.  There were lots of local men, fishermen who hadn’t left the harbor yet, and me. I was hanging with  Jaimie, Tim, Clark, and Enrico.  Most of the men wanted to see the two new girls they’d heard had been hired.  I admit I was curious, too, but I also wanted to get a look at the college boys.  Not that I wanted one for myself. Jaimie wanted one for herself, though, so I’d had to come to help her scout.  My current secret friend was suiting me just fine.  But Clark had been right and there’d been a pretty thorough mass firing of dead, new-hire weight, so while there was a new crew coming in, there was also about a dozen workers heading out.  No surprises there.

    There was something thrilling about watching the ferry slowly glide through the inlet and up to its dock.  It was so much larger and grander than any of the fishing vessels.  The weather was good, i.e. not raining, and I could see that people were standing on the deck of the ferry watching the town get closer and closer, just as we were watching them approach.  It always seems to take an eternity for the ferry to actually dock, get tied up, and have the ramp come down.  Twenty minutes or better of staring back and forth.  But that wasn’t the case with me today.  I felt ultra-relaxed and just kicked back, waiting for the parade.  Thank you, brass monkey.

    While townspeople rushed back and forth, coming off the ferry with their shopping, or preparing to board for a trip to town, a slow convoy of newbie slimers approached, Lauren leading them, laughing with her head tilted back, arm on a good-looking college kid , and turning to laugh and flirt with those following behind.  They all looked various degrees of smitten.  I counted approximately eighteen of them and bringing up the near-rear were two terrified, freaked out, all-natural, not-overly-washed, wannabe-hippie chicks.  Yes, terrified.

    “Hey, there they are!  Hey, beautiful, come have dinner with me, yeah, both of you!”

    “Nah, come down to my boat and let me show you around.”

    “Oohh.  Look at the scared little girls.  Don’t be scared, little girls, we won’t hurt you!”

    Luckily, my cohorts were silent, appraising, but silent, and it was the fishermen who were being complete ass-holes to the poor girls.  I turned and glared at a couple of them.

    “What?  You jealous?” one asked me.

    I rolled my eyes and looked toward Clark and we both laughed.

    “Oh, yeah, I’m jealous, because you are such a man and I wanted you for myself and now those two new girls are going to be fighting over you and I just won’t stand a chance.”

    “You should be a little nicer,” the guy told me, “or you’ll always be alone.”

    Clark and I both rolled our eyes and shook our heads.

    “You’re not jealous, are you?” Clark said under his breath to me.

    I shot him a look.  “Now I’m going to start getting paranoid.  Should I be jealous?”

    “No,” he said, “the odds are still in your favor.”

    “Somehow, that wasn’t exactly the reassurance that I was looking for, but thanks for pointing out the math.”

    He smirked and didn’t reply.  We watched as the group walked on toward the Cold Storage, the guys looking around with curiosity and the girls looking like they were going to hold hands and make a break for the ferry.

    “They don’t shave their legs,” Enrico announced.  “I can’t abide that.”

    I raised my eyebrows and whispered to Clark.  “I’m impressed.  I didn’t know he knew the word abide.”

    “And I bet they don’t shave their arm pits either.  Nasty.”  That, of course, from Enrico again.

    “I don’t care,” Tim announced.  “I wouldn’t turn either one of them down.  They were kind of cute.”

    “Yeah,” I agreed, “like finding Bambi in your headlights.”

    “Oooh, catty,” Tim said.

    I raised my eyebrows and shook my head in disgust, then turned my back to him.  Guys are too weird when you go girl-watching with them.  Except Clark.  He’s always just annoyingly Clark.

    I turned to Jaimie.

    “So, ok, did you pick one out?”

    “I don’t get to just pick one out!”

    “Why not?”

    “What do I do if he doesn’t want me?”

    “Geez Louise!  There were like, eighteen of them!  Pick out another.”

    Jaimie just looked at me for a second.  “How?”

    I stared back.  “We really have some work to do, girl.  I didn’t have much confidence when I arrived here, but I can’t believe how lacking in confidence you are!”

    Tim snorted.  “You didn’t ‘lack confidence’.  What a crock.”

    “I will have you know that I did too lack confidence and was a meek, retiring little wallflower until I met all of you.”

    Clark, Tim, and Enrico snorted in unison.

    I gave them a mild glare.  “So,” I announced, “you guys had better get to work.  It should be you guys who help Jaimie gain her confidence.”

    My words were met with looks that varied from disgust to panic.

    “Then you’d better teach her how to be a girl first,” Enrico told me.

    I looked at him in horror, unable to believe that he could be so callous of Jaimie’s feelings.  I glanced over at her and could tell that she was quietly mortified.

    “Don’t worry,” I told him, “No problem, piece of cake.  And don’t worry.  Jaimie needs men friends, not self-centered little ass-holes.”

    Clark and Tim exchanged glances with me and I realized that they agreed.  At least they were both intelligent enough to recognize just how uncalled for that was.

    “Let’s go, Jaimie.  Time to go do girlie stuff.”  I grabbed her and pulled her along, determined to give her a real make over, get her just a little drunk, and then practice her wiles on someone safe like Clark and Tim.

    “Tim, you and Clark come on down to the cabin in a couple of hours.  And feel free to leave that dog Enrico at home.”

A fast and sloppy post

About three weeks ago in Lincoln City--February at the Oregon Coast, and absolutely nothing to do with today's post.  The girls jumped in and swam around four times, to the delight and horror of the beach crowd.

The computer is seriously messed up and repeating letters with a vengeance.  So if it happens, don't expect any corrections--I've had enough frustration to last quite awhile.

This day...let me tell you.  Could a day be more Mondayish than today was?  I got to work and our newest individual in the house, female, ran up to me, crying, snotting, tattle-taling ( I hate it when people tattle-tale unless they do it with panache) and she spit on me in the process.  She spit on me in the afternoon, too.  None of it on purpose, but just as annoying.  And gross.

I told her to start the day with "good morning" and to say something positive.  In return I got a scream of "I DON'T WANT TO!!!!"  Yeah, and I don't want to be nice.  Don't rain on my parade on Monday morning, because...

Not a great day.  I ran a red light.  I did.  I confess.  I don't know if the light took a picture of me or not, but I felt terrible about it.  I knew I was running a red light but it was too late--run it or slam it.  So I ran it.  Then I fretted and brooded and here I am--still in a funk.  Then, I tried to be a nice person and let a man cross a cross-walk and he did, but the light turned yellow and I decided I didn't want to run a red and I stopped--across the cross-walk and I got to hear a middle-class, well-dressed smart-ass rub elbows with a homeless man by saying, "oh and she wants to know how her driving is?"  This is because of the completely asinine bumper sticker all our agency cars have that ask, "How's my driving?" along with the office phone number.  Well, today, my driving sucked.  And I hope he got to feel all superior for conversing casually with a homeless man with a sign ( to whom I usually pass a couple of dollars to and all he did was try to share his dubious wit).

I got spit on in the afternoon.  Same individual.  Still unintentional .  Still really gross.

I came home.  This computer is just so messed up.  I don't feel like writing anymore, just because it's so difficult to get any cooperation.  Black screen most of the time and then when I do get it going, repeating lettersssssss.....

What else?  Hot tub.  Messed up.  Fifty degrees.  Due to magic marker de-construction.

Cold.  Oh, so cold...WIND!!!...rain...hail...fire in the fire place...

Did I mention it?  That Sam is still not going to school?  And Spring Break is in less than two weeks?  Did I mention that Mick is insane?

Did I mention that Anusha found a live flea on Hedwig?  That we resent and begrudge Hedwig more than ever?

Life goes on, or so they say.  Monday is almost over.  One down, four to go...

Autism Milestone: No More Pull-Ups

Sam, happy to be in Licoln City after a day at the beach. 
  

Once again, one of those milestones that most parents never consider, at least not after their child hits three years of age.  But our little clothing-shredder, the one and only Samantha, has suddenly and unexpectedly rejected her pull-ups.  Or Depends or Attends or Assures or whatever brand is in the house right now.

We thought this would never happen.  I tried to get her to wear underwear to bed in the past and she looked at me like I was cruel and demented.  So I just shrugged and let her continue to wear them.  They didn't serve much purpose.  Working with someone who wears them all the time, I believe this to be a common problem.  The "protective undergarment" i.e. pull-ups, just don't work well on adults.  Oh, sure, they're probably great for older women who pee every time they sneeze, (I have wished I was wearing "protective undergarments" when I've sneezed before, rather than having to change my clothes), but that is about it.  If you're going to pee, these garments saturate and you still have to change your clothes and/or your bedding.

However, they help contain the deluge.  And although Sam is often dry in the morning, she often is not, as well.  Which means more, much more laundry.  But still...we don't really care.  She's 13.  She's autistic.  But she wears panties all night.  And we're proud of her.

However, the shredding continues with a vengeance.  We have a friend who volunteers at H2O and he is always on the look out for Sam clothes.  Now she wants to wear panties all the time and she doesn't want to wear ones that have been repaired--her Frankenstein underwear.

She is also refusing school once again and Mick is going insane.  Since the Winter break she has gone to school for about two weeks.  No wonder Mick is insane.  The marker destruction continues and our hot tub is an unlovely shade of purplish brown.  She continues to want to drive.  The keys remain hidden.  She discovered that a house key won't do the trick and I was just relieved that she didn't break it off in the ignition.

Like the title of the movie, Something's Gotta Give.  What, when, we don't know.  Soon, we hope.  Very soon.  Stay tuned.  In the meantime, we focus on the positive, and those night-time panties are a very big accomplishment.  Congratulations, Sam, and you still don't get to drive.

Continuing to Annoy and Be Cute

The title of this post refers to Hedwig, though one might think I was talking about Samantha.  Before I get off on the wrong rant, though, let me update you on Hedwig.

In the above picture, she is resting on a tray on top of the refrigerator.  It is slightly distasteful, but at the same time, she isn't sticking to one of us.  Because these days, Hedwig resembles nothing so much as a piece of velcro, and Mick is her fabric of choice.  He can't stand it.

He sits down.  She is right there.  He throws her down.  She is right back.  And I think I've already told you that she has a meow that sounds like a cranky drunk who's been chain-smoking and drinking whiskey.

On the bright side, for me that is, she has stopped sleeping with us.  I greatly appreciate this.   It took being mean, meaner than I thought I could be.  It was all due to the fleas.  In the past, when I would toss her from our bed and she would creep back to settle down on one of my body parts, I would eventually give up or she would sneak better.  Then she got fleas and there was no way I was going to tolerate her in the bed, scratching.  She tried, though, and it was scratch, scratch, scratch, and then I would scratch, scratch, scratch, and then...she tried to lie down by my head and that was it.  I launched her.

No, I didn't hurt her.  I didn't abuse her.  I only launched her about 2 and a half feet.  But I let her know I didn't want her sleeping in our bed.  Not with the scratch, scratch, scratch going on.  No way I could tolerate that.

So Hedwig decided that she would sleep on top of the satellite receiver in the living room.  Ocassionally she sleeps behind the tv itself.  That was fine.  I guess.  Far more fur flying around than I would like, but it's better than having her sleeping on me in our bed.

Then she got me back.

Our cats are pukers.  Always have been and now I'm afraid that they always will be.  We've tried every cat food under the sun, starting with the most expensive ones first.  Nothing worked.  Every formula:  sensitive stomach, hair ball control, indoor cat...Iams, Science Diet...piles of cat puke every morning.

Then it stopped.  I was afraid to say anything for fear of jinxing us, but then I made a comment to Mick, "This new Friskies Indoor Cat Formula seems to have done the trick.  I'd given up.  I don't know if you noticed, but they've been puking a lot less."  "Yes," Mick replied, "I have noticed".

And that is when I jinxed us.  I should have kept my mouth shut.  Then maybe the cats would have kept theirs shut, too.  Payback from Hedwig was when she knocked over my favorite picture of Miranda that was propped up on the satellite receiver and then, you guessed it, she puked on it.  The contents of her stomach ran under the glass on the frame and ate away the bottom portion of the picture.  My favorite picture of Miranda, taken in the 5th grade.

Hedwig didn't stop there.  Oh, no, because I shampooed the living room carpet a couple of weeks ago and now every morning I get to clean up a pile of cat puke right in the walk way.  Every morning, a fresh nasty stain.  Time to shampoo again.

Whenever we get visitors who like cats, they all comment on how cute Hedwig is and how they'd like to take her home with them.

And Mick and I reply, "Yes, we'd like you to take her home, too."

Meet My Pre-Owned Furniture: an Ode to Red and Kitty Foreman

I forgot that I was supposed to be taking a picture of the new couch once Mick called Zeus over.

It's big.  It's gold, though it doesn't really look it in this photo.  And it looks better in the evening, lamp light being so much more forgiving.  This is my 70's Show couch, and I love it.  I really do.

"I don't want other people's crap!"  I have heard that refrain from Mick over and over.  What he has had to listen to in return is, "I hate our couch!"  But for the past year he has had to agree with me.  That is because once the fake leather cracked, Sam began to peel our couch like a large, black grape.  And she wouldn't stop.  Every day, every single day, there were bits of black naugahydeto vacuum up.  You'd think the couch (and love seat) would eventually be naked.  I suppose they would have been, but I couldn't wait that long.  And I understand not wanting other people's crap.  For years that is all we had. In Pelican people tend to recycle their furniture.  As a result, one couch may have resided at many different houses, been subjected to many kids, pets, and unimaginable abuse.  We didn't want a couch that smelled like cat pee.

Mick and I now live in the world of the non-profit agency.  I have never met so many hard-working employed people that are so poor.  Luckily, they are all willing to share the ins and outs of living on pennies.  I was complaining about the couch at work one morning and a co-worker said, "Why don't you go look at H2O?"  We also live in an area now that has access, access to all kinds of things.

H2O is another non-profit here in Dallas, Oregon that is a lot like the Salvation Army, but better.  Like Goodwill, but less expensive.  And it's huge.

So I suggested we think about looking there for some new furniture and to my amazement, Mick was all for it.  On a whim, we drove over there an hour before closing.  I was immediately attracted to the huge gold couch.  When I was a kid, it would have been one of many.  Now, it was the sole glowing object in a sea of rejected dusty blue.  It called to me.  

We sat on most of the couches and Mick agreed with me.  It was big.  It was the best.  "But how much is it?" Mick asked.  I pointed at the sticker.  "It's $30."

That raised his eyebrows and I pointed to the love seat behind me.  "And I like this love seat best and it's $25."

With four furry, shedding pets, covering the furniture will still be a necessity.  Yes, I need to clean off the coffee table, what's new?

Mick was delighted.  We both love That 70"s Show.  That must be what it is, what attracted us to the huge gold couch.  Hey, it has a little tufting, too.  I like tufting.

It threatened to rain on the way home.  Of course.  The old couch was a bear to get out of the house, though the love seat was much easier.  I was livid though when I saw the damage those pieces had done.  Folks, they were less than five years old and we'd bought them brand new from Ashley Furniture.  The frame on the couch had broken on the bottom and had torn a hole in our carpet.  The frame on the love seat had broken in the back and gouged deep grooves into the wall behind it.  It was relatively new furniture.  Four years old.  And cracking and peeling like a grape.  What is the deal?  This is a bunch of crap.  Granted, not an expensive set, but this kind of shoddy workmanship ticks me off.

So...a couch and a love seat for $55?  Hell, we'll go to H2O and get "new" ones every year!