Chicken and Sponge

Grandparents at the Beach

The ocean in april at the Oregon Coast is quite cold--and no deterrent to Sam and Miranda.

Mick has been trying to work wih Sam at home since she has stopped going to school.  Work is progressing nicely, but I'll save most of that for another post.  Sam constantly surprises us with how much she actually knows.  I think it is a common problem that people often underestimate both the intelligence and skill of autistic people because of their communication glitches.  Because they don't tend to be people-pleasers, often don't look at you while you're talking, and won't do what you ask if there is nothing in it for them, people think the autistic person doesnt understand or doesn't know how to do something.  Well, think again.

One of the big goals for Sam, and it's been an IEP goal for a VERY long time is to be able to write her name, address, and phone number.  This would come in handy when she decides to sneak off on a walk and ends up in Michigan or decides to attend Mardi Gras but would like to come home.  So the two were working away.

"Sam, write your name," Mick instructed.

So Samantha wrote, "Go to the beach."

Because that is one of Sam's favorite places and that is what is important to Sam.  Not writing her name for the 6000th time.

Fortunately, Mick was able to say, "In two weeks.  Grandma and Grandpa will be here in two weeks and then we will go to the beach."

So Sam obliged and quickly scribbled her name.

Last weekend was THE weekend.  My parents were at their condo in Newport, Oregon where the ocean is trying to reclaim the property and my mother was upset by all the shoddy repair work that she thought she could do as good a job herself on (and she could, because if she was replastering, she would redo it until it was done right).  It's always a good time at the beach, but this particular Saturday was blustery.  Sunday was very nice, but we had written "Beach" on Saturday and there is no negotiating or compromise with an autistic kid--not unless we'd been willing to have one really crappy, unpleasant Saturday while she waited for Sunday to roll around.

Another thing about autistic kids, for anyone not very familiar with their ways, they are very rigid, latch onto routine like a ritual, and once you've done one thing in a certain environment, that is what they expect.  Believe me, this has its drawbacks.  For example:  you take the child to the doctor and they get a shot.  From that day forward that child never wants to set foot in that building again.  The weekend wasn't that stressful, but this tendency was brought home to us.

We go to the beach fairly regularly.  But we don't get the opportunity to go with my parents very often since they live 13 hours away.

So we met my parents at their condo, went inside for a bit and Sam started in on "to the beach...to the beach..."  So we got in our cars and drove to Nye Beach ( this is because in its bid to reclaim the land, the ocean has managed to reclaim all the beach access at the condo).

Then Sam and Miranda did their usual.  We walked along the beach and after a bit those two ran in.  They ran, they sat, the frolicked, and they shivered.  I took pictures and somehow managed to not get a one of my parents.  I also kicked myself because I'd intended on taking video and left that camera sitting at home and this adventure would have had great video.

Then we walke back to the car--blustery day, remember?  And the girls were soaked.  Miranda remembered to pack a bag for Sam, remembered to put it in the car, forgot to put underwear and a bra in the bag for her.  Oh, well.

When Sam was done frolicking in the water, she'd demanded, "Restaurant.  Resturant car fast."

So we did "restaurant car fast" right to Mo's where we had an excellent lunch.  From there, a new twist to our ritual, we went to an ice cream parlor because Grandpa loves ice cream and so do the rest of us.  Very good, and entertaining to boot.

Then Sam announced, "Swim?  Pool?"  Because there is a pool at the condo and that is what we did last time, so by God that is what we must do this time.  We'd known that and were prepared.  So we swam, we jacuzzied, we'd sauned.  Then we were done. 

Strange Families, part 1

One Saturday in the park.  That blob on the right is Miranda, who is no longer cooperating for photos.

You'd think she was unloved because of the scarcity of pictures I use of her.  That, and the fact that I talk about her sister Sam so much more.  Nothing could be further from the truth because Miranda is like a life line for me.  However, out of respect for her privacy, not to mention her lack of cooperation, my writing focuses more on Samantha than on Miranda.  She likes it that way.  
 
 Sam doesn't care.  Being mostly unaware of my writing, she doesn't get a say.  Plus, people who are older than five and will run outside stark naked don't get to plead modesty or self-consciousness.

So out of the blue the other day, Miranda blurts out, "We are a strange family!"

"Well...yes," I replied.  

We are.  I know it.  I'm not comfortable with just anyone coming into our home and observing our strangeness.  Some people I don't mind, those people who take everything in stride and don't judge.

Speaking of strange, Mick is recording a play-off game, Blazers and the Suns, that he may watch at midnight when he gets home.  That has thrown off our Thursday night DVR schedule, which is the busiest night of the week:  Vampire Diaries, Bones, and the Project Runway finale.  When my mother reads this she'll think, What?

Anyway, Miranda decided that the only thing to do was watch Bones in my room, in my bed.  Sam was there, too, and I was getting ready to (at long last) take a shower and get in my pajamas ( Thursday?  Today is only Thursday?  I long for Fridays.)  So I laid down on the bed with the girls for a few minutes, half-undressed because I truly was on my way to the shower.

Sam and Miranda were kind of cuddling and I joined in.  Sam loves to be tickled and because of her sensory issues, she likes to mess with people.  Yes, I know that's vague, but her messing with a person ranges from squeezing a butt cheek to sticking her eyeball against the other person's eyeball.  I was stretching a little as we lay there and touched the bottom of my foot.

"We have to get that hot tub fixed again," I said, "my callouses on my feet are getting out of control."  I picked at my foot for a minute and then said, "Hey, Sam, pick Mommy's callous off."  And I held my foot out to her.

She picked up my foot with great interest and focused immediately on the problem area and began to pick with great skill.  Picking is, after all, her area of expertise.  

Miranda and I continued to chat until, "AAARRRGH!  Sam, don't bite my foot!"  From the corner of my eye I see her mouth grinning around my foot, then she releases it, spits callous into my bed and giggles.

Miranda is beside herself, laughing until no sound emerges.  I join in.  My foot throbs  little.   My dental floss dropped somewhere in that bed.  Mick will probably discover it tonight.

Just another night.

More of the Same

That is a huge stock of broccoli hanging out of Zeus's mouth. Upon discovering him with his head in the cat box, mouth chewing away, I yelled at him and banished him to the outdoors (for a few minutes).  After which he made a visit to the compost bin and found this breath freshener.

 

What was I whining about the last time I was here?  Could it have been cat puke?  On freshly shampooed carpets?  Sports-obsessed husbands?  Daughters who have the time to watch everything on the DVR list but who have important homework on the weekend and don't have the time to help with any household chores?  Perhaps it was autistic children who pee in garbage cans rather than toilets and who shred clothing like crazy.  I might have been whining about fleas, but no, those were re-discovered on the dogs last weekend which changed all plans for Sunday.  We hope those fleas have finally been eradicated.  That's what we get for being cheap--four months of fleas.

I sit behind a pile of partially folded laundry, hoping to keep my mini notebook a secret from Sam, and damn!  She caught me.  She saw it.  I sure hope this thing is as small as I think it is.  Yes, everything is status quo i.e. the normal chaos at my house.

Whine and You Shall Receive

So Mick said, "No excuses now."  Meaning, no excuses for not finishing the novel, no excuses for not blogging.  Funny I can still think of some, but I do have much less to whine about because I got what I really wanted:  a mini laptop... or notebook, I guess is the more accurate term.

Mick was initially against the idea of anything this small.  I think because he tried to imagine his hands typing on it and his eyes squinting at the screen, but he was clear: this one is mine and mine alone.  The screen would give him problems, though since he uses the hunt and peck method of typing, he would actually have less trouble than I.  However, I got a little toshiba something or other and the keys are actually spaced and raised and so far, I love it.

Sadly, when we arrived back home after this little shopping excursion, Mick's laptop finally bit the dust.  This was no surprise.  The surprise was that it lasted as long as it did. I'm not exaggerating when I say that pieces of the computer were actually falling off of it.  Yet even after a piece on the side fell off and refused to reattach, and even though it appeared to have a little electronic gizmo in it, it still worked.  Huh?

Death by Sam was the actual cause of its demise, a slow painful death.  Dropped on its head many times, screen sprung, scratches, and of course, bits falling off.

The advantage to my mini, and one of the main reasons I wanted one, besides the light weight and easy portability, is that it will be much easier to hide.

So I was really excited because I've been taking one of the individuals from the group home to her employment and having to hang out in Salem and wait for her ( cheaper than wasting the gas going back and forth) so I thought  " what an excellent opportunity to write".

Well I was wrong.  That would have been too good to be true.  That falls under someone else's job description just as my job is doing alternatives to employment with a different individual.  So I was dropping this young woman off at her employment then coming out to the Lancaster Mall and hanging out at Starbucks.  Watching all the elderly people mall-walking, then meeting friends for coffee (the mall-walkers, not me).  Business people, too, meet at the mall before any of the shops ( save Starbucks and the food court) open and conduct little business meetings.  This is a strange little sub-culture, kind of cozy, intimate, and vaguely fascinating.  This is an alternative to bars but probably not a good place to meet men unless you're around 75 or 80, and then frankly, the competition would be fierce.  Lots of ladies and those men who are not already attached at the hip are much in demand.

Not that I have to worry about that.  Mick has to outlive me or he already knows he will spend the rest of my life in an urn on the fireplace mantle listening to me yak at him.  ( I plan on saying "I told you so" about everything.  Why not?  I tried to not nag him in life, but what could he do about it in that condition? And  I could actually speak without interruption). So obviously, it would behoove him to outlive me.  Digressing?  Me? 

I would love to be able to sit here and observe people every day, but it is not to be.  I will be once again, trying to write at home after work.  I will be hiding my little mini laptop from Sam as well, writing on the sly.

I've much to tell you.  Stay tuned.  I'm back.

I'm sure you've noticed the different size and style of font.  Bear with me.  I'm still getting used to this thing.

Just a Little Whining About Computers, Autism, and Dealing With the School District

This inferior quality photo is one of the last that I was able to import onto this less-than-satisfactory computer of mine.  I thought my mother would prefer that description instead of my vulgar, but heart-felt, use of the F-word.  This was taken several weeks ago, on our way to the coast.  Yes, Miranda and Sam swam in the ocean in February.  But then again, the weather was warmer then than it has been recently.

So, yes, the computer continues to irritate.  Beyond belief and beyond my patience level.  I just haven't felt like blogging without being able to import pictures.  Strangely, we tried an almost-new computer that we'd had up in Pelican and couldn't get it to work properly either.  Slower than dial-up.  Then Mick's sister Cheryl, reading of our plight and wanting me to write, gave us her old computer which worked just fine at her house.  But not at ours.  So this strange streak of bad computer luck inspired Mick to call the phone company that we have internet service through and they did a check, however they do such things, and guess what they told us?  Nothing wrong.  Say what????

I seriously don't get it.  I write that as I use the little, hot-pink mouse that came with the Bratz doll, the only mouse out of the several that we tried that continues to work for us.  I don't want to go on and on about this because I think the last time that I wrote on this blog, eons ago, it was this same old song-and-dance.  I get tired of me whining, too.

I want one of those little mini laptops.  I don't want to argue with Mick about it either, but that's what it would be right now, an argument.  Money aside, he insists that I don't really want a mini laptop.  I insist that I do.  "But you complain about trying to write on my laptop and a smaller one would be even worse," he has claimed.

Maybe, maybe not.  I haven't liked writing on his in the past.  Miranda's actually wasn't as touchy as his.  Yes, a smaller keyboard would take some getting used to.  So why do I want a mini?  I want something that I can hide.  I want my own.  I don't want to share.  I want something I can rely on.  I do.  I really do.  I'll get used to the smaller keyboard.

Sigh.

When I get home from work, and have finished dinner, I go in to do battle with the current computer. What do I find?  Sam.  Or Miranda.  I want my own tiny, not-too-heavy-to-carry laptop.  My own.

In other news...Sam is still not going to school.  We are still wrangling with the school and trying to come up with solutions.  Mick recently, finally, lost his cool with them and all I have to say is, "about time".  While they appeared to listen to us at past meetings, meaning we were allowed to speak, they actually didn't listen or follow one suggestion.  And their methods and expertise has gotten us right where we are:  Sam has attended school for only two weeks since Christmas Break.  Thank you very much.  Their current suggestion would have utilized our respite person to try to trick Sam into going to school.  Our respite girl would have come to the house, helped Sam get dressed, and then driven her to a location to hand her off to school personnel.  At which point Sam would have no longer trusted her respite person.  And we would have no respite.  We would have nothing.  So Mick got loud and told them absolutely not.

Respite workers are not easy to find.

In the meantime, Sam has become very interested in her heighth.  She likes to take her hand and measure her head against another person's to see if she is taller or not.  She finds it quite amusing that when she stands in front of me in the bathroom mirror, I am completely obliterated from view. 

She has also developed an annoying obsession with MY shirt sleeves.  I wear long-sleeve shirts exclusively at this time of year.  Sam prefers tank tops any time of year and has been cutting off the sleeves and picking off the sleeves of most of her clothes.  I suppose I should be grateful that she hasn't done that to me, but she does bully me and insists on shoving my sleeves up my arms until they are bunched underneath my armpits.  She does this is stores.  And if I assert myself and pull my sleeves back down, everything will stop right there while she pushes them up my arms again.  And if I protest, she can get even louder.  Infuriating.  Humiliating.  Arm flab on parade.

But if that isn't enough, Samantha is now obsessed with bald men and wants to rub their heads.  Mick always thought he was bald but he isn't bald enough for his daughter.  So she attacks strangers in public.  This is such a new development that my reflexes aren't what they should be.  Luckily Mick is more attuned and can usually ( read that as not always) predict what she's up to before her hands make contact.  Cheryl, if you take her anywhere, BE ALERT.  Spare the poor bald men of America, many of whom are not as comfortable as your brother.

So that's it for now.  I continue to debate the whole blogging issue.  Computer problems continue to plague me and take the joy out of the process.  But family and work life go on.  I continue to work on the novel and will post some excerpts soon.  Until then...

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.

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...

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! 
  
  

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.