Chicken and Sponge

The Ramblings of a Stressed and Jealous Mother of an Autistic Child and Weight-Losing Sister-in-Law

This is the locally famous, Cheryl Shockey, youngest child and last hope for a daughter Shockey, before her amazing transformation. Now she will have to stop by and let me take a snap shot of the evidence.  And Cheryl, this is what you get for giving me a bad time about not posting frequently  
enough.

I was just gently reprimanded by my daughter.  It is Sunday afternoon and I was just contemplating that I either need to find a way to never need to sleep or discover a habitable planet where the days are 36 hours long.

I'd settle for either because last night, though I slept, I can't say I slept well.  I am a person who dreams and usually remembers her dreams.   I usually look forward to my dreams, for entertainment's sake.  Some times they are adventurous, Bond-type dreams ( no kidding, like James Bond or Lethal Weapon),and at other times they are like out-of-body-astral-projection type dreams of spirit and magic).   I don't need to be dreaming about work.  My work too closely reflects my personal life in many ways, usually the stuff involving bathrooms and bodily functions.  But I definitely digress... to get back on track here...

It was Sunday afternoon and I'd just finished one post for this next week.  I felt bad that I'd only posted twice lat week, and on Friday, my sister-in-law Cheryl had reprimanded me for it.  "But, but, but..."  I started.

"I know," she replied, "Joannie already reminded me that you're working now, but I don't care.  I got into the habit of going to your site and I'm tired of there not being anything new there.  By the way, what about your story..."

So after finishing the one post, a true miracle considering that Sam is blasting The Nightmare Before Christmas in her room, and Mick and Miranda are watching Marley and Me at a volume to compete with Sam, I took a small break to change over the laundry ( because no one else is going to do it) and get myself something to drink.  Then I patted myself on the back, through verbal expression, to the two about feeling so good about doing one post and preparing to do another, and Miranda let me have it.  

"Mom, don't you think you should be writing on your story!" And here I sit, faithfully typing and composing away, my brain working just about as well as it ever does these days.  Churning out lame posts.  This one is kind of like the whole premise behind Seinfeld which was supposed to be a show about nothing in particular.  Ditto for this post.  It's not even psycho-babble, it's just babbling.

OK.  To make up for it a little, I'll share a little bit more about Cheryl and Joannie's visit on Friday.  It was a short visit so it will be a short sharing.  First, I am so proud and impressed and more than a wee bit jealous of Cheryl.

Cheryl, like many of us, has been battling her weight for a great portion of her life and she is one of those people who has been overweight but very active and fit.  Which, when I think about it, had to make the whole weight issue even more frustrating.  Like Mick exercising by proxy ( aka taking the dogs to the dog park and observing their exertion) and losing weight while I suffer and slave and can't cheat one tiny bit or even smell good food without another fat roll dropping over the top of my jeans (oh, there is still a short post to come on the subject of my jeans, much to the horror of Mick).

So during a garden raid (when Cheryl and Joannie would stop by to pick up some of my abundant, lovely produce) this summer, Cheryl noticed that I had bought the new Jillian Michael's book, "Master Your Metabolism".  We chatted about it.  I was about a third of the way through the book, but had not yet begun following the plan.  I had good intentions, though.  Cheryl, also being a Biggest Loser convert/fanatic, was very interested.  Although we talked about it and she looked through the book, I convinced her that she was going to want her own copy because it's just that kind of book and I knew I'd want to keep my copy.

Cheryl took my advice, and, I assume, she bought a copy of "Master Your Metabolism".  I assume this because, although she'd been unable to exercise for nearly six weeks due to a neck injury, Cheryl lost 15 pound in one week following the plan!!!!!!!!  Seriously.  I wish I was reporting it for myself, but as it turns out, you have to do more than just read the book, more's the pity. 

Cheryl looks great.  Cheryl looks smaller than she has ever looked in her adult life, or at least since I've met her.  Yes, she has continued to follow the plan and she has continued to lose significant amounts of weight.  I don't believe she's continued to lose 15 pounds a week, but she's been losing more that three a week since she's started.  Which brings me to her visit.

Cheryl brought us two big bags full of clothes for Sam.  Sam, in case no one knows, has always looked more like Cheryl's daughter than mine.  In fact, several years ago, during a summer visit in Pelican when Sam ran through the room stark naked, Cheryl burst into laughter and gasping, said, "I'm sorry, but I look just like that naked, but not as cute!"  Now she probably looks just like that but shrunk down.  I'm hopeful for Sam.  Never assume that someone is just meant to be overweight when you see that they are but they're active, because the right formula just hasn't been implemented.

The clothes...I am so thankful.  Sam's clothes-picking/ shredding goes at an unstoppable pace.  It is frustrating.  It is maddening.  It is so expensive! 

One big bag of Cheryl's contained coats of all kinds including a really wonderful, brand-new, red barn jacket from Lands End, a lined polar tech jacket Cheryl bought in Scotland, and a beautiful and soft, zip-up, very classy leather jacket.  Ooh-la-la.  Lovely.  Miranda, of course, isn't impressed with the leather, but, well, sometimes we are self-indulgent, self-serving hypocrites.  And that's the truth.

How I wish, oh, I wish, that Cheryl's bags had contained underwear.  If she reads this, maybe she'll get the hint.  But Cheryl is a pretty classy woman.  While her brother plays the diamond-in-the-rough, Cheryl is the diamond, marquis-cut.  She wouldn't dream of giving anyone, even her beloved, clothes-shredding, panty-destroying, compulsive, autistic niece, any of her old, baggy, possibly-stained underwear.  Cheryl, we're not proud.  We won't look.  We'll take them.  Plus, I don't think they'll last long.

Because also today, Mick, Sam, and I made a trip to Wal-mart.  Miranda stayed home to watch non-stop, DVR recordings, but we other three had to make an emergency trip to the Evil Empire.  Sam had no underwear, no panties...NOT ONE SINGLE PAIR.  She wore a dress to the Evil Empire ( I'm sorry, but I once heard a clerk at Radioshack call Wal-mart the Evil Empire, and I thought it was really funny and now I can't help myself.).  She didn't go bottomless, but I made her wear a "broken" pair, the most whole pair that I could find.  We bought her three three-packs and tonight I am lighting candles, anointing the panties, and sacrificing a goat...People, join us in prayer.  A Prayer for Panties.

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid dog.  Stupid door.

I am ticked.  I am disgusted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

OK.  That's it.  Over and out.

Getting Hired in Today's Economy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back-to-School Days of Peace

This is typical Zeus.  Very typical while sleeping, as he is here, but he'll run around while awake, seemingly unaware that his over-large tongue is protruding and drying out.  This photo has nothing to do with kids going back to school, but my children are no longer tolerant of me taking their pictures.  Zeus doesn't seem to mind.

Sigh.  Not a tired sigh.  Not a grim and resigned sigh.  That was a sigh of relief, a sigh of bliss.  Day two of the new school year.  Don't get me wrong--I don't mind having my kids at home, but it was one long summer.  Luckily, they agree.

I no longer have to do everything between the hours of 9:00 p.m. and midnight.  Well, not everything was done between those hours, just trying to write posts and work on a novel, emails, and any kind of studying I might be doing at the time.  I'm always studying or investigating something.  However, a brain depleted by prolonged gardening, heat, charming, but irritating pets, and let's not forget the autistic child who demands 24/7 supervision and daily outings for entertainment and contentment, is not a very effective brain.

My summer had been spent trying to keep the garden going and the weeds down, the pets alive and reasonably clean, the house not filthy, and my kids somewhat content.  However one accomplishes that.  That was just the daylight hours.  Evening hours, after Sam had gone to bed, were spent trying to accomplish what I used to think of as my day job i.e. writing.  I'd done a good job of keeping Sam on a regular schedule.  Bed time was usually between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m.  Her waking hour was usually far too early, but then after terrorizing me in the wee hours, she would kick me out of my bed and she'd go back to sleep.

That doesn't work for the school year.  After being evicted from my bed, I would collapse on the couch with pillow and blanket and sleep some more myself.  That, too, doesn't work for the school year.  We're adjusting, though.  The school schedule does us all good.  Miranda no longer stays up until 2:00 in the morning reading.  Sam, surprisingly, and let's remember this is just day two, has slept through the night.  Utterly exhausted, I was able to turn off the light at 10:00 p.m. so I didn't feel like a zombie up past her bedtime when 6:30 a.m. rolled around and I had to stay up-right.

Lot's of small changes for us this year.  Miranda has started high school.  When I stop and consider, I can see a lot of changes in her over this summer.  She no longer falls onto the couch in a blurry-eyed pile and waits for me to serve her every need.  She actually gets up and gets completely ready without any prompting.  She makes her own breakfast (so far) and she makes her own lunch.  Then she rides her bike over to her friend's house ( who lives one block from the high school).  She is making my mornings much easier than they have ever been before.

Which brings us to Sam.  Sam is cooperating.  End of story.  No need to say anymore.

The biggest change for Sam this year is eating the school's hot lunch.  We've never done this before.  We always thought she'd be too picky and not eat anything, but I was packing almost the exact same lunch for her every day, and there were times that she was obviously bored with the lack of selection.  I figured that since Sam LOVES to eat in restaurants, we'd just fake her out and try to convince her that school hot lunch was kind of like eating out.  I think she's going along with the subterfuge.  Because we qualified for reduced lunches, I hope she continues to be content.  I certainly can't make her a lunch for forty cents a day.

The pets were so funny yesterday morning.  It seemed obvious to me that they were aware of the change in the household energy level.  They knew something was up.  Therefore, the dogs made it their mission to be completely underfoot, demanding, and over-excited.  They didn't wish to miss anything, so naturally I kept booting them outside.

The cats waited for everyone to leave.  Hecate reigns supreme on my bed during the day.  Hedwig sleeps in the nest of pillows on Miranda's bed.  When the kids come home that all changes, but for those hours that the girls are in school, the cats are content with the uninterrupted quiet.

The dogs are enjoying the change of season.  No longer blistering, heart-pounding hot, they lie on the deck in the cooler sun, sun-bathing, enjoying the breeze, and waiting for the girls to come home.

Time.  Time is a luxury and it's a luxury I appreciate.  Time to write.  Time to study.  Time to grocery shop without the dubious help of my youngest ( it would be considered help if my objective were to burn through money as fast as possible while running down the store aisles wildly throwing products into the cart). Time to clean house.  I know that doesn't sound like much of a treat to anyone else, but cleaning while everyone is gone can be meditative and surprisingly productive, rather than cleaning around bodies who are busily cluttering in my wake.  Time to think, reflect, dream.  The house is so quiet.  I can hear the breeze, the wind chimes, the less-than-soothing sounds of Louise slurping at her paw, soon to be followed by her snores.  This is my favorite time of year.

Shopping for Bras

 

My new favorite bra.  It makes me feel like a female Viking warrior.  It is like a breast plate, and I just need my shield and a mace.

The title says it all.  Every so often, no matter how much we dread it, a bra must be bought.  It has been with dismay and a sense of impending doom, that I have felt a wire, not in one, not in two, but in three different bras go "snap"! All within a two-week period.  As every wearer of an underwire knows, once the wire snaps, that's it.  No repair possible.

The only thing worse than bra shopping is shopping with one's husband for building supplies, hardware, automotive supplies, etc., etc.  Bra shopping is even worse than shopping for a new swimsuit because you don't have to wear a swimsuit every day. 

I know, I know.  Yes, I know women, too, who don't always wear a bra.  I even knew a woman who had breasts about the size and shape of mine (years ago this was, not my current shapeless-shape) who didn't wear a bra and she had a penchant for form-fitting long-sleeved tees (kind of like me, but please, I ALWAYS wear a bra).  Frankly, it was more lewd than if she'd just paraded around topless.

I felt as though I was being punished by cosmic forces as I headed to Walmart for this dreaded necessity.  Reflecting on the situation, I'd last bought bras about six years ago.  Those I'd ordered from Victoria's Secret and I'd been very pleased with them.  All cotton, seamless, stretch straps, underwire, correct size.  Perhaps I should have gone on-line and ordered some more again.  Next time, I probably will.

Instead, I was up for some self-inflicted torture.

You can't buy a bra without trying it on.  You just can't.  It doesn't work that way and you're just asking for unhappiness if you do.  When Mick shops for clothes, he finds his size, grabs three or four of this or that and throws it in the cart and takes it home.  But then he doesn't wear bra either.

After years and years of experience, I can generally walk up and down the aisles and tell at a glance if a bra might work for me or be totally out of the question.  Then I have my own requirements:  no lace, no seams in the cups, straps must be stretch straps, and I guess, it must be an underwire.  I realized that my girth had increased since I'd last purchased bras so I faced reality and chose a larger size.  This is part of the reason I was shopping at Walmart.  When the weight comes off, Victoria Secret bras again.  Until then, I'll just punish myself for the weight gain.  Punish and torture.  I found about seven bras and threw them in my hand cart and went to the dressing rooms.

First indignity of the day:  I realized that my mirrors at home are kinder than the ones at Walmart.  Either that or Walmart just makes everyone look ugly.  I stared in horrified fascination at my body.  I turned around and looked at it from every angle.  Hmmmm.  I think I'll just go back inside my head and live with the rose-colored visions of my imagination instead.  Everything looks better there.

Because of the broken underwire, I got the silly idea that I could find a non-underwire bra that fit and looked great and then maybe, just maybe I wouldn't have to suffer the indignity of bra shopping for say, uhm, maybe ten or twelve years.

Right.  I put the first non-underwire bra on and then stared at my body with the same horrified fascination that people have as they drive past a car wreck.  Total deformity.  If I'd bought that bra and actually worn it, someone would have called INS to report me for smuggling a family of illegal aliens into the country under my shirt!

Problem bras:  There are the deformers (see above).  There are the "hey-look-at-me-I've-got-four-boobs bras.  There are the "I'm-so-happy-to-see-you-I-think-I'll-spill-out-the-top-and-say-hi bras.  There are the restrictive-smashed-flat-but-I-really-wish-I-were-a-boy bras.  There are Miracle bras for the boobless, to make them appear as if they have more.  But for someone like me, if I wore a Miracle Bra, someone would think I was wearing earmuffs out of season.

Eventually, I settled on four, all of them underwires, of course.  I've been wearing two of them, same style, for a few days now.  I must say that the makers of this model were obviously fearful of side-spillage.  Their solution was to make the wires so long that they embed themselves into the armpits of the wearer, thereby ensuring that no strange little pouch of flesh will appear at the side of the body.  Not as comfortable as it could be, but the fortress is secure, the troops are contained.

What Was in the Food? Eating Out With an Autistic Child and her Long-Suffering Sister

Oh, so sweet, so cute...our baby watermellon resting in Miranda's hand.  It's grown considerably since this picture was taken about two weeks ago.  If I'd stuck to eating out of my garden, my stomach would have been much, much happier.

Well, it had to be done.  I'm talking about school shopping.  Shopping on a tight budget this year.  I know we're not the only ones.  I'm sure I'm not the only parent who kind of dreads the experience either.  I saw some other weary faces.  This, I figured, would be Sam's entertainment for Saturday.  Yes, every day when school isn't in session, I rack my brain for some way to keep the kid entertained about mid-day.  Otherwise, she's been known to very quietly wander off on her own, seeking her own fun or her fortune, or sometimes just a Barbie or better food at someone else's house.  So now you see the necessity of keeping her "entertained" or at least occupied.

The kid loves to shop.  Miranda, on the other hand, would probably love to shop, but is very aware of finances and doesn't believe in acquiring a bunch of junk.  In fact, she moved all her junk out to our poor junk-filled (crammed) shop in an effort to have a clean, stream-lined, minimalist's bedroom.  But Sam just likes to shop.  She likes to acquire.  It bothers her if she can't find anything of interest to throw in the cart.  It just doesn't sit well with her.  But you know, she's getting better, getting more discerning, and she is now able to choose between two desired objects.  That may not sound like a big deal, but believe me, it is.  We seem to always be telling her, "You can have this or you can have that, but you can't have both" and then she has to put one object away.  When we first moved to Dallas, every trip to Walmart was like Christmas shopping:  CDs, Barbies, coloring books, and markers...every time we went anywhere for awhile there Sam thought she had to have a new set of markers.  She used to never put the lids on so frequent marker purchases were necessary, but now she always puts the lids on.

Anyway, back to school shopping.  Actually, back to multi-tasking, or in this case, combining errands.  My garden is still producing and it's still producing lots.  I like tomatoes, Miranda loves tomatoes, and Sam wouldn't dream of touching a tomato unless she got to squish it.  I'm also still getting quite a few anaheim peppers; I've got so many cucumbers that I'm completely sick of them and my zucchini is still cranking out, a little slower than before, but I'm still being surprised by giant zucchinis that just seem to miraculously appear.  And I know no one. What I need is that nice Mormon family with the 18 kids (who, by the way, have beautiful manners) that you see on TV once in awhile, to move in next door to me.  I could feed the family and I'm sure they'd even send some of those children over to help pick.  That is my current dream, a nice humongous Mormon family living next door.  The house across the street is empty, but if it's 1000 square feet, I'd be surprised.  I want my Mormon family to be comfortable, just a little hungry.  So the point of this stream-of-consciousness malarkey was that I decided to stop at my sister-in-law's house in Amity on our way to McMinnville and load her and Joannie down with some vegetables.  And no, I didn't bring them any spaghetti squash, though I may wrap up a few and give them as Christmas gifts since I was specifically told to not bother giving them any.

I knew I was taking them far more cucumbers than what they'd eat and I didn't care.  Cheryl and Joannie doknow people, a lot of people.  Plus, Cheryl is a teacher and Joannie's a school counselor.  I told them, "Hand them out as prizes.  Correct answer! Here, have a cucumber, take it home to your folks."  Why not?  It was a nice visit.  They have a nice house with a great porch--how I'd love a porch like that--and a wonderful, pastoral view.  But the afternoon was speeding by and we hadn't made it in to McMinnville to do our school shopping.

Sam needed shoes, desperately. Sam wears a women's size 10.  Her foot is fairly wide and thick.  Actually, her feet look a lot like her father's but she has much more presentable toe nails.  And if her foot sounds big, Mick wears a men's size 14 EEEE.  I'm not joking, he really does.  Try taking him shoe shopping!  Good luck finding anything.

Sam is tough on shoes.  Sam is tough on everything.  She's been known to peel the sole right off her shoes for no better reason than the mood struck her.  She has a penchant for girlie, ballet flats with completely inadequate soles and foot support.  She would buy high heels if we'd let her, and she actually has a pair of quite lovely black pumps with about a three inch heel.  I don't let her wear them out, though, because I am mean.  That, and I'm afraid of how much it would hurt if she accidentally planted that heel down in the middle of someone's foot.  She can walk fairly well in them though.

Sam has been really tough on her ballet flats this summer.  She likes to wear them everywhere, including down to the creek when we go swimming.  They are falling apart, all three and a half pairs of them.  So it was time for new ones and hopefully I could find a more supportive shoe that she'd consent to wear.

We went to Payless and I directed Sam to the correct aisle and she made a bee-line for the pumps.  After I said no and she gave me a long blank stare which I know was a look of disgust, she found little black flats.  One pair would never do with her so I searched for more. 

Sam:  Restaurant?

me:  How about these?  Would you wear these?

Sam:  Oh way!

me:  Well how about these?

Sam: How about, how about? [very agitated voice--a very bad sign]

me:  We need to find you more shoes, Sam.  These?

Sam:   Oh way!  Restaurant?  Eat restaurant?

I'd already decided that we would go to Shari's when we were done shopping.  We've eaten there before and I was sure we'd each find something acceptable.  I continued with the shoes, though and managed to find her  four pair, two of them with half-way decent soles for  walking and all of them black.  I didn't plan on buying all black, but when you've got an autistic girl with a size 10 foot, you take what she'll accept.  Miranda found a little pair of moccassins.

Time to go eat?

Miranda:  How about going to Ross's since we're here?

me:  [blank stare and a long pause] ...ok...

Shopping at Ross had been my idea a few days before.  I never liked Ross before because I kind of don't like the way the store is set up.  But they'd sold me with their back-to-school commercials and decent clothes for less sounded great.  I can stop being a snob for awhile.  Plus they carry Sam's size, too.  Not many stores where Sam and Miranda can both shop together.  Miranda's a size 3.  Sam is not.

They found clothes.  Miranda found some shirts, a blazer (sort of), jeans, a trench coat, and a jacket.  Sam got four shirts and a Bratz doll, which Zeus chewed and deformed its leg the next day.  Most of the shirts were between $6 and $9.  Sam's most expensive item was $14.99.  Miranda's was the trench, but I was fine with it since she only has one other coat and it's a ski parka.

Sam really wanted a dress, but the dresses in her size were frankly quite hideous and matronly.  The dresses she wanted were about a size 8 and that simply wouldn't work.  So a dress will have to be ordered.

At long last, time to go eat.  As I said, we'd eaten at Shari's before, quite often in fact, but it had been awhile.  For those not familiar with Shari's, it's an awful lot like Denny's.  The emphasis is on awful.  We got a table and opened the menus.  They had changed.

Sam had always liked the menus before because there was a color picture of each and every menu item, even though she always ate one of two things, fettucini alfredo or a french dip. But the menu had changed; the menu was smaller.  There was only one thing on it for my vegetarian--a vegie burger, not something that Miranda usually eats.

They had a chicken penne pasta alfredo for Sam.  Miranda ordered the vegie burger.  I debated.  I wasn't feeling healthy.  I wasn't feeling virtuous.  I was feeling a need for comfort food.  The chicken fried-steak?  Or the chicken pot pie?  My eyes slid back and forth between the two pictures.  I'm not naive enough to think that it was going to be actual home cooking.  We've had a restaurant now for 14 years.  I decided the safest bet was the chicken-fried steak.

If it was, I wouldn't have wanted to see the pot pie.  When the food arrived I went into mild shock because it didn't even look good.  Sam's pasta dish looked strange and gloopy.  Mine looked mildly freezer burned and the mashed potatoes weren't mashed.  They'd just been pressed a little bit with a fork with thick (as in too thick) gravy dumped on top.  And my vegetables--oh, my those poor little vegetables--I prodded them a bit with my fork, but yes, they were dead, drowned in some nasty brown water.  I hate to admit it, but I actually took one bite.  Then I drank down my glass of water.

Miranda's was the only meal that looked good.  Depression settled in.  When you have your heart set on comfort food...I picked, but apparently I ate too much.  Nausea followed depression.  I'd told Miranda after my bout of the flu that I couldn't imagine being bulimic.  The meal at Shari's gave me a strong urge to purge and if I'd had a toothbrush and toothpaste with me, I'd have gone into the restroom, leaned over, and let it all come out.  But I didn't and it is a twenty mile drive home.  So I stuffed all that nausea down deep into my unhappy stomach.

Midway through the meal, Sam experienced what I can only describe as a reaction.  It was like a drug reaction, a recreational drug reaction.  She suddenly, out of nowhere, started giggling out of control.  Over and over.  Silliness to the tenth power and she hadn't even had her ice cream with whipped cream yet.  I can't believe that her meal had actually tasted good.  It looked like long-forgotten left-overs.  Perhaps her giddiness was the result of relief, relief that her meal was almost over.  Probably not, but I like to think so, and Sam gives no explanations.

We got home about an hour and a half past the dogs usual dinner hour.  They were inordinately glad to see us and I must say, their dinner looked better than mine and they get the dry stuff out of the bag.

The nausea and the giggles lasted for hours.  "Next time, Mom," Miranda said, "just order what I had."  "There won't be a next time."  "Well," she replied, "I'm sure we'll eat there again sometime, maybe three years from now."  "Three years from now I'll be willing to give them another try."

And I will.  Keeping Sam content is a major task.  Combined with the necessity of school shopping, it was a successful afternoon for her and with the exception of my stomach, for me, too.  However, any further shopping will be completed via catalog.  And I will eat out of my  garden.

The Newest Nightmare in Computer Viruses/ Worms/ What Will They Think of Next?

I have no idea what this is.  I planted it.  It grows in my flower garden.  And now that my computer is running again, it reflects the inner-me.  If I were to take a picture of how I felt last night when my computer was infected, you'd be looking at a picture of a dog turd right now.

Last night I was prepared to sit and write about a couple of different topics and will hopefully get to them later this week.  Hopefully they don't fall into the category of "Missed Opportunities".  But my plans were suddenly and drastically derailed and I found myself in the middle of a waking nightmare.

First lesson to me is to write my post before checking my emails.  But last night, I thought I'd check emails first and then get to Typepad and write my post.  Ironically, the email I had clicked on had the subject matter "Stress Test".  I still haven't figured out if I passed or if I failed.

Before I could read it, boxes and alerts started popping up all over my computer telling me I'd just contracted viruses and a worm!  Hackers were after my passwords!  My brain reeled as I thought what my passwords would allow someone access to, namely all of our bank accounts.  I froze and then I started trying to click on some of the boxes in order to fix the problem.

The messages all said that my computer had the "Trojan. Win32. Agent.azsy".  Soon it was telling me that I had the "Bloodhound.PDF.8" Trojan.  The bloodhound trojan claimed to wipe out people's personal files from their hard drives.  I started wondering if I still had a novel and how long ago I'd backed it up. I went to www.blackle.com(google) to research and see what these Trojans are.  Difficult, because after a little while, the address bar automatically switched from blackle.com to blank.com.  And the alert messages continued.

Panic.  No, I didn't start running in circles, screaming, hands thrown up in the air.  I didn't pull my hair or have my eyes roll crazily in my head.  I just stared in numb disbelief, occasionally shaking my head and trying to remember to breathe.

I ran my Norton Anti-virus and it said that it had fixed any problems when it was quite obvious that it hadn't.  Crap.  I called Mick.

I had put Sam to bed.  She wasn't asleep,  but was ready for bed.  And I was ready to write and couldn't.  I couldn't seem to do anything with my computer.  So Mick and I talked.  Maybe, he suggested, maybe you'll have to drive over to Salem tomorrow and take it to the Geek Squad.  I sighed and said that I didn't want to drive over to Salem and that the Geek Squad was expensive.  Do they work on computers that you didn't buy there?  Still not sure of the answer, but I imagine, for a price, they work on about anything.

So then Mick told me to look up tech support for Hewlett Packard (because that's what kind of computer I have.  And let me add that when we bought it a couple of years ago, it was considered fancy-schmancy).  He has a Dell and he's called for tech support before and they just walked him through it over the phone.

So I manage to get to the Hewlett Packard website, in spite of all the angry alerts that are still popping up EVERYWHERE and I go to tech support.  I see that the first minute is free and every minute after that is $1.99 per minute!  I stare in disbelief ( and not a little disgust) and consider.  And consider and consider and now my eyes are rolling around crazily in my head, I'm ripping my hair, and I'm beginning to drool a little bit.

Then I call...I'm thinking, or justifying, that if I took it over to Salem to the Geek Squad, it's going to cost me money, probably quite a bit.  So if I can get it fixed that night, over the phone, then so be it.  However, I grab my clock and sit it next to me on the desk.  I'm praying for a ten minute phone call fix.

Didn't happen.  Not the ten minutes and not the fix.  Not only that, the guy actually started getting impatient with me for a bit and that is just not ok when I'm paying $2/ minute.  Sorry I'm not tech-savvy.  If I were, you wouldn't be getting this call and ALL MY MONEY!

The guy said it would be faster if he could take over my mouse by remote.  Fine by me.  Except that this nasty Trojan kept closing him out of Internet Explorer and we'd have to reconnect him.  Did this three times.  Every time he got into where he wanted to be, he still couldn't get rid of this Trojan.  In fact, I don't think he even located it.  Because, like the Trojan Horse that it's named after, it looks like something other than what it is.

The next thing we tried was for me to access a website from another computer ( tried Miranda's first but she has 5000 pictures stored and Explorer shut down on me, so we went on to Mick/Sam's laptop) and then to download a program into a thumbdrive.  I was then to take the thumbdrive to the infected computer (aka my computer) and download the program.

DID NOT WORK!

I've been on the phone with the tech support guy for an hour now.  That's right, $120!  I'd already told him that I couldn't stay on the line much longer.  So he tells me he's going to send me an email with a site that will walk me through getting rid of the virus.  You heard me.  I'm not going to write that again because it absolutely galls me to even think about it.  Obvious question, after the first few minutes on the phone, why didn't he give me this site?  Answer:  because NOW WE ARE PAST THE $120 MARK AND MY BILL IS CLIMBING!

We hang up.  Thank you, thank you, God.  I go to Mick's laptop and open up the emails.  Three options are there for downloading something that is supposed to help me get rid of this mess.  I'm supposed to download and put it in my thumbdrive and then take it to my computer and install it.

It turns out that this "free trial offer" will only scan for problems and not fix them.  So I find out that my computer has 15 threats and 59 viruses.  And no fix unless I want to pay $39.95 a year.  Deep, disgusted breath and I get out my debit card to purchase.

And guess what?  I get everything filled out and when I get to the place where I need to give them credit card info, that little alert box pops up and blocks everything and I can't purchase the solution.  I try and try.  I give up at midnight.  Head pounding.  I feel like I've been given a venereal disease I feel so violated.

Let me explain something about this Trojan.  When you come across it and it invades your computer, it, the Trojan, is what starts sending you all these alerts and dire warnings.  The hook, the scam, is that the Trojan offers you a solution, bogus, phony spyware protection to get rid of the problem that you're having.  It IS the problem, but you may not know that.  It just won't let you do anything until you purchase their fake spyware and then they've got your credit card info and they have your money.  This is truly diabolical.

I went to bed feeling beat-up, defeated, hopeless, and adrift in despair.  People sometimes point out to me that I deal with a lot of stress and it is true.  More true than they know.  However, Samantha is the least of my stress.  There are a lot of more stressful things in life to deal with.  Unfortunately, my body doesn't deal with it.  My body falls apart.  Right now I have a big, itchy, swollen lump on the inside of my right elbow.  Doesn't sound like much and it isn't, but it's there; I'm aware of it; it's not comfortable, and it's just one more weird thing that reveals my stress level--as if the significant loss of pigmentation wasn't a big enough clue.

I dealt with the computer almost first thing this morning.  Once I'd worked up my nerve, that is.  I beseeched the heavens, Angels of Aries, to get this computer fixed!  My friend Chris sent me "good computer vibes".  Then I took a deep breath and hoped that the Trojan was still sleeping or distracted so early in the morning.  Maybe the Trojan isn't a morning, uh, horse?

It worked.  It worked, folks.  I think.  It appears to have worked.  So far.  For an additional $39.95 for this year.  After paying $147.26 to Hewlett Packard tech support, so that they could tell me to go spend $39.95 to  fix the problem. That hurts.  It really does, but I guess I'll get over it.  I'm contacting Hewlett Packard, though, and letting them know just how unhappy, how unsatisfied I am.  I would feel different if they'd actually fixed the problem, but they didn't.  They also didn't tell me how to get the problem fixed in a timely manner.  Tech support should be free.  And if they can't manage free they should have a different pay scale.  I think Dell computer tech support is free.  I'll check on that before I vent.

Your current virus protection probably won't protect you from Trojans.  Every system has its strengths and weaknesses.  Norton Anti-Virus didn't begin to do anything for this problem.  What I ended up purchasing was Spyware from PC Tools.  There are others, but this seems to be the one.  So if you get alerts and messages that you've been infected with a Trojan, either shut down that computer and go to another, or just go to PC Tools ( I googled and used the name of the Trojan to get to the right place.  Oh, yeah, forgot to mention, I'd actually seen the solution before calling tech support, but had been unsure), and purchase and install their spyware.

Nothing bad has happened on my computer for a couple of hours now.  I'm not going to get complacent, but I think I can stop holding my breath.  I think, maybe, I'm back in business.

Life Was Getting Back to Normal...Then Mom Falls Sick

Well, it's not like I'm going to include a picture of myself.  I've been attempting to capture the perfect Louise picture, when she's sitting in her bulldog Buddha pose.  I'm getting closer.

I never dreamed  that this would turn into a three-part saga.  In fact, after a fairly routine Monday, I thought we were returning to our own version of normal.  It might not resemble anyone else's normal, but it's ours and it's better than many alternatives...Like the reality that hit us. 

Monday I puttered.  I wrote; I did minor cleaning; I walked past projects that need attending to and lamented that today wasn't going to be the day.  I eventually took the cats to the vet for a long-overdue appointment.  Four o'clock is just too late in the day.  It hung over me like some major project when it wasn't.  If it had been the dogs--no big deal.  Those idiots love going to the vet!

But the cats...one must be sly, secretive, sneaky.  It's a good thing that the cats and dogs don't speak the same language or those curs would have ratted me out.  I had to hose out one of the cat crates because it had been sitting on the porch, unused, since last August.  If a cat sees a carrier, that's the last one will see of the cat.  And those two somehow talk to each other without making a sound.  Most of the time Hecate and Hedwig don't seem to even particularly like each other, but in matters of travel, they have an alliance.

So here's how it's supposed to work:  I clean the carriers outside and then place them out of view on the porch.  I discretely put clean towels in each one and leave the doors open.  Then I signal Miranda.  She finds Hecate; I find Hedwig.  We nab them, stuff them, close the cage doors and I drive away to the vet.

Here's how it actually works:  I clean the carriers and the dogs see me and go absolutely ape-shit because they think that they are going to get to go somewhere even though these carriers are so obviously the wrong size for them.  They impede my every move, barking at me, banging my shins with their rock-hard heads causing me great pain.  I yell at them which I know will do no good, but I do it anyway because it makes me feel better.  I let the carriers dry out of sight and Zeus tries to crawl in one and looks like the ridiculous fool that he is.  Sorry, no pictures, I was too annoyed.  Finally, it is time and Miranda and I both successfully grab and stuff our cats--while the dogs jump and crash into us, trying to insert their heads in the crates while we try closing the doors.  More unpleasant words are directed at the dogs with the same effect.  In other words, none.  Then I try to go out the front door to the car, a crate in each hand, and the dogs listen as well as ever, in other words, not at all, and they go running out the front door, trying to get in the car and Louise decides to hide outside in the front.  Finally, the dogs are corralled and herded inside and I can leave.  Hedwig, as is her norm, yowls unpleasantly for the entire drive.  Luckily, the vet isn't far away.  When we've traveled with her to Alaska, she has yowled for the entire hour and fifteen minutes to to airport, and then I've heard her yowling in the hold of the plane.  So the five minute drive was nothing.

After that, everything was anti-climatic.  Thank God!  Compliments on the beautiful and healthy cats.  Good to see a Persian that isn't all matted with gooey eyes [these two are actually Exotic Shorthairs, aka the lazy man's Persian which is why their coats are so nice and matt-free].  And they'd maintained their weights--12 pounds and 8 pounds, amazing for indoor cats.  It might just have something to do with two bulldogs chasing them around the house.

I'm home a half-hour later.  The dogs are insanely glad to be reunited with us as though the cats had been on some spectacular adventure and then Louise annoys me for the rest of the night by very firmly and persistently sniffing my legs.  All those exciting doctor office smells.  Actually, there'd been three huge rescue dogs in the office when we got there and one of the owners apologetically explained that they were cat-killers.  Not that I would have taken our cats out for a visit.  They barely tolerate our dogs, let alone strangers.

So all is fine and dandy and I get to finish my phone call with my friend Chris, which had been rudely and completely interrupted by a bodily explosion the night before.  I had a couple of glasses of wine and a great visit.

Then I woke up Tuesday morning.  This couldn't be a hang-over?  Could it?  Could it?  When was the last time I had a hang-over?  So long ago that I don't remember.

I get up, feed the pets, lie down on the couch to watch the Today Show, and it's the last thing I do.  The last normal thing I do, I mean.  Because it isn't long after that that I retrieve Miranda's barf bucket, but I'm having to sit on the toilet while I vomit painfully into her bucket, if you get my drift!  Then the body aches really begin.  And if I wasn't so miserable I'd feel smug because this wasn't any hang-over!  Ha!  I've got the flu!

Yes, my kids gave me their crud, and lucky me, I get both versions.  Poor Miranda had to take care of just about everything.  I was too achy to lie on the couch for long, so she got out an air mattress and made a bed for me.  Because, of course Sam had kicked me out of my own room for the day.  Which was fine because there was still a lingering scent of her poop hanging in the air.  And I was completely nauseated.  And limp.  Occasionally moaning in misery which I tried to control because that kind of freaks Miranda out.  But it's kind of like giving birth (well, not really, of course), in that the intermittent verbalization, the animalistic groan, brings the slightest bit of relief.

I don't know how Miranda did it, but the dogs spent the entire day outside.  Miranda had traded places with me and hung out watching TV with me all day.  Except that I did sleep through a great deal of it.  This is the only time I nap, folks.  My mom would tell you, I didn't even nap as an infant.  I made every car trip a complete misery for my family because I was the only kid in the world who couldn't fall asleep in the car.  That's still me.  If I'm exhausted, which honestly is a lot of the time, I might blink too long and fall asleep while watching TV for a total of ten minutes, tops.  But not when I'm that sick. I slept. I woke up stiff and sore, rolled over, and I slept some more.  The sleep came after turning my stomach inside out three times, examining last night's dinner (hey, I thought I chewed better than that) and then observing that I was now placing bile in the bucket and my throat was burning. Luckily the diarrhea stopped even a little before that.  Then sleep and more sleep.  I heard Mick call once and I didn't talk to him.  I just lay there and listened to Miranda tell him that Mom was sleeping and couldn't be disturbed.  If I hadn't been experiencing fever, chills, and horrible body pains, all this sleep would have been a pleasant dream.  Remember, I'd been sleep-deprived for about three nights ( or 14 years).

What made this situation difficult is that 1) Sam was getting better and a little more restless and 2) Sam had started her period--which was a relief for me because she hadn't had it since maybe February or March.  Definitely not a relief for Miranda.  And not for me either because I was in no condition to help Sam deal with it.

There was an incredible amount of washing to be done.  Normally this wouldn't phase me.  It doesn't phase me.  I can tell you True Tales of Horror about doing laundry, literally, around the clock.  Two o'clock in the morning, three o'clock in the morning...six o'clock...you get the idea.  But Miranda has never had to do this.  For her, and maybe most people, one or two loads and they think they've done a lot of laundry.  For some people I know that would be a week's worth--but I sure wouldn't want to see their sheets or towels.  I have to laugh when my mother mentions something about it being laundry day because here EVERY DAY IS LAUNDRY DAY!  And some days, and some weeks, are worse than others.  We've been having one of those weeks.

Another problem we have is Miranda's concern about Sam's weight.  This isn't normally a "concern" because I will mostly pay attention to what Sam eats and try to ensure that she eats as healthy as she will allow me without causing bodily harm to me or causing her to run away and attempt to forage in stranger's refrigerators--true story.  And we're ALL concerned with Sam's weight for obvious reasons.  But Miranda is so concerned that she just doesn't like to see any food going into Sam's mouth, and of course, that isn't healthy either.  Fat or not, a person needs to eat. 

So Sam did get to eat, although it was much later than it should have been and Miranda was getting pretty worn out playing nursemaid, house keeper, and sister's keeper.  I know, it's a tough, but rewarding job.

I finally wanted to eat, too.  I wouldn't say I was hungry, but I was feeling that other kind of shakiness, the kind that is your body telling you it needs fuel.

There was no good sick food in the house.  Since Mick doesn't have the internet I'll tell you why there is no good sick food in this house.  Because come winter, an afternoon or evening will come when he doesn't want to eat healthy, he doesn't want to go to the store because the weather is crappy, and then he will spy my cream of chicken or my frozen chicken pot pies.  They are the only things I ever feel like eating when I'm sick and that's the only time I do eat those foods because they've got a million fat calories in them.  Comfort food.  He will deny this, but don't believe it for a minute.

I was grateful to get two short cans of Sprite to help me through the day.  Once Sam discovered there was pop in the house again she started her sneak attacks on the refrigerator and I later found little cans stuffed here and there.

I'm running out of steam again just thinking about all this.  The day finally came to an end.  I was able to help Miranda a little and was amazed that she would rather change the bedding on my bed and Sam's rather than help her sister with her shower.  No problem, I did it.  However, the chi qong session I requested she give her sister must have been too much for her because it was the shortest session ever.  But that's ok.  I walk in those shoes.

Lights out at 9:30.  Almost unheard of for me.  I only woke up to roll over.  No one else puked.  No phones rang in the night.  No dogs barked to go out and make friends with skunks.  And Sam let me sleep until 6:30!  You do the math.  I almost felt like a normal person when I woke up.

A Long, Sick Weekend

Can you tell just how thrilled she is to have me taking her picture?  Just because Miranda hates it so much, I decided to do extra-large this time.  She didn't look this good this weekend.

So everything looked like it was going well.  Sam seemed back to normal, obsessed with my fat and my butt cheeks, laughing,  chattering, incomprehensible... you name it.  But seemingly happy.

It was Saturday.  We'd taken Miranda to Janay's birthday/slumber party.  Dropped her off.  Gone to Abby's and ordered dinner.  Eaten little and gone home.  I really don't remember much after that.  I think Sam, being under the weather, went to bed early.  I stayed up and looked up crap on the internet and wrote, etc., etc., etc.  Felt very productive.  Didn't know it would be the last time in days.

Details don't really matter.  I'd just taken a melatonin, after reading something long and absorbing, finishing the last Sookie Stackhouse book "Dead and Gone", and was sinking down into that delightful, heavy-limbed, comatose sleep, when the phone rang.  Two rings and I leaped out of bed, cursing mentally, and waited for an explanation.

"Mom.  Can you come pick me up?  I'm puking!"

What can you say?  No?  I'm tired?  Tough it out?  No, you can't.  Absolutely not.

"Give me a minute to get dressed and get your sister up."

Because, of course, that is part of the deal.  Sam, the autistic, is asleep.  Here is one of those crappy situations.  I can leave her and there's a 99.999999% chance that she'll be perfect.  There's also a chance that she'll over-react, leave the house, let your morbid imagination lead you to whatever conclusion you like.  I couldn't leave her, just in case...At the very least, I'd hate to have her wake up and feel scared.

Sam was a bear.  Thank God, Janay's house is close because our conversation went something like this:

Sam:   "five three!"  [this is a CD request and has little to do with the placement of the CD because her CDs take up all six slots in the player.  She can't remember what she wants--just get your CDs out of there and pay attention. After all, everything is hers.]

[I try disc 5, song 3 and I get:]

Sam: five three! five four! five five! four five! five three! three four!!! three one!!!!, ...

It's dark.  Because it's midnight.  I kind of have night-blindness.  I'm afraid of all the potential road-kill wandering the roads because I see a lot of it flattened during the day...So tired.  So fed up with numbers being shouted at me.  I'm trying to accommodate, but nothing is working and I'm having a stupid monologue that is attempting to be a dialogue with Sam, but she's not listening.

We get to Janay's.  Janay's mom is behind the curtain and then outdoors, carrying Miranda's stuff.  Soon several girls are outside in various states of undress--awkward, coltish, refreshing, innocently beautiful...and Sam is unbuckling...I have the back open and Sam is kind of shrieking and most displeased with me.  I'm walking around the car to say hello to Janay's mom and relieve her of Miranda's stuff. 

Sam:  [shriek, shriek, shriek...}

me, to Janay's mom:  Hi, never mind her [ I say, gesturing to Sam], I couldn't figure out what she wants to listen to and she's not happy with me.

Shelly, [Janay's mom]:  I'm so sorry.  I'm here by myself with the girls or I would have driven her home.

me:  Don't worry about it.  Sam will survive and you had no choice.  No big deal.  Sam will live.

Shelly:  Yes, two other girls got sick. One was a vegetarian and decided to eat pork tonight...

me:  Miranda didn't, did she?

Shelly:  No.

me:   I didn't think so.  Miranda is usually so rigid about such things.

Shelly:  Another girl didn't feel good and left earlier, too.

Miranda, looking absolutely pathetic and pale came out of the house.

Shelly:  Did you remember your bag? [plastic shopping barf bag]

me:  Oh, I was surprisingly smart and grabbed a bucket on the way out.

At that moment a big, beautiful, and completely comical raccoon came barreling across the road right in front of us and disappeared into the bushes.  Made the trip something of a plus. Shelly told me it was the third one that night.

Sam was a little more pleasant on the ride home.  Not much, but a little.  Miranda started to get impatient with her, but I reminded her that Sam hadn't been feeling well and that I'd had to wake her from a dead sleep.  Not that I was trying to make Miranda feel guilty.  She always feels bad if people's plans have to change because of her.

Miranda:  I would have tried to stay, Mom, honestly, but after the second time I puked I just wanted to come home.

me:  Honey, of course.  No one wants to be sick at someone else's house.  Not to mention that the other girls and Shelly don't need to be around it.  Of course you had to call me.  It's no big deal.  Sam'll survive even if it doesn't sound like it right now. [Because of course there were still intermittent squawks coming from Sam]

Sam continued this unpleasant squawking even after we got home.  I told the dogs (in their crates) to shut up, just for good measure, and eventually just closed Sam's door on her.  Moral of the story?  When Sam's upset, she needs her space to calm herself down, because no one is going to jolly her out of it!

Don't think I was suddenly not tired, that that little outing had somehow helped to wake me up.  The melatonin and lack of sleep from the previous two nights was calling to me.  But it was not to be.

I'd helped Miranda to her bed and left her with her bucket.  Then I returned to bed and was once again slipping into that deep, heavy-limbed slumber, when I heard Miranda using her bucket.

That poor kid sounds just like me--trying to turn her body inside out.  Got up, emptied bucket, reassured her that I still loved her, wasn't mad, etc., etc.

Back to bed, back to sleep...I hear vomiting and rush down the hall only to find...that I must have been dreaming it.  Miranda is fine for the moment.  An hour, maybe two pass, and then I think, of course, THAT is what her puking sounds like, it was too quiet the time before.  And I meet her in the bathroom and rinse out her bucket for her.

I won't describe each and every time.  Suffice it to say, she wishes she hadn't eaten so much junk food, particularly tortilla chips with all the sharp edges.  But once the food is gone and bile is all that is left, then the real misery begins.

This involuntary purging cycle continued into Sunday morning.  Miranda lay limp on the couch and I just kept her company, watching programs off of our DVR list--most of them episodes of True Blood which we've seen repeatedly.  I did minimal housework and no yard work.  Sam was still under the weather a little, some more diarrhea in her case, but Sam only wants to be left alone when she doesn't feel well. 

It seems like I've forgotten something completely abominable that the dogs did, but if so, that will make sense in a moment.  Just thank your lucky stars that you are being spared one gross detail in what turns out to be a WEEKEND GROSS-ORAMA!

One of Sam's diarrhea moments required some bathroom clean-up and spot cleaning on the floor.  OK.  No big deal.

I'm on the phone with my friend Chris at about 7:00 or 7:30.  Our phone calls take some arranging through email because of her schedule and my crazy home life.  So we're chatting and catching up again and it's really pleasant.  It's adult contact with someone I've known forever.  I'm in the tiny room which still isn't a sewing room yet, just completely enjoying myself when Miranda yells weakly from the living room couch:

Mom!  Sam's had an accident!

I apologized to Chris.  Being a nurse and mother, she understands that some things can't wait.  I knew before I reached my destination that this wasn't going to be a dumped plate of food or even a pee accident.  However, I wanted to know how Miranda knew there'd been an accident when she'd been so sick she could barely move.

Miranda:  Because I can smell it, Mom!

And so could I.  OK.  Not going to spare you now.  Consider yourself spared because you didn't have to be here to help me clean it.

Sam had been on the far side of my bedroom, the far side from the bathroom, when that violent, diarrhea-urge to release hit her.  It was foul.  It was everywhere.  It was on top of papers and coloring books, some on sheets, a huge pile (can a liquid constitute a pile?) next to the bed and then a long thick trail with splatters all the way into my bathroom.

I stared in horror and wondered how to even begin.  Had Mick been here we might have just got an upholstery knife and cut out the carpet.  Actually, I was glad he wasn't here because over-reacting doesn't help me in these situation.  I can deal with grim and determined silence much better than swearing, lamenting to the heavens and all other manner of melodrama.  However, an extra pair of hands is sometimes nice. Or someone to say, "hey, watch where you're stepping!" I had already walked into the middle of the room before realizing that I shouldn't have done that--adrift in a sea of nasty, liquid poop.  It was on my bare feet.

In retrospect, I should have cleaned on my hands and knees first, but it had just seemed too overwhelming and inadequate.  So I got out the carpet shampooer.  And I went at it.  Over and over. In grim and determined silence.  That may turn out to be the title of my autobiography.

It looked much cleaner when I was done except for that one initial pile next to the bed.  Still visible.  Still malodorous.  But now it was getting late.  And Miranda was still sick.  It was apparent that Sam was sicker than I'd realized and needed a bath/shower in a most desperate way.  I certainly needed new bedding.

We got everyone as cleaned up as they were going to be that night and into bed.  I decided in the morning I'd do the unthinkable and attack the carpet with bleach water.  Now I only do this because this carpet is far beyond ever being presentable again, let alone attractive.  We've had marker stains, food stains, makeup stains, glue, scorch marks, and more bodily fluids of multiple species than you want to know about.  So what's a little bleach?  What's a lot of bleach?

I went to sleep that night with the faint, lingering scent of diarrhea in my nostrils.  And I slept well because I was exhausted.