(Kitchen) God Bless Us Everyone

Those who regularly read this blog know that I am a person of faith.  Most days I survive on a wing and a prayer.  I pray pretty much all day long - "Christ on a Cross, give me strength! Get down from that china cabinet!"  "Suffering Mother of Jesus!  Get off that easel!"  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, get off the microwave!"  I am a very prayerful person.  Just ask the neighbors.

My faith is an important part of my life and that of my family.  My daughter has attended Catholic school since she was three years old.  Not that you could tell by observing her.  Even now, despite all these years of Catholic schooling, nightly prayers, and weekly Mass, she still comes across as borderline pagan.  I swear, every time we enter church and go to the pew she scoots right in.  Hissing I drag her out by her collar and make her genuflect.  She looks at me with an expression that says, "Really?  Genuflecting?  Is this something new?"  One time at Communion she was so discombobulated that the priest looked at me and said, "Has she not made her First Communion?"  I stammered, "Yes, she has."  He asked, "Recently?"  Stammering even more I replied, "Two years ago."  He shook his head, shrugged, and gave her Communion.  Mind you, this all happened in the midst of the Communion line. It caused such a delay that there was actual rubber-necking from other parishioners.  For those of you not Catholic, this is very unusual.  The Communion line is a beast of efficiency, probably because it was originally created by and monitored by nuns.  There is no shilly shallying in God's House, Mr. Man/Lady Jane.*

The R.A., despite belonging to a different faith (The Church of the Kitchen God, Reformed) does enjoy attending Catholic church. He seems to get a real boot out of it: "There's no hanging from the ceiling by your toes, but it's okay."   We attend the C.C.D. (religious ed.) Mass so there is always a lot of action.  The never ending parade of kids to and from the bathroom is a particular source of R.A. amusement.  His little head snaps from the left and right as the kids go up and down the aisle.  Sometimes he will flap in excitement, "Oh!  There's that kid!  I think it's his third time!  I love him!  Look at him go! And go! And go!"

The R.A.  also enjoys the music at church.  We've got one of those ancient monster organs that's so loud you can't hear the choir over it (not always a bad thing.)  Come to think of it, the R.A. probably  likes the organ because it sounds like it's yowling.  If they have dragons on the home planet, I'm guessing they sound like our organ but hopefully not as asthmatic.  The R.A. is a particular fan of the organist whose vocal stylings are akin to Marlene Dietrich in "Blue Angel".  One of these days I'm sure we'll glance up to the choir loft and see the organist draped over the organ, caterwauling his heart out while clutching a white rose.  It's  R.A. Soul Music.

This being Lent, they have increased church time at my daughter's school.  Thankfully this appears to have made her more reflective about her faith.  Yesterday I arrived home from work and she greeted me at the door, announcing much as I would imagine a Barrymore would, "Tonight I shall be performing a holy play because it is Holy Thursday."**

After dinner my mother and I got ourselves settled in the living room while my daughter set up for the holy play.  I figured the R.A., recognizing our preoccupation, would take it as an opportunity to climb all sorts of unsuitable things.  Surprisingly, he too settled himself in the living room.  I think he sensed something was going on and was curious.  The R.A. tends to be especially interested in anything involving his sister.

Now, lacking funding, materials, and time, this was definitely an off, off, off, off, off, waayyy off Broadway production.  It wasn't so much a play as a puppet show and even for a puppet show it was affected by lack of funding, materials, and time.  The cast was made up of a variety of animal finger puppets and random small toys - Pontius Pilate was played by a Sir Topham Hatt bubble whistle figurine and because of production challenges he also played the role of Simon the Cyrene.  And in a very ava`nt garde move, a plastic chicken inhabited the part of a Roman Centurion, and who, despite his short and plump stature, performed admirably.  Mike, the zebra finger puppet, was Jesus.  His Messiah was a mixture of solemn and pious and striped.  A small green plastic tennis racket served as the cross.

And so began one of the most creative performances of the "Stations of the Cross" ever staged.  Despite the unorthodox actors, it was quite good.  I was very impressed because my daughter knew each station by heart.  True, sometimes one of the characters would inadvertently tip over (not that chicken centurion!) but she did an extraordinary job of conveying the story of Christ's Passion and Death.  Not only did she convince me that she was a Christian but a Catholic Christian.  Amen!  Alleluia!

The show was so good we did have a curtain call.  The chicken got the most applause and forever after, no Passion Play will ever be the same if it doesn't include a chicken.  How could it?

I had expected the R.A. to lose interest within the first eleven seconds of the show.  Amazingly he remained seated and quiet during the entire performance.  I think he was waiting to see what his sister was going to do with his Sir Topham Hat whistle figurine.

The R.A. sat off to the side and therefore gave the show sidelong glances.  His expression was one that said, "What the hell is this about?  I mean seriously.  What's going on here?"  A couple of times we caught him shaking his head as if to say, "Man, this is messed up.  And they think I'm the weird one.   I really don't get their attachment to her.  What do they see in her?  I would have vaporized her a long time ago.  The only thing saving her is that I really like her stuff."

I think the reason the R.A. didn't bolt is that he couldn't.  It was like a car crash for him - even though it was gory and horrible, he couldn't look away.  Although, as my mother pointed out, technically the R.A. did look away as, because of the autism, he couldn't look directly at the show but rather watched out of the corner of his eye.  But he got enough of a gander to know he was a cocktail of bemused and horrified - bemified if you will.

The whole experience took a lot out of the R.A.  After the curtain call he let out a huge yawn and announced, "Night night time."  Before heading up to bed the R.A. did rescue Sir Topham Hatt from the curtain call.  I have not seen the figurine since. Apparently his understudy will fill in for future performances.

*Monikers of contempt habitually used by Catholic school nuns back in the day

**We actually have a history of of liturgical drama in my family.  Years ago, during Holy Week,  my then three year old brother came home from Catholic nursery school.  He and my mother were in the kitchen, my brother playing with his plush Mickey Mouse.  My mother watched him manipulate Mickey's arms and legs.  My brother turned to my mother and said very solemnly, "You know, they nailed Mickey to the cross."  And sure enough, he had arranged Mickey a la crucifixion.

Get in Shape! Or Else!

Have you tried everything to lose weight?  Have you tried every fad diet and every fad exercise program that comes down the pike but still can't shed those pesky pounds?  The R.A. understands that a trim figure is not only pleasing to the eye but it also allows one to wriggle out of one's backless/footie-less pajamas through the neck hole.  How many times in the past couple of months have you needed to wriggle out of those jammies and been unable to?  Then the R.A.'s "You Are Worthless and Weak Even By Your Species Pathetic Substandard Standards" exercise program is for you!  This untested and unsubstantiated program is not guaranteed to help you lose weight but will make you less of a loser in the R.A.'s eyes.  Okay, it really won't make you less of a loser in the R.A.'s eyes but nothing short of admitting that you are a waste of precious oxygen and then committing harikari with a Dum Dum is ever going to improve your status in his eyes.  And even then he'll probably declare you've done it wrong and yowl in disgust over you, finger flicking in your face as you take your last gasps.

Like any despot worth his Pringles, the R.A. is a staunch advocate of physical fitness - in the quaint body punishing Soviet Union women's gymnastics team sort of way.  In order to be prepared for the Invasion, he's got to keep himself in tip top shape.  With this in mind he's always challenging himself physically and recently created a new workout regime. If you are losing the Battle of the Bulge, you might want to take notes.

The R.A. is also an incredible multi-tasker and has combined this workout with meal time.  So not only does he get one heck of a workout but burns calories while eating! It's pure alien genius!  And so simple even a witless earthling can do it!

Here's how it works:
1. Set out your dinner.  For optimum weight loss the majority of the food should not be found in nature.  The more chemical byproducts the better.  Your meal should include at least two individual containers of Pringles.  We highly recommend an order of McDonald's nuggets and fries and a huge glob of ketchup.  Important - Do not accept substitute nuggets and fries!
2. Presentation is key and a nice table always contributes to a meal's success.  The R.A. suggests coloring your dish with crayons before and during eating. If the walls or flooring is offensive he also recommends coloring those too.
3. If you have a banana, make sure to clutch it as if engaged in arm wrestling.  Bananas are the stealthiest of tree fruits and if not securely gripped may attempt to escape.  Unfortunately gripping a banana can cause dents in the fruit which are extremely "unappeeling" (Oh, banana humor!  Ha! Ha!).  Rubbing the banana on the sides can remove dents.  Or make it fall apart which makes it inedible.  Yowl in indignation and continue yowling until your idiot servant removes the damaged banana from your sight.  It is recommended that you follow your servant because she is known to be lazy and will attempt to leave the banana on the kitchen counter wrapped in a paper towel instead of properly disposing it immediately into the trash.  Don't believe her pathetic excuses of  assisting your injured sibling - that kid has at least 8 pints of blood in her body.  Stopping the bleeding can wait two minutes.
4.  Once you have determined the table set up is to your liking, sit and take a bite of food.
5. Stand up. 
6. Take one step on the floor to your right.
7. Step up on the small plastic toy suitcase that is situated immediately to your right.
8. Step down off the plastic suitcase on the opposite side.
9. Step up on the plastic suitcase.
10. Step down off the plastic suitcase (in direction of food.)
11. Take a bite of food.
12. Flap hands.
13.Toe jump.
14.Yowl.
15. Repeat steps 5 through 14 for as many times as you feel like it or as many times as it takes to annoy those around you.

It is important to rest between sets.  During these rest periods disassemble wooden puzzles and arrange them precisely all over the floor.  Caterwaul at anyone who attempts to pick them up or has the audacity to sing the "Clean Up" song and make you pick them up.  Chin the offender if necessary.

If at any time during the meal-aerobics, you suddenly find the food on your dish abhorrent, it is acceptable to unceremoniously dump it on someone else's dish or in her cup, preferably a full cup.  Then flick your fingers in that person's face.  Do this while wearing an expression of disgust and make sure that person knows it is her fault.  Then loudly demand a replacement food, preferably something that is not in the house.  For maximum calorie burn do this while vigorously jumping up and down on your toes while energetically flapping.  For more aerobic activity run and fetch your doltish servant's purse.  This will also incorporate some strength training as the purse weighs at least 30 pounds as is evidenced by your servant's yell as you spike it on her foot. 

Next you will engage in more strength training as you purse wrestle with your servant as she attempts to put the purse back in its original spot which you will not allow.  Wrestle as if you are preparing for a caged fighting match.  Fight dirty.

Incorporate more aerobic activity by running to the light switch and turning it off.  Run back to your seat and toe jump.  Your servant will have the nerve to turn the light back on.  Yowling loudly and looking like a Barbarian at the gates of Rome, race back to the light switch and turn it off.  You and your servant will repeat this a minimum of six times.

Abandon the light switch and in an effort to build upper body strength,  swing on the railing to the staircase. Partake in more energetic wrestling as your servant foolishly attempts to wrangle you into your seat.  Fight dirty.  Toss your practically full dish on to the floor, food side down.  Important - the tossing of the dish signals the end of your workout so only do so if your workout is complete.

Don't forget to cool down after your workout.  Do this by following your servant around and caterwauling your dissatisfaction with the meal.  To stretch out your mouth chin her hands, alternating right hand and left hand.

And there you have it.  Bathing suit season is right around the corner, isn't it time you "aliened" up and got the slender figure you always wanted?

The Barber of Seville on Crank

I don't think they have hair on the home planet.  I don't think they have hair on their heads or arms or faces or any place.  No doubt the amount of hair that we earthlings have re-enforces the R.A.'s opinion that we are nothing more than unintelligent apes that have a strange aversion to Sharpie markers which further contributes to his conclusion that we are illiterate half wits.

Unfortunately, as part of his "assimilation" as an earthling, the R.A. had to have hair.  But remember, the R.A. was not interested in this earth mission and really didn't pay attention at the pre-mission briefings when they covered earthling physical characteristics.  Therefore he didn't quite get the earth hair thing right.  He kind of muffed up eyebrows in that despite having such dark hair on his head, his eyebrows are extremely fair, sort of like a reverse Marilyn Monroe thing going on.  The result is that it lends to an expression that looks perpetually surprised, even when he's charging at his victim while yowling in fury - "YOWL! YOWL!  I am enraged despite the fact that my face says that I am bemused!"

And then there's the hair on his head.  Well, it isn't so much a head of hair as a collection of cowlicks.  It grows at unnatural angles.  The only way we've managed to tame it is to give him a baldy sour haircut.  For those of you who don't know what that is, it's like somebody looked at some poor slob in a run of the mill crew cut and denounced him as a long haired hippy and gave him a real deal short hair cut.  Basically a baldy sour is a crew cut on steroids.  It's more like an illusion of hair.  Despite such a close haircut the R.A. still has weird patches of hair.  Even his hair is defiant. 

I know this will be hard to believe but we don't take the R.A. to a barber.  My husband and I reckon that halfway through the session either DSS or the police would be called and at that point we would probably be willing to go with whatever entity would take us.  Instead the R.A. gets a good old fashioned home shearing.  My husband is our very own at home barber.  Luckily the R.A. is extremely mellow so it's a simple procedure. 

NOT!

An R.A. haircut is something that we dread like typhoid fever.  Okay, more than typhoid fever.  Typically, two to three weeks prior to the actual haircut I will survey a very scruffy R.A.  His hair has outgrown the baldy sour and is shooting out in all sorts of ways that defeat the laws of gravity.  I will casually say, "Looks like someone needs a haircut."  My husband will issue a noncommittal grunt. The next day my husband will then appear with a freshly shorn head and with wide eyed false innocence say, "Well you said someone needed a haircut" purposefully misunderstanding that I meant the R.A.

More procrastination ensues and a couple of weeks pass.  By now the R.A. is going around with perpetual hat head despite the fact that he is not wearing any hats.  Finally my husband's mother will remark on the R.A.'s hair and then my husband will grudgingly accept that it is time to tackle the R.A.'s hair.  But not without a lot of whining and sulking.

Because, literally, tackling is involved in the R.A.'s haircut.  This is not easy to do while wielding an electronic razor.  But I give the R.A's dad props.  He has mad Viking/Jedi/Ninja/Sweeney Todd barber skills.

The Day of Reckoning will come.  In a dejected yet resigned tone, my husband will announce that it is time to cut the R.A.'s hair.  This announcement is made out of earshot of the R.A.  One never wants to tip off the enemy.  It cuts down on the success rate of coaxing the enemy into the bathroom.

Prior to the "procedure" my husband readies the equipment and the area.  I doubt most operating rooms are prepared with such precision.  My husband has learned the best offense is not having to stop and search for the proper razor attachment while clutching a rabidly wild R.A. between his legs to prevent his escape.

Then it's time for the Big Show.  Usually by halfway up the stairs to the bathroom the R.A. is wise to what is going on.  He's no fool.  The R.A. struggles for freedom, yowling and crying.  All we need is for his sister to look out from in between the staircase bars and call, "Dead man walking!" and it would be like an execution scene from an old James Cagney film.

Glasses askance, sweating profusely, my husband wrangles the R.A. into the bathroom.  He hands the R.A. a lolly.  Initially the R.A.'s lip curls in disdain and he looks like he is going to toss it back in his father's face.  But then he thinks better of it (why waste a good Dum Dum?) and unwraps it, his vicious caterwauling temporarily paused.  My husband moves in for the kill.

Only to be nimbly deflected by the R.A. 

The Dance of the Razor begins.  It is a wild, almost feral dance with much noise and drama.  My husband is begging the R.A. to calm down and let Daddy cut his hair.  The R.A. yowls his refusal.  There is twisting and turning, wrestling and wrangling.  And the tears!  Mostly my husband's.  Oh the inhumanity!

At this point my husband calls for backup.  I can only pretend I can't hear his bellows for help for so long before I have to head up.  It's usually when a neighbor appears and asks if everything is all right that I know it's time.  The bathroom looks like the Hindenburg passed through but we've got more charred carnage.

By this point the R.A. is doubly enraged because not only does he have to endure the indignity of a haircut but there is hair all over his Dum Dum.  The lolly has also made his hands sticky which means his hands are covered with hair causing him much distress.

I get to subdue the R.A. so that his dad can concentrate on more delicate areas of his head such as around the ears.  This involves me sort of sitting on the R.A. while crooning about what a good boy he is.  The R.A. spits hateful insults back at me as well as wiping his hairy and sticky hands all over my arms.

"We're almost there!" my husband pants.

"Hurry!  I can't hold on much longer!" I choke back, my trachea clogged with the R.A.'s hair.

Finally and blessedly, it is done.  My husband and I are spent but the R.A., consumed with fury and brandishing a furry Dum Dum, roars, rages, paces, pats his almost bald head, and scratches.  Oh, yes.  The cherry on the cake of this little project is that the R.A. is allergic to his own hair.  There is no time for us to rest or regroup.  We have to hustle the R.A. into the shower as soon as possible and rinse off the excess hair as well as his lolly.  The lolly is more of a challenge than the body.

Fortunately the R.A. does like his showers and his protests are more out of a sense of duty than agitation and he does allow us to deposit him into the bathtub.  He still snarls at us any time we go near him but there is no chinning.  In the shower the R.A. paces while rubbing his head as if to say, "My beautiful raven locks.  What have you done to them?"  Warily he permits us to bathe him and wash his head as if he considers it a necessary evil.

Admittedly these are longish showers as it is also a break for us.  When the R.A. commences climbing the bathtub fixtures and wrapping himself in the shower curtain, we know it's time to take him out. Well, at least 10 to 15 minutes beyond the climbing and wrapping.

I read somewhere that there are sheep shearing competitions.  It's too bad my husband has such bad allergies because I think he could have been a contender.

I am a great artist and I know it. The reason I am great is because of all the suffering I have done. (Paul Gauguin)

Updated Quotation: I am a great artist and I know it. The reason I am great is because of all the suffering I have caused. (The Reluctant Astronaut who further declared Paul Gauguin was worthless and weak and should have been tagged for vaporization but unfortunately was already dead - the coward.) 

The R.A. is a tortured artist (come to think of it, he is actually a "torturing artist.")  His preferred medium is Sharpie marker on hard wood floor although occasionally, when feeling frivolous and a certain joie de vivre will use a white wall as his canvas.  The R.A. is tortured because his artistic genius is not celebrated but rather met with hostility by the ignorant masses (his parents.)  Unfortunately his public (us) feels like we are suffering for his art.  As with everything concerning the R.A. it isn't so much art as another tool of destruction just more colorful.

The R.A.'s art is also fraught with ritual, like so many aspects of his life.  His artistic endeavors go something like this:
Step 1: Despite his parents having gone over the house looking for Sharpie markers like a HAZMAT team at a nuclear power plant, the R.A. procures a Sharpie marker.
Step 2: The R.A. unleashes his full artistic fury on the largest and most visible floor space.
Step 3: The R.A. is discovered in mid artistic flourish by one of the meddling Philistines (a parent.)
Step 4: Yelling commences.  The Philistine yells, "NO!" upon seeing the further desecration of the hard wood floor.  The R.A. yells, "NO!" because the Philistine has the temerity to interrupt yet another masterpiece.
Step 5: The traditional "Sharpie Marker Wrestling Match" ensues at the end of which there is more Sharpie marker on the participants than on the floor.
Step 6: Upon being deprived of his instrument the R.A. unfurls a tapestry of alien curses which addresses his frustration at our small mindedness and unreasonableness.  Again.
Step 7: Vicious chinning commences.

This past Saturday the R.A. outdid even himself when it comes to his artistic relentlessness.  I was in the second floor bathroom having a swell time cleaning and disinfecting.  The R.A. was in my bedroom, supposedly watching one of his shows.  I never leave the R.A. unmonitored for more than a couple of minutes at a time because that's all the time he needs to climb something inappropriate or color something inappropriate.  So after a short time I did check on the R.A. and discovered him "creating" the heck out of a portion of my floor with a black Sharpie marker.  Following proper protocol we engaged in the sanctioned "Art Ritual" (refer to Steps 1 - 7 above.)  After Step 7 I did a sweep of drawers and shelves to make sure there were no other Sharpie markers.  Determining there were none, I departed back to the bathroom for some more enjoyable disinfecting.

A few minutes went by and I returned to the bedroom to find the R.A. once again coloring the floor with yet another black Sharpie marker.  I couldn't believe it as I had engaged in Sharpie recon.  The R.A. and I once again participated in the "Art Ritual."  I double-double checked the area for rogue Sharpie markers and finding none, headed back to the bathroom.

After a few minutes of some delightful cleaning, I went back to the bedroom to discover the R.A. vigorously coloring the floor with a green Sharpie marker.  What the heck?  Not only had I double checked the parameter, but now he was pulling out colored Sharpies!  Where did he get that?  I didn't even know we owned colored Sharpies. We engaged in the "Art Ritual."  This time, after re-double double checking the area for markers I remained in the room to see if I could ascertain where the R.A. was keeping his stash.  We both tried to act casual, as if we weren't carefully observing each other - "Just chillin'.  No big deal.  Just hangin.'"  After several minutes of attempting to look at each other while not looking like we were looking at each other, I returned to the bathroom.

Shortly after I went back to the bedroom to see the R.A. on the floor with an orange Sharpie marker.  Seriously?  Where the heck are they coming from?  We then partook of the traditional "Art Ritual" which I must admit that by this point we were both extremely frustrated therefore the wrestling and yelling were a bit more energetic than usual.

After Step 7, I lurked outside the bedroom and peeked my head in the room hoping to catch the R.A. in the act of obtaining a Sharpie.  The R.A., sitting in the middle of the floor sans marker, looked right at me, his expression saying, "Oh, hello.  How nice to see you.  May I help you with something as I sit here doing absolutely nothing remotely naughty?"  We repeat this newest interaction several times.  Either the R.A. has run out of markers or I am, in fact, as dumb as I look.

Apparently I am as dumb as I look because a few minutes later I discover him hard at work coloring the bedroom floor with a pink Sharpie marker.  This time all heck breaks loose as we had really had it with each other.  There's yelling, yowling, wrestling, wrangling, and intense chinning.  I'm sure the Battle of Bull Run was more sedate.

Thankfully, at this juncture my husband interrupts the scrimmage as he needs my help shoveling our blizzard attacked driveway.  I gladly deposit the R.A. into his secure room.  The R.A. looks like a psychedelic trip's version of a colorful yet angry Leprechaun.  It goes to show you how spent I was because the prospect of shoveling two feet of snow was a welcomed break.

Neither my husband or I have been able to determine the source of the Sharpie markers, especially the colored ones.  We both swear we've never purchased colored Sharpies.  They must be from the R.A.'s war arsenal.

The good news is that I believe I have seized all the Sharpie markers as lately the R.A. has been relegated to pens and pencils which he does not use on the floor.  Obviously this is because their marks are too easy to remove from hard wood.  Today, however, he was using a yellow highlighter.  He did not use this directly on the floor but rather this was utilized primarily and vigorously on paper, any paper he could get his hot little hands on - scrap paper, bills, school reports, envelopes, work reports, and curiously, his socks.  My theory is that the R.A. resorted to these items because the yellow doesn't show up very well on hard wood floors.  What good is artistic genius if one can't see it?

Our house is resplendent with the R.A.'s creations and the creative process is never ending.  We have stopped being so fussy about our floors and walls opting to put off re-doing everything until the R.A. finally outgrows  this "Sharpie Marker" phase.  I figure we'll be tacking the floors and walls in 20 to 30 years.

*Update: While writing this post my husband and the R.A. were up in our bedroom "Watching TV" (euphemism for my husband napping and the R.A. teetering dangerously on unsteady objects).  The R.A. punched my husband in the calf and demanded juice.  When his dad returned to the  bedroom he discovered the R.A. attempting to hide a black Sharpie marker behind his back.  Apparently replacement munitions have arrived from the home planet.

I Don't Have a Problem. I Can Stop Anytime I Want

I may have mentioned, in passing, the R.A.'s slight interest in french fries.  Okay.  It's a bit more than a "slight interest."  Let me put it this way, if they could find a screenwriter fluent in Yowlish, they would make an afterschool special about the R.A.'s fry addiction.

It had dissipated for a short time but now it's back full force plus eleven.  When I come home after work the R.A. flies into the kitchen demanding, "Feh fies!  Feh fies! I want feh fies!"  Unfortunately I have the temerity to not have the demanded fries seeing as I've just walked in the door straight from work.  I respond "No french fries."  The R.A.'s response is more adamant and he now hollers, "I want feh fies!" I clarify with, "No french fries.  French fries go bye-bye."  The combination of no fries and my insolence sends the R.A. over the edge. This is unacceptable and thus I am the lucky recipient of the R.A.'s righteous wrath.  He caterwauls a stream of alien obscenities, charges at me, stops abruptly and grabs my left hand.  The R.A.  proceeds to aggressively chin my left hand.  He then steps back and assesses me as if saying, "Well, what about now?" I apologize and repeat that there are no french fries.  We then repeat the whole procedure.  Often two to three more times.  Finally, at the actual conclusion of our ritual, the R.A. stops chinning my hand, shoves it aside and shoots me a look chock full of disgust.  This is sort of our own quaint version of "Groundhog Day" in that we go through this pretty much every weeknight.  He yowls furiously for fries and I never have them.  One of us needs to change our approach to this situation.  Seeing as he's so flexible my money is on the R.A.

A short time later, usually while I am frittering away my time partaking in frivolous activities like getting my daughter's dinner or washing dishes, the R.A. will re-appear lugging my pocketbook and huffing, "Feh fies."  By now he has determined that since I had the audacity to arrive home sans fries I can haul my fat fanny out and pick them up, immediately if not sooner.

Surveying him and his borrowed accessory I  say, "No."  The R.A. pauses and then decides I am too dimwitted to understand what he wants. He then attempts to force my hand to grab the pocketbook's handle.  This action can be additionally challenging if my hand is holding a cooking utensil or covered with soap suds.  We engage in a bizarre hand wrestling match as the R.A. tries to foist the pocketbook on me and I vigorously rebuff him.  All the while we are yelling at each other:

"I want feh fies!"
"No!"
"I want feh fies!"
"Feh fies go bye-bye!"

Finally, and at the end of his rope, the R.A. will spike the pocketbook at my feet or more often on my feet, yowl furiously and grabs my left hand.  He then chins my hand with unrelenting fury.  If I am fortunate enough to have been in the process of washing dishes my hands are sudsy and therefore too slippery for him to get in a good chinning.

The R.A. is nothing if not a master of strategy.  Lately he has re-assessed the situation and determined that he has underestimated the level of my stupidity.  He has decided the problem is actually that I am too dense to fully comprehend his wishes.  For the past few nights, following our pocketbook wrangling, he has later appeared with my wallet.  The R.A. tosses it at my feet and caterwauls slowly and clearly, "I want feh fies."  He looks at me with an expression one usually reserves for a particularly slow circus animal  Then for emphasis he will jump up and down while flicking his fingers in my face.  This loosely translates into, "Get it now, dumb ass?"

Unfortunately, for all of us, I must refuse his request.  My refusal elicits an explosion of alien curses.  One does not have to be fluent to know that what has been yowled involves insults concerning my mother, my mother's mother and my mother's mother's mother.  Of course while this is occurring my left hand is being fiercely chinned.

Typically, once we've gone through the pocketbook and wallet scenarios a maximum of three times the R.A. eventually accepts that the fries are not forthcoming and proceeds to  our next favorite nightly activity - climbing the china cabinet.  This past Thursday evening, however, the R.A.  must have been jonesing pretty badly for those salty fried bits of goodness.  I was sitting and attempting to eat my dinner when the R.A. appeared next to me, dragging my pocketbook.  He must have been extremely desperate because he abandoned the french fry protocol.  While I continued to try to eat we engaged in some rousing pocketbook wrestling.   Finally I abandoned eating, wrangled the pocketbook from him and put it back where it belonged.  After several minutes passed the R.A. returned and tossed my wallet onto my dinner plate and half consumed dinner while yowling, "I want feh fies!"

To his dismay I refused, removed the wallet from the plate and continued eating. The R.A. was furious.  He grabbed my left hand and chinned it.  Unluckily for me I eat with my left hand so I was forced to bumble through the rest of the meal using my right hand.  It was not a pretty sight for various reasons.  But what I have learned while on this job is to eat whenever you have the chance regardless of the circumstances. Dinner time at my house is a lot like what WWI soldiers went through in the trenches minus the caterwauling.  We have hand to hand combat and everything.  The Kitchen God knows some nights I wish the Red Baron would come and put me out of my misery.

Following dinner, while I was in the kitchen cleaning up, the R.A. thundered into the room, yowling and howling like a mad man.  He had gotten a hold of a blue marker and colored his forehead and right side of his face.  The R.A. descended upon my left hand and while chinning he cried, "Feh fies! I want feh fies!"  It was like being attacked by a tiny yet insane Braveheart: "They can take my nuggets but they'll niverrrr take my french fries!"

I have a fear that as his addiction grows so will his desperation.  I have visions of him hot wiring my car and knocking over a fast food restaurant:

"What can I say, Officer?  It all happened so fast.  One minute I heard this odd howling but nobody was there and the next minute there he was, leaping over the counter.  He sort of looked like, I know this sounds weird, but like Braveheart in what looked like backwards footieless footie pajamas.  I don't think he was from around here because he was screaming but nobody could understand what he was saying.  My manager tried to give him the money but he threw it on the ground. Then he grabbed my manager's hand and well, sort of kept stabbing it with his chin.  I think he broke his hand.  Then he grabbed a bag of fries and jumped out the drive-thru window.  It was horrible!"

I'm seriously considering calling the Betty Ford Center.  I wonder if they have anyone on staff who speaks Yowlish.

Sleep When You're Vaporized

My husband and I are in constant conditioning training.  Much of the time we are the last to know that we are in the midst of a drill (of course with all the accompanying caterwauling you'd swear the R.A. is bellowing, "This is not a drill, people!)  Which I don't know why we are always so surprised considering that we know that the R.A. believes us to be worthless and weak and in desperate need of "aliening up."  Last night we had a surprise/guerrilla training exercise.  At 1:45 AM (EST) the R.A. initiated coughing.  My husband had recently come home from work and heard the early warning sounds signaling that a boofing was imminent.  He raced up the stairs and pulled the R.A. from his room, depositing him in front of the bathroom toilet.  Although simultaneously coughing and gagging, the R.A. still managed to be viciously indignant at being manhandled.  In between his wretches he yowled in annoyance at his father: "YOWL! YOWL! YOWL! Vomit, vomit.  YOWL! Gag! YOWL! Vomit, vomit, vomit. YOWL! (Furious hand gestures) YOWL! CATERWAUL! Vomit. (Furious hand gestures) YOWL! Vomit, vomit."  Translation: How dare you treat me with such insouciance, you low born life form!  Don't you know who I am?! Vomit, vomit, vomit."

My husband has, as that great urban philosopher T-Bone says "mad skillz."  He swooped in, grabbed the R.A., swiftly raced to the bathroom and adeptly situated him in front of the toilet.  Not one drop of vomit was spilled except in the toilet.  It was like a "Vomitless Revolution."  I don't think there are Navy SEAL operations that run as smoothly.  In fact, I don't think a Navy SEAL would have done it any better.

At this point I stumbled out of bed and took over bathing the R.A. Over the years my husband and I have become a vomit clean up machine.  We're extremely efficient.  I handle body vomit recon. and he deals with environmental vomit recon. We're so good that it doesn't matter where the throw up event has happened - in house or in the community.  We just jump into action.  I don't mean to brag but we sometimes make it look effortless.  Don't be jealous.  It's a combination of endless drills and innate talent.  

Once installed in the shower the R.A.'s mood greatly improved.  He was energized and happily jumped up and down in the water's spray, crowing happily.  Warily we watched the R.A. partake in his version of water aerobics.  The more time passed the higher his toe jumps and more animated his arm motions.  Crap.  It was like he got in a refreshing nap and was now ready to tackle the night (or day or whatever the hell it is at 2 AM.)  My husband and I exchanged sorrowful looks.  What good is it being a vomit ninja when you're not allowed to sleep?

As we got the R.A. dressed in clean backwards/footie-less footie pajamas, he vigorously bounced on his toes, flapped for Britain and caterwauled loudly.  It was like trying to dress an overgrown chihuahua on crack.  I swear as he jounced he was also taunting us, "How them ninja vomit skillz now, beeyatches?!  Your punk asses are mine tonight!  Oh, yeah!"  And then to bring home the point he finger flicked aggressively in our faces as if to say, "Take that, sneetches!"

Once a middle of the night vomit event has occurred, the R.A. refuses to return to his own room instead preferring our room.  I believe it's because of our room's many attractive accouterments -  easy access to taller furniture and shelving for greater climbing challenges, a television with On Demand, a lap top that plays DVDs should one want a program not offered On Demand, a bigger bed that has higher bounce potential, not to mention that said bed is perfect for when he finally exhausts himself and crashes.  The room also comes with two dimwitted yet easily intimidated servants.  What more could any alien astronaut ask for?

Usually chips, juice, french fries, carrots, ketchup, and lollipops.

Following protocol, we depart for our bedroom.  I suggest not turning on the TV or computer, thinking that maybe if we keep things quiet it won't stimulate the R.A. and maybe he will just settle down and go to sleep.

So there the three of us are in the bed, in our usual positions, the R.A. sprawled in the middle of the bed and my husband and I clinging to the edges - in complete darkness.  Yes, it was extremely relaxing, like being at a spa. A spa in Hell.  In the bad section of Hell.  Seeing as there was no TV the R.A. found other ways to occupy his time.  First he began by taking all of the pillows and snarling at us if we foolishly attempted to take one.  Next the R.A. spent a while kneading my husband's back and leg hair with his toes. Then the R.A. decided that the actual pillows weren't doing it for him and tried to use me as a pillow.  The R.A. is quite small in stature.  However, at least half of his size and weight are contained in his head.  Let's just say when it comes to the R.A.'s head, he's "big boned."  One of my friends, every once in a while will survey the R.A., look at me and sigh, "You must be soooo glad you had a C-section."  Unfortunately my body was determined as being not as comfortable as an actual pillow and this the R.A. viewed as my being defiant and he spent a good amount of time chinning my hands and yowling at me.

The R.A. did pace himself, not rushing through any of the above activities.  He was also careful to take frequent breaks to wiggle, hand flap, finger flick, and caterwaul.

True to form, the R.A. picked an excellent night for a sleepless conditioning drill.  The following morning (or later in the morning?) I was supposed to conduct a storytime for special needs families.  I was somewhat comforted by the fact that it was for other special needs families so there  was a pretty good chance that those other parents would also be sleep deprived. If I blundered my way through the activities they probably wouldn't notice.  I toyed with the idea of instead of doing an actual storytime we would just let the kids tear the meeting room apart while the adults napped. Although believing it an excellent idea I abandoned it because my boss can be a bit uptight about destruction of library property.

During the drill, my husband and I did manage to doze a bit, frequently being abruptly woken by a ferocious yowl or aggressive chinning - the R.A.'s quaint way of saying, "Get your lazy asses up, losers!"  Unluckily for the R.A. the sleep deprivation exercises are not toughening us up but rather teaching us to sleep under any conditions.  My husband claims he can now sleep while standing upright. I am not that advanced, yet.

Shortly after 4 AM the drill concluded, signaled by the R.A.'s tucking himself in and his gentle snores.  He devotes much of himself to our training and it really takes a lot out of him.  No doubt it is a thankless and hopeless task.

Me, I can't wait for the invasion and the imminent vaporization.  I'm really looking forward to the rest.

To Go Where No Man Has Gone Before

The Holy Grail

Atlantis

The Ark of the Covenant

Popover Mix

Through the centuries men have searched for legendary and mythical treasures, often embarking on dangerous quests, driven by ambition and an unquenchable desire for discovery.  This is the story of one such backward/footie-less footie pajamaed adventurer.

In addition to being plagued by environmental allergies, the R.A. suffers from food allergies.  As he grows older he is outgrowing many of these food allergies.  Thankfully his extreme food rigidity still ensures that the number of foods he will deign to eat is still in the single digits.

We were lucky enough to embark on the Allergy Adventure at the same time we plunged into the Great Autism Adventure.  So while we were navigating the world of Early Intervention, Physical Therapy, Occupational Therapy, Speech Therapy, Music Therapy, and ABA we were also negotiating the world of Food Allergies.  Ever the over-achievers, one condition was not enough for us.  When it comes to food allergies we found that although there are lots of food on the "No" list there are "allergy food substitutes" that promise to be very similar to the actual foods that they are subbing for.  What we also ascertained is that 98.4% of the time that is a BIG, FAT, STINKING lie.  Case in point - Sunflower butter.

Sunflower butter is presented as a substitute for peanut butter.  We quickly determined that not only is it a lousy substitute, it isn't even in the same category as peanut butter.  They are so dissimilar they should not even be allowed to ever be referenced together.  Let me put it this way - Tom Brady is peanut butter. Mark Sanchez is sunflower butter who then gets substituted by the even yuckier Tim Tebow.  See? There is is no comparison among them.

Shockingly, the R.A. soundly rejected the sunflower butter.  We could not blame him.  Sunflower butter has the consistency and taste of something used to caulk a bathtub.

Sunflower butter was quickly abandoned and we plodded on in our journey to discover edible allergy foods.  Then we entered the exotic and sometimes just plain weird world of allergy cookies.  I don't know if some of the substitute ingredients were the result of desperation or a dare.  Finally we hit on a brand that was extremely close to tasting like an actual cookie.  True, it had the weight and consistency of a small hockey puck but it didn't taste like something from the putty section of Home Depot.  And the R.A. liked them.

This is not to mean that our affair with this allergy cookie was not without its trials and tribulations.  As with most crappy allergy substitutes it was more expensive than the non-allergy item but a low interest loan from my credit union aided with that.  And because it almost tasted like real food, other people liked them and stores tended to run out.  Obviously grocery store staff in charge of ordering  those cookies did not have children with food allergies because they often took their sweet time re-stocking them.  My husband did manage to work out an arrangement with an assistant manager at our local market.  I think he finally wore her down with his pleading and tears of desperation.  Sometimes making a scene is a good thing.

Eventually, some of the R.A.'s food allergies abated and he was able to consume more "non-allergy" items, well, at least it said so on paper.  The R.A. moved away from his allergy cookies to real cookies, a day my husband greeted with much jubilation.  Not only are "regular" cookies cheaper but Market Basket store brand chocolate chip cookies are always in stock (of course they are only two levels above allergy cookies in texture and taste which explains why they are always in stock.)

"Wait!" you cry.  "What does a long winded allergy history of the R.A. peppered with Patriots and Jets references (meaningful only to New England fans) have to do with quests?"

I am glad you asked.  The Patriots inclusion is pretty much because they are on a bye week and my husband was telling me about an article some sports jake-hole wrote ranking quarterbacks that ranked Brady third.  I mean, seriously?  Third?  Who wrote the article, Rex Ryan?  Even he can't be that stupid.

Anyway, the reason I included the R.A.'s allergy history is because it is related to quests - the R.A.'s current quest to be exact.

We first became aware of the R.A.'s quest yesterday when my husband discovered him standing on tip-toe on top of our stove brandishing the Stick of Infamy in one hand and clutching a box

popover mix in his other hand.  To access the stove, he had dragged over a small footstool/ladder.  One is supposed to unfold the ladder to expose the steps.  The R.A., ever a man of quick action, didn't have time for that and climbed it folded.  My husband removed the R.A. from the stove top and then wrangled the box out of an incensed R.A.'s iron fisted grasp.  After the intense yet impromptu wrestling match, the R.A. shrieked at his father, "Cookie! Cookie!"  Pointlessly Daddy attempted to explain that the box did not contain cookies, all the while wondering why the R.A. would think it was a box of cookies.  Much to the R.A.'s ever potent fury, the popover mix was returned to its place in the cabinet above the stove.

Never one to say "never" (really, he has never said it), the R.A. was undeterred and determined.   A short while later my husband found the R.A. back on top of the stove with the SOI and box of popover mix. This time he had used 24 packs of diet Coke and diet Pepsi to reach the stove top.

And so it went for pretty much the entire afternoon - the R.A. on his Popover Crusade and his father attempting to thwart him.  It was like a really boring Errol Flynn film.

However, all was not for naught (as I believe Errol Flynn said as Robin Hood) as my husband did decode the R.A.'s mysterious obsession with the box of popover mix.  It dawned on Daddy that the popover box was sort of similar in appearance to the allergy cookie box, hence the R.A. screaming "Cookie! Cookie!" while clutching it.  Seeing as he hasn't eaten an allergy cookie in over three years, this association was astounding, as was my husband's revelation.

I was at work all day yesterday but when I got home, the R.A. was still at it.  In extreme irritation my mother snapped at my husband to hide "the damn thing."  I got the happy task of occupying/tussling with the R.A. in the living room while his father put the box in another cabinet.  Wise to us, the R.A. yowled in rage while attempting to free himself.  Once the deed was done he wrenched free from my grasp and ran into the kitchen.  Like a mad man he surveyed the room.  He then caterwauled something along the lines of, "It doesn't matter what you do!  I will find it as the Kitchen God is my witness!"

My husband then left to run some errands/escape.  A short time later I heard a loud crash in the kitchen followed by an infuriated yowl.  I ran into the room to discover the R.A. on his back on the floor, flailing his arms and legs in agitation and frustration.  Above where he lay the cabinet door was opened to reveal the box of popover mix.  This time to climb the counter the R.A. had used a large plastic container of pretzels and a box containing a "Hello Kitty" chia pet in an attempt to hoist himself up.  Unfortunately he made one critical mistake - instead of balancing the pretzel container on top of the more stable box, the R.A. had precariously balanced the box on top of the pretzels and thus fell, much to his bitter disappointment.

Apparently, even for the R.A., this was the last straw.  Savagely caterwauling he stomped up to his room no doubt to plan his next attack which involved being naked as a short time later he ran down the stairs sans clothing.  I think the R.A. was going for the ancient Celtic warrior thing and was on his way to get a blue marker with which to color himself.  Sadly our little Braveheart was intercepted by his sister who alerted the local authorities (me) who then subjected the R.A. to backward/footie-less footie pajamas (our equivalent of a prison jump suit) as well as to a documentary about Marlene Dietrich which he watched with me, probably thinking it a cruel and unjust punishment.

And no doubt plotting his revenge.