Ready to Rumble

Those who read this blog understand (I hope!) that it is not about making fun of the R.A. but rather to convey how tough an autism driven world is and also just how excruciatingly stupid the R.A.'s parents are.  Most days my husband and I are just one Stooge away from being the New Three Stooges.  Actually, we are such dimwits that we don't need a third Stooge.  It seems the smarter the R.A. gets the stupider we get.

The humor in this blog is a stress reliever and believe me, my family needs it.  If we didn't laugh at some of the situations we find ourselves in, we would dissolve into a puddle of tears.  Autism does not just affect the R.A. but the entire family.  As I've said before, it impinges on the entire family, dictating what we do, how we do, where we do, when we do.  Sometimes it is hard and sometimes it is painful.  And sometimes, seemingly out of the blue, I get what I call the "Big Blue Meanies."  These are moments when I look into the R.A.'s big hazel eyes and I am overwhelmed by such sadness that I cry.  I cry because I wish autism weren't holding him hostage.  I cry because autism won't allow us to really know who he is.  I cry because I am full of anguish, worried about his future.  I cry because I can't live forever and take care of him forever and that scares the shit out of me.  I cry because I love him totally and completely and powerfully and yet am so helpless to protect him from this villain known as autism.  So sue me if I would rather laugh than cry.  If I laugh, the Autism Monster isn't all that powerful.

I have described the R.A. in this blog and he isn't exactly attempting to hide his alien tendencies.  Unlike Superman, the R.A. does not have a milquetoast alter ego that enables him to seamlessly blend into earth society.  If the R.A. could verbally communicate his sentiments on this matter I believe it would be, "Screw earth society!" accompanied by a few furious yowls.  In some ways the R.A. is also the Liberace of aliens in that he is over the top (but with less rhinestones and feathers.)  No subtle stimming for him.  If he is going to stim, it is going to be BIG - lots of loud caterwauls, grandiose hand flapping and vigorous toe jumping.  He does not need a neon t-shirt that says, "Hey, check me out! I am different!"  In short, his is not the type of activity that one usually sees at the market or your local restaurant or church.  His activities often call attention to him and unfortunately some people can be real jack wagons about it.  Unfortunately for them.

Those that know me, would not describe me as a confrontational person.  I'm actually extremely shy and reserved. I am not one to stand up for myself.   If someone cuts me in line in a store I will grumble (really, really softly so he or she doesn't hear me) but won't assert myself.  Much to my husband's annoyance I hate to send food back or complain about service at a restaurant because I don't want to make a fuss and I know they will only spit in our food.  If I do complain I will also apologize profusely because I don't want people to be upset with me (or spit in my food.)  The boldest thing about me is a bathing suit tucked in the bowels of a drawer that I bought last year that I immediately regretted.

When it comes to my own person I may be cowardly but be warned, not when it comes to my kids.`  The minute I perceive the slightest mean spirited smirk or hear remarks such as, "What's wrong with that kid?" or "Why don't they take him out of here?" a couple of switches go off in my brain.  One switch shuts down the timidity.  The other switch turns on the bad ass mother f@#$er.  If you are ever around when this happens, duck and cover.  My husband will attest that it is terrifying, which is telling, as he is not someone who backs down when he feels he has been slighted.  When the "Switch" occurs I can see my husband cringe and attempt to warn the offenders.  Then I shoot him a certain look and he knows he had better get the hell out of my way or be caught up in the wrath.

On one occasion my family was enjoying some outside time at a park (post allergy season).  There was a sandbox that the R.A. was really liking, probably enjoying the novel sensation of toe jumping on sand.  A mother was there with her two daughters and she looked at the R.A. like he was not only Godzilla but also transporting the Plague.  Frantically she gathered up her children and scurried them not only out of the sand box but out of the park.  I was more than a little offended and chased after her yelling, "Hey, Lady!  He has autism and it's not contagious!"  I actually ran after her SUV as it peeled out of the parking lot with my husband barreling after me begging me to stop.

And then there's church.  Let's talk about church, shall we?  Gandhi once said, "I'll become a Christian when I meet one."   Some of the most un-Christian-like people you will ever meet are in church and it seems most of them belong to the church in our town which is why we belong to another parish in another city.  No exaggeration but every time we have taken the R.A. to the church in our town we have had an R.A. related problem.  Every single time.  One time when a woman stupidly hissed, "What's wrong with that kid?  They ought to get him out of here"  I practically leaped over the pew while growling, "He has autism.  You got a problem with that?"  I probably would have given her a poke in the eye but my husband is extremely strong and managed to hold me down.  Another time, after enduring unkind remarks through most of Mass, I turned to the couple behind me and said sweetly, "He has autism and we would be happy to answer any questions you have about autism.  I do find we always get such a reception at this church that we joined another and are only here because we missed Mass at our own parish.  Thank you so much for not changing our perception of this church."  My husband looked like he wanted to hide under the pew but unfortunately he has bad knees and it would be pretty tough for him to crouch down there.  It's not a good church experience when you spend most of Mass fighting the urge to slap people.  Not very spiritually uplifting.

The other night we took the family to the mall because we had been experiencing a very rainy day and did a lot of indoor time together.   Now I enjoy the whining, caterwauling, illegal climbing and other high jinx as much as anyone and illustrated this by remarking  to my husband, "Get these people out of my house because I can't stand another moment with them."  Much to my dismay he agreed but only if I accompanied them.  As noted in an earlier blog, the R.A. is a big fan of the mall.  I think it's like a freak zoo for him.  He is so engrossed in people watching that he remains seated during an entire meal.  It is awesome and one of the few instances where my husband and I can eat a meal uninterrupted and, here's a bit of a bonus, our food is still warm. 

That night, after we ate, my husband removed himself to make use of the rest room.  As the children and I sat I became aware of a group of young men at a nearby table.  Initially I became aware of them because they were eating ice cream and I don't get to eat it that often and therefore am easily distracted by its appearance.  But then I realized that they were laughing at the R.A.  Switches On!  I stood up so fast my chair slid across the waxed floor and into the table behind us - luckily it was unoccupied.  My daughter, recognizing the signs of an impending ass whupping, begged, "Oh, no, Mommy!"  I smiled at her and said I would be right back and to keep an eye on the R.A.

I high tailed my way over to the crowded table.  I don't know who looked more surprised by my appearance, me or the young men.  Let me begin by just mentioning a couple of things: 

• They looked like the junior boys section of Hell's Angels.  
•  I realized that even though I was standing and they were sitting, they were still taller than I was. 
•  I didn't care about the above two realizations. 

Luckily they were so stunned to see a middle aged quasi midget woman approach they were silent.  I explained that I saw they had noticed the R.A.  I told them he had autism which is why he was acting the way he was.  I then said I would be glad to talk to them about autism.  At that point one of them began stammering that they weren't laughing at the R.A. and that they would never do that.  Another one blathered that his cousin had Down's Syndrome so he would never make fun of anyone who had something.  I let them verbally stumble around for a few more cringe worthy moments and then  I smiled and asked, "We're good, right?"  Suddenly adopting autistic tendencies themselves, they did not make eye contact and remained silent.  I asked again, relentlessly cheerful but with an edge in my voice and they all mumbled, "Yes."  I thanked them for their time and headed back to my seat.  They immediately left the food court.

My husband returned from the bathroom and took the children on the food court merry go round.  At this point my brain began to digest what I had just done and I was like, "Holy crap!  Did I just bully future residents of Cell Block 8?  They're going to make shivs out of their ice cream spoons and attack me in the mall parking lot!"

Although I am usually very good at guarding my emotions (not ever), my husband sensed something was wrong.  The give away might have been my incoherent babbling about shivs and the violent shaking of my hands.  Eventually my husband was able to translate my ramblings and got the story.  He shook his head and probably made a mental note never to leave me unattended in public.

You have been warned, America.

The Spoils of War

My daughter was assigned a "book report bag" project.  For those lucky enough not to be in the know, instead of composing the traditional written report on paper, one decorates a bag with pictures relevant to the book and puts inside the bag props representing the culture of the the book's characters.  I like to think of it as a book report for the illiterate.  It reminds me of how back in the middle ages since nobody could read, priests used pictures in churches' stained glass to teach people about the Bible. This un-book un-report is due the day after Memorial Day and like most parents I did not relish ruining a holiday weekend working with/cajoling/threatening/hollering at my daughter as we tackled the project.  Rather I elected to ruin Mother's Day and we spent a lovely afternoon replete with whining, ill conceived defiance, and ultimately sullen and resentful cooperation.  Pretty much the usual Mother's Day stuff.

Despite the project's stresses, once my daughter and I finished it and ceased snarling at each other, I stood back to admire our work.  I made my husband come and admire it and  he wisely commented about how great it was. He then asked when it was due.  I crowed about how early we completed it.  No last minute scouring the house for tape and ultimately using chewing gum to stick stuff on for us.  Oh, no.  We utilized actual  tape and glue because I had done actual "pre-project" materials shopping.  My husband let me blather on for a bit and then delivered the knock out punch -  how long did we think the bag would last in our house?  It literally stopped me in mid brag.  Crap.  I had made a serious tactical error and left the precious book bag vulnerable and exposed to the enemy.

Those of you who have read this blog understand that our house isn't so much a home as a war zone.  Because the R.A. is hell bent on world domination, our house is in a constant state of war and we are perpetually under threat of attack if not being directly attacked.  Although most of his methods are unorthodox they are, none the less, potent and effective (sleep deprivation, light deprivation, food deprivation, matching outfit deprivation.)  The sheer relentless nature of it has exhausted us and we have tried several times to surrender but the R.A. despises losers and only punishes us more aggressively.  As the saying goes. "All's fair in love and war" and that goes for our house, particularly our hard wood floors and white walls.  The R.A. uses a lot of psychological warfare on us and nothing is off limits.  The more you treasure something or the more important the item the greater the chances of its destruction.  The book bag was a sitting duck.

Due to a cocktail of panic and stupidity I proposed that perhaps the R.A. would not notice the bag and if he did would be uninterested.  Apparently the R.A. must have been lurking nearby because, as if on cue, he came careening into the room at full throttle but shrieked to a hard stop in front of the bag at which point he yowled in ecstasy and attempted to grab it.  Usually the R.A. prefers stealth mode when it comes to destructive attacks but in this case his enthusiasm got the better of him and betrayed  his target.  My husband and I exchanged dismayed looks and immediately began planning  a safe haven for the bag.

Initially my husband suggested the very top of a 5 tiered shelf in our bedroom.  I pointed out that location would only be doubly attractive to the R.A. - a chance to climb and gain access to forbidden fruit.  We might as well hand him the bag and encourage him to have at it.

After much discussion we finally decided to keep it in our daughter's room.  It did have an outside lock on the door and Fishy Noodles II did survive for more than a year inside so the room was a somewhat secure location.

For the most part it was a good plan.  But it did mean we had to live in state of heightened vigilance.  That door must remain locked at all times, except when occupied and I have to admit that even in that situation I would have rather it remained locked. My daughter was disturbed by the prospect of being locked in her room and my husband managed to talk me out of the locked at all times route.  Reluctantly I relented but we stressed the importance of keeping the door closed and locked when unoccupied.  Not trusting the R.A. a whit I told her even if she gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom to lock the bedroom door while she was out.  She looked at me with an expression that clearly said she thought I finally went around the bend.  "But he'll be asleep in his secured room," she stated.  But on this I would not give in.  The R.A. is fiendishly clever.

True to his form, the R.A. took any and all opportunities to invade his sister's bedroom.  His usual M.O. was to lie in wait in his own bedroom and once the coast was clear to creep into the room.  One of us would notice how quiet the house had become and, in a panic, go on a hunt for the R.A.  We would find him  in front of his sister's bureau, on top of which sat the coveted bag.  Fortunately we always got to him before he managed to grab the bag.  Often we would discover him flicking the bag with this fingers and jumping up and down on his tip toes.  Unlike the traditional toe jump/finger flick move it was not accompanied by the requisite yowling.  After all this mission relied on stealth.

After a week of attempting to keep the bag safe, we were starting to feel the emotional and physical strain.  We just couldn't keep living that way and decided to send the bag into school several days early.  True we ran the risk of an inadvertent school accident but as I explained to my husband at least the teacher would see that the bag existed.  I just wanted the damn thing out of the house and for our lives to go back to "normal." 

As we had invested so much time and energy into protecting the bag we probably elevated its significance.  Not trusting our daughter to transport the bag to school unmolested, my husband dropped the bag off at school.  When he appeared in the school office with the bag (which was tucked securely inside another bag) he explained the project was being dropped off to avoid becoming wartime booty. The secretary was like, "Okkaayyy," clearly thinking we were odder than the school originally thought we were.  My husband told me he wanted to take the bag right to our daughter's classroom and even though he lobbied hard the secretary would not let him.  Finally she pretty much had to swear an oath that she would bring it, unharmed,  to the classroom.  My husband also said that after he reluctantly handed the bag to the woman he stood there expecting her to bring the bag immediately to the classroom.  Finally, acknowledging the serious level of my family's insanity, she realized he was not leaving until she did.  So she did.  My husband watched her.  He reported that as the secretary walked down the hallway she kept glancing back nervously.  I think at this point she was glad to escape him.

So, yes, maybe we have created yet more evidence that we are a family of freaks but by the Kitchen God we did our duty and protected that lame ass project.  War is hell.  Vaporization now!

Happy Autism Awareness Month, Dopes!

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

They'll be much finger flicking

And Sticks of Infamy clicking

So be of good cheer!

It's the flap, flappiest time of the year!

Happy Autism Awareness Month!  Of course in my family we like to say, "We don't need no stinkin' month!"  We get to celebrate Autism Awareness of every second of every minute of every hour of every day - toe jumping optional.  I don't see why the rest of the world gets to have a pass but for one month and on those odd occasions when my family shows up.

Autism Awareness Month (or AAM as those of us in the "in-crowd" refer to it) got off to a rocky start at our house.  Unfortunately AAM Eve coincided with Easter and the R.A. was greatly displeased by the Lord's gumption to have his whole Resurrection thing encroaching upon the R.A.'s special time of year.  The R.A., like most of those hell bent on world domination, is not about "share-sies."

At our house the Easter Bunny leaves a scavenger hunt for good children to find their Easter baskets.  The sheer excitement of it created an alternate universe of sorts as it was my daughter who was up at 5 AM and the R.A. slept in.  We managed to hold her off until shortly after 7 AM by which time the R.A. was awake and partaking of his usual morning routine in our room  - demanding chips, crackers, and juice, jumping on the bed, climbing bureaus, jumping on the mini trampoline, climbing the bookcase, demanding different chips, demanding different crackers - you know, the typical wake up stuff.

By this point my daughter was actually vibrating with excitement.   Finally she announced, "It's time!  We negotiated 7 AM!"    (Yes, she did say "negotiated."  She is a voracious reader and spends a lot of time tossing around these pre-SAT words.)

So then we turned to the R.A. and explained that it was time to go downstairs.  He declined the offer.  We then chirpily explained why we were going downstairs: "Oh, fun!  The Easter Bunny came and left something special for you!  How nice!"  He listened, his expression one of puzzlement mixed with incredulity and having more than a slight hint of irritation.  We tried to more aggressively jolly him along.  The R.A. wasn't having it.  He declared, "No please!  No please!"  He then tried to push my husband back into bed as if to say, "According to the non communicated yet specific no school morning guidelines, the Daddy Guy is supposed to remain in bed for 28 more minutes while I stealthily attempt to climb inappropriate items.  Or he is to remain in bed until I demand a food item, the more outrageous the better.  At which point I then grab his leg and try to haul him out of bed or I hit him on the head with the clicker.  You are currently breaking protocol.  What part of me shrieking, No please!  No please!, don't you get?"  Finally we ended up doing the scavenger hunt without him.  Typical despot that he is, the R.A. waited for his Easter goodies to be brought to him.  He looked favorably on the items left by the Easter Bunny.  Those given to him by his grandmother were regarded with a horror one usually only reserves for materials covered with anthrax.  My daughter was pragmatic, "It's okay, Nana.  They won't go to waste.  I'll just take them."  What a little heroine!    How fortunate that we are that she would put herself out for his candy and toys.

The R.A. reserved his own excitement for Autism Awareness Month, being so fired up that he was up at 2 AM on April 1st.  Joyfully he heralded in the month with much yowling, clanging of Thomas trains, and clattering of his doorknob - "Wake up, beeyatches!  It's finally Autism Awareness Month!  We've got some aware-in to do and every moment is precious!"

When we finally removed the R.A. from his room he raced around the second floor as if he'd just had 17 cappuccinos followed by some cocaine chasers.  It was like he could not contain himself - "I must be in the servants' quarters.  No.  I mean I must be in my room.  No.  I must be in my sister's room.  No.  Servants' quarters.  No, definitely the bathroom."

He then decided to spend some quality time with me in the bathroom while I showered.  "Hmmm.  This must be Mommy Girl's towel.  I bet she would like it if I threw it in the toilet."  Fortunately I just happened to look out from the shower right before he gave my towel a bath.  Obviously the R.A. was miffed that I interrupted him.  He waved his hands in annoyance, caterwauling all sorts of alien insults about my mother and no doubt about his own mother.

The R.A. then resumed racing around the second floor.  Maybe it was some sort of alien holiday road race like their equivalent of Thanksgiving's "Feaster Five."  No, when my husband and I were chasing him it was more like the "Running of the Dopes."

When I finally departed the bathroom the R.A. then devoted a good chunk of time to closing himself in the bathroom closet and trying to climb the shelves inside.  My husband strongly urged him not to, several times.  The R.A. was not to be swayed and ultimately the bathroom was locked from the outside much to the R.A.'s fury.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that it was the first day of AAM, it is not a legal holiday and therefore there was work and school so we were unable to spend the day celebrating.  Or feeling very awake after such an early and invigorating morning.

Luckily the R.A. was still in fine form that evening.  Apparently part of the festivities include sporting events as in addition to the morning activities there is a night time road race because he spent a lot of time running around but in a set pattern, like a course.  The R.A. would race around the living room, stop briefly and turn off the living room light, run into the first floor bathroom, turn that light and the fan on, jump into the tub, flap and yowl.  After a short time the R.A. would hop out of the tub and head back into the living room where he would repeat the course.  I would have turned the living room light back on and the bathroom light and fan off so it would be all set for his new laps.

Another event was the climbing the sink and vanity challenge which happened after the road race.  This incorporated climbing but also included teetering on one's tip toes around the edge of the sink while hanging onto the bathroom mirror while softly yowling.   There was also the mandatory rage when prevented from continuing.

We are only on Day 2 of Autism Awareness Month and I am already exhausted.  Tonight we participated in the ceremonial "Wrapping of Oneself in the Shower Curtain While Showering" which was closely followed by the ceremonial " Toe Jumping in the Puddles Created  by Wrapping Oneself in the Shower Curtain."  I can only hope that the month culminates with vaporization.

(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.