Shiva, The Destroyer Of Worlds

     Things my son, Skeletor, did within the space of three hours.  (Can you say rapidly ballooning aneurysm?  Good!  I knew you could!)

1. Pulled every book (and we have quite a few) off of the bookshelf.  He then flipped said bookshelf over, and proceeded to jump up and down on the back of it.  He reminded me of Donkey Kong.
2. Poured an entire cup of juice on his bed.  Not an accident.
3. Used the dish sprayer thingy in the sink to give the kitchen a bath.  Toaster included.
4. Made "potions" in my set of olden-timey, glass medicine bottles  The "potion" included tooth paste.  Clearly it needed to be poured everywhere.
5. Broke another leg off of the end table in the living room.  It was already propped against the wall on just three legs.  It is now beyond propping. 
6. Made another "potion" in the bathroom sink.  This "potion" was made by running water over a bunch of markers to make pretty colors.  I'm sure you can imagine what happened.
7. Poured another cup of juice onto the kitchen table.  He then stripped completely naked, and rolled around in the puddle.
8. Fell from his perch on the back of a recliner.  Now has a hellacious shiner.
9. Broke his learner guitar over his sister's leg.  In his defense, he seemed to be channeling the spirit of Kurt Cobain, and she was merely a casualty of the mojo.  It's a good lesson to learn early, really.  Never get in the way of rock.  You might bleed.

Skeletors can't fly.

      I have nothing else to say.  I'm pretty sure this list speaks for itself.  I forget, why don't I binge drink?

Oh, Karma, You Delightful Creature!

     My house is still in the midst of its very own black plague.  Apparently, we had the great fortune to contract this super bug that's been going around.  Its most noticeable symptom?  Oh, just the fact that it lasts for about a month to six weeks.  So cool, right?  As I still feel like straight garbage, I'm too tired to attempt to make my daily life sound interesting.  Thusly, today I will be regaling you with one of my Tales From The Before Times.  (That should sound all cool and echo-y when you hear it in your head.)  These tales will henceforth be told any time I try to come up with a current and relevant blog post, but just end up with doodly squat.  They're pretty much just good stories that I think you might like to read.  Could be wrong.  I'm okay with that.  Let us begin.

     About a year ago, before I started feeling all Lyme-y and before Skeletor's major behavioral issues surfaced, I was gainfully employed working on an ambulance for the local hospital.  It was while working here that I was witness (well, ear witness) to the single greatest example of karma that I can imagine.  There I was, watching television in a recliner working super hard at one of our stations, just making it through the day.  Then the tones sounded, signaling that someone was about to go drive an ambulance really fast.  Turns out my truck wasn't going anywhere, but we all still listened to see if anything cool had happened.  The call was for a snake bite.  Now, even though we live in the south, it's still relatively rare for someone to call 911 for this kind of thing.  Hmmmm...interest piqued.  A few minutes later we heard one of our paramedics come over the radio trying to narrow down the location of the call.  It seemed that the patient was somewhere in the middle of a cornfield.  Dispatch advised that there were police at the scene, and that the paramedics should look for the blue lights.  Even more interested.  They found the patient...and his wife, and the police, and a rightfully pissed off snake.  What had transpired was karma at its most instantaneous.  Apparently, some mean spirited, abusive, hillbilly of a jackass had been working in the field with his wife when she did something to upset him.  Instead of using his words, as we teach toddlers to do, he decided that physical violence was the only way to get his point across.  But he didn't use his fists.  No, no, that was not a flashy enough gesture.  In order to truly express his anger, this moron picked up a poor snake that happened to just slither by, and began to beat his wife with it.  We will not even get into how horrid this is.  We will, instead, get right to the good part.  As he was beating his wife with this snake, he got bitten.  But he didn't stop.  He continued to hit his wife, and then was bitten again!  Then he dropped the snake, and presumably started to flop around and have all sorts of nasty symptoms.  Oh, karma, thou art such a divine and lovely creature!  You make life tolerable.
     I don't know what happened to him, because his physical well-being was not my concern seeing as he was such a douche kabob.  Maybe he lived, maybe he died, maybe he lost his arm.  Who knows?  Doesn't really matter, because the point in the story where he gets bitten is where every single person I know ceases to care what happened to him afterward.  And, there you have it, folks: my absolute favorite example of karma.  Now, I'm going to go drink Nyquil, and pass out.

I Should Probably Feel Bad About This...

     So, I still feel utterly craptastic.  Not Man Sick, mind you, but still pretty terrible.  And, just for shits and giggles, I also have an ear infection to go along with my Funk.  Yay, good times!  Skeletor is also still sick, which definitely puts a damper on any afore-mentioned good times.  Also for shits and giggles, we are in the middle of trying to implement some ABA awesomeness in our house.  All of this equals super cranky pandas.  Because it's only been a month or so since we got an official diagnosis of autism, we're still in limbo in regards to all the behavioral therapies we need.  (Skeletor has been receiving speech and occupational therapy for over a year now, so we're lucky in that respect.)  We live in a medium sized town, almost smack in the middle of two major cities.  Unfortunately, those two major cities are at least an hour away.  And those two major cities seem to be the only places where we can receive the ABA therapy.  Hence the long waiting lists.  Which leads me to the thing that I should probably feel bad about.  I'm definitely no doctor or therapist, but I can read.  (I know you're shocked.  You should sit down if you are feeling light-headed.)  So, since we're going to be waiting a bit, I've been reading up on ABA.  The somewhat basic gist being you reward good behavior, and ignore bad behavior (within reason.)  And this is what I have started doing.  And Skeletor does not like it one little bit.  In fact, if he knew how to make fire, he would definitely set all of my autism books ablaze.  Despite all of the extra stress (which I know will pay off in the long run,) I have to admit that I got a bit of a chuckle earlier.  As Skeletor sat on the kitchen floor howling and gnashing his teeth because I had the audacity to pick up his toys, it occurred to me.  That is exactly how I feel almost every minute of every day.  Only I don't get to say it.  I don't get to throw things and scream and hit people (other than Captain Gingerbeard, but he's got a sassy mouth.)  And I know that I don't get to do these things because I'm a grown-up...allegedly.  I'm the mommy.  It's my job to not lose my temper.  And although Skeletor is to be granted a little bit of leeway due to the autism, he still has to be taught how to behave, no matter how long it takes.  But hearing him yell out his frustrations today did bring me a bit of levity.  It was kind of good to know somebody else felt the same way I do.  Which may or may not curse me to the deepest, darkest pits.  Aw, crap.  The child just walked up behind me, and ripped the back of my shirt.  Tra-la-la, ignoring it.  I do hope the Captain wasn't particularly fond of it.  I borrowed it from him.

Me.

Man Sick

     I wanted to write this post for the last week or so, but propriety dictated that I wait until after Father's Day to do so.  And now, the very next day, I would like to talk to you folks about a little something called "Man Sick."  Our germ infested sweet children were recently sick with the Funk.  Not the good, shake your groove thing kind of Funk either.  I'm talking about the sore throat, snotty nose, chest congestion, body aches, upset tummy, wanna punch people in the face kind of Funk.  You would think sickly little kids roaming around your house and moaning for juice like a zombie does for brains would be the worst.  You would be wrong.  The worst possible outcome of any sort of Outbreak situation is for the man of the house to become infected, too.  And, of course, Captain Gingerbeard fell victim to the dreaded Funk.  May God have mercy on our souls.
     When I informed the Captain that he had clearly contracted a serious case of Man Sick, he assumed that I meant that he wasn't sick at all.  That is not the case.  Being Man Sick does not mean that he does not have an actual diagnosable medical condition.  It does, however, mean that what ever ails him is obviously the worst case of a cold, the flu, gas, heartburn, or hemorrhoids that has ever effected a human in the history of the world.  Maybe some form of primate suffered worse than he back in the days of yore, but no modern man has ever been stricken with such a horrific illness.  And he is not afraid to tell the world of his woes.  (Vocalization is one of the hallmark symptoms of Man Sick.)
     Now, I know the Captain is sick.  I know this because the bastard infected me, as well.  (Sharing is caring, after all.)  But, you know what else I know?  I know that during the course of my illness I have also been washing dishes, cooking meals, bathing kids, cleaning the house, and getting up at stupid o'clock every day when the little ones pop out of bed.  And that is the difference between Man Sick and normal sick.  Somebody has to be the grown-up when everyone in the house is ill.  And you can bet your sweet ass it sure isn't going to be the one infected with Man Sick.

P.S. I still love you, Captain Gingerbeard.  But I had to tell my story!

Artist's rendering of Captain Gingerbeard in the throes of Man Sick.

We Love You, Captain Gingerbeard!

Happy Father's Day, Captain!  You kick ass!

The Time I Threw Salt On A Priest.

     First of all, I did not intentionally throw salt on a priest.  I would never do that to anyone, much less a man of the cloth.  Unless he asked me to.  But, if he asked me to do it, then I would be suspicious of his motives, and would have to ask to see his credentials.  But, I don't know what priest credentials look like, as I am not Catholic.  He could show me his community college i.d. card, and I would totally buy it.  And then I would throw salt on him for what could very well be untoward reasons.  But, I digress.
      Back to the story.  A few days ago, the hubby and I were sitting around telling tales about old times and whatnot.  We've been married for almost seven years, so we have heard most of each other's stories.  But, apparently, I had somehow neglected to tell him the story of how I threw salt on a priest.  I know, I couldn't believe my oversight, either.  It's a pretty short story, but I couldn't deny you this little gem.  (I may have a tendency to hold my stories in an overly high regard.)
     One day, probably ten years ago, I was eating lunch at an Applebee's because I'm classy.  So I'm eating my triple burger fajita nacho fries or some such nonsense, when I decide to liberally apply salt to my meal.  I do so love me some salt.  How my heart has yet to explode is a medical mystery.  But, alas, tragedy occurs!  The top comes off of the stupid salt shaker, and salt goes everywhere.  As I am not a risk taker by nature, I immediately scooped up some of the wayward salt and threw it over my shoulder into the Devil's eye.  (I think that's what happens when you throw salt over your shoulder, but I could be wrong.)  Just as I was sitting there congratulating myself on counteracting the bad juju that had been placed on me when I spilled the salt, I noticed a look of horror on the faces of my dining companions.  My younger brother was with me, and all he could do was point.  Slowly, I looked over my shoulder in the direction that I had just capriciously thrown a handful of salt.  And what did I see?  A priest eating his lunch with his back to me.  Oh, and an entire handful of salt all over his black suit thingy (again, not Catholic.)  But, he hadn't noticed!  So what did I do?  Point out my mistake, and apologize to the priest?  Heaven's no, that's what an adult would do!  We quickly paid our bill, and high tailed it out of there, certain that we would be struck down by lightening at any moment.  I have yet to receive punishment of any sort for this encounter, but for all I know, it could be any day now.  So, I wait...and watch.

Oopsie doodles!

EEG, Consider Yourself Dominated.

     Today, Skeletor and I undertook the long and arduous journey that is driving to Nashville.  Nashville is about two and a half hours from our house, making this the longest road trip that the little man has ever been on, excluding ones made before he was old enough to do anything but sleep, cry, and poop the whole time.  We took it upon ourselves to make this trip because Skeletor was participating in an autism study at the Vanderbilt Kennedy Center.  I'm not going to lie to you people.  I was not expecting a very good day.  Let me clarify, I was expecting hellfire and damnation and fleeing citizens attempting to escape the wrath of Skeletor's bilious rage.  But, lo and behold, this entire day went by without one single meltdown.  And, I would like to add, we don't have any fancy DVD players in our car, so it was FM radio the whole way.  Frankly, the whole thing was just miraculous!  Within five minutes of our arrival, the researchers had Skeletor take an IQ test, which he did surprisingly well on.  This was our first formal IQ test, so naturally I am now going to walk around absolutely certain that my son is a genius.  It's genetic, so it was to be expected.  Then they did the EEG, of which Skeletor rocked off the proverbial socks.  Seriously, he straight dominated that EEG, even though they threw us a curveball when the actual EEG cap was damp.  Other than that, he went all Conan the Barbarian on that test.  If that EEG was a human being, Skeletor would have crushed his enemy, seen it driven before him, and heard the lamentations of its women.  That is how harcore my little man was during his EEG.  I am one proud mama!

Skeletor making the EEG his beotch.

He got to pick out two toys.  As you can see,
I did not pick the name 'Skeletor' randomly.