Alien Angels

 

Being abducted by aliens seems like the worst thing imaginable. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemies, if I had enemies. My life is not eventful enough to have enemies, or maybe I’m making my enemies steam with indignation because I don’t even see them.

Why am I starting this blog like I’m high? I’m not high, I’ve just been reading a lot about alien abductions, which all sound awful, not a single good report to be seen. Someone gets abducted after being put in a weakened state, and then wakes up hours later with their clothes on in a different fashion; undies inside out, and socks on their hands. 

It is like waking up from a horrific blackout where the imagination is left to run wild with all the atrocities your body has been subject to. The only consolation is being part of a chosen few and hoping that you’ve made our species proud. 

My fascination with alien abduction began after I read Shirley MacLaine’s Out on a Limb, which chronicles her fascination with modern mysticism. Her life is one of exceptional freedom, and she has all the time in the world to consider aliens acting as angels and reliving patterns of past lives.

I had Botox last week, and the nurse I saw is a beautiful Russian woman who never tries to upsell me beauty treatments, even though I know it's part of her job, because she knows it will hurt my feelings. It’s recommended to get Botox four times a year, but it costs too much, so I settle for twice a year. My wrinkles don't get that bad because I don't have a husband to scowl at.

When I saw my nurse, I asked her how she’s been. She started with, “I have sad news,” and then told me her husband died in a car accident, and she is now a widow with three young boys.

This was the most unexpected answer imaginable, and my heart immediately broke for her. She is strong and capable, and will give her children a good life, but everything will be so hard now. It will be decades before she gets to spend an entire day staring at the ceiling and delighting in every thought that pops into her mind. She’ll be too busy to even think beyond what will be tomorrow’s dinner.

If there are interventionist alien angels, now is the time to go help this woman.

MacLaine also dives into channelers, kooky people who are overtaken by ancient entities when given a couple of hundred dollars. After reading the book, I wasted an hour watching a documentary on Netflix called Rebel Royals about a princess from Norway who married a self-proclaimed shaman from Los Angeles. Both of these people felt they had some type of superpower, to do what, I am not sure, but it allowed them to feel more informed and knowledgeable about the world. It could be their way of coping with having no actual job or doing any meaningful work.

In the trailer for the doc, the shaman leads the rebellious royals in a type of mediation that is so insanely cartoonish. He starts by announcing, “Now I’m going to sing a song in an ancient way,” and then says, “dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, dang, …”

It’s painfully embarrassing to watch.

My kids have been away with their dad for the last week, and when I sit at home alone for a couple of days, I start to have overworked thoughts. Unlike MacLaine, whose philosophy is strengthened in her solitude, the longer I am alone, the philosophical scaffolding in my mind starts to weaken, and I wonder if the devil is manipulating the media. 

These are not comforting thoughts, but if I continue to read about people abducted by aliens, it makes me grateful for my reality. My children are back today, so I'll be happy to only have the capacity to think about tonight's dinner for the next few weeks.

Get With The Times

Thanksgiving is coming up, and the delicious feast is on my mind. It’s on my little nephew’s mind too, who told the doctor at his last wellness check-up that his mother only makes him dinner twice a year, on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My sister, stunned by her son’s comment, tried to defend herself, explaining that dinner is casual because she drives four kids around to their activities all afternoon and evening. The doctor is used to kids saying crazy shit, and seeing that my nephew is well-fed, moved on.

My nephew may grow up to be someone who sets the table every night and has meals in courses. Life is too busy for that at this moment. I only cook dinner when my kids are home; otherwise, I eat miscellaneous nonsense until I’m full. When my kids are home, my favorite recipes are from the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook, which my daughter got for Christmas five years ago. This is the most basic level of cooking, but I still have to follow the steps like I’m making a bomb.

My miscellaneous snacking dinners were seriously shameful after Halloween. My kids said I could have all their Milk Duds. I told them the secret to eating Milk Duds is cradling them in your palm right before melting, so the inside gets soft; otherwise, you’ll pull out a tooth. They said Milk Duds were for old people, and I told them they’re wrong; old people like butterscotch hard candies. My kids have no fucking clue what a butterscotch hard candy is.

Similarly, when my older sister was at work, she was complaining that her kids’ Halloween candy lacked the variety of years past. She told her coworker, “There wasn’t any Baby Ruth, Paydays, or 100 Grands.”

Her coworker looked her dead in the eyes and asked, “How old are you?”

After my sister told me, I figured we're riding our next wave away from youth. Sometimes my kids explain to me their jargon, and it makes sense, like chopped, but other times the definition does not compute, like when my daughter tried to explain ship to me. I asked them, “Does anyone still say Badonkadonk?”

It was a definite no, and they asked what it meant, and I said, “Big ol’ butt.”

My daughter said, “Oh, we call that big back now.”

I had to correct her, “Badonkadonk was a compliment, big back doesn’t sound nice.”

Later that week, came more proof I was slipping out of the loop. My daughter and I were walking through Barnes and Noble’s, and I saw a Sabrina Carpenter album where she is on all fours and being pulled by her long blonde hair by a man in a business suit. I pointed to it and exclaimed, “What the hell kind of shit is this?”

My daughter explained there’s a second version of the album because this one caused such a stir. I said, “Why is she acting like it's the caveman times, or the early 2000s. This is shameful.”

My daughter just shrugged her shoulders. More of an indication of my pulling away from my youth, in a steamship, waving goodbye to it, as it stands on the shore, and I move further and further away. 

But I return to the kitchen and flip open the pages of the Children’s Quick and Easy Cookbook to prepare dinner.