aliens

It’s a tricky thing convincing two boys you are a blue alien. Five- and six-year-olds ask a lot of questions.

Hiking through Palo Duro Canyon, I discovered blue marks on my hands and arms. Of course, I told the boys, "Look! My fake human skin is coming off. You can see my blue alien skin."

"You’re not an alien," they insisted. After all, they’ve known me for most of their lives.

"How do you know?"

And so it began. I didn’t have antenna, they argued. Not all alien have antenna, I said. Plus, I’ve had to hide what I really look like under this human skin. Did you know I have four ears?

So ensued the barrage of questions that tested my mettle. I’m from Zircoff (which, for those of you interested, is 236.2 light years away from Earth). I mainly eat fruit (Zircoff fruit is much better than Earth’s), but I also eat little boys who disobey their parents. And bullies, yes. My three best friends are Lala, Rae, and Geep. Also, my name in Zircoff is Abema. (Pretty, no?) And I’m 802 years old.

They wanted to know the language. What do you call ears in Zircoff? (Leeleelee, for you linguists out there.) Eyes? Nose? Etc., etc., etc. Not only did I have to come up with words on the spot, but I knew I’d have to memorize everything I said. I’d have to remember the Zircoff word for neck (zulu).

Here’s what I learned: hanging out with two boys, ages five and six, exercises the imagination. We told round-robin stories on our hike (mostly about the village people who lived there protecting a secret; when an evil villain attacked to steal the secret, which would allow him to take-over the world, of course, and when his forces became to powerful for the village people to fight, the village people [who do not sing any rendition of YMCA] had to call on the curse of the gods, which turned everything and everyone into stone, which we then pointed out [that's the sentinel who warned the people; those are the warriors with their bows and arrows; there are the people's homes]), and I convinced them I was a blue alien. They believed me until one of their moms blew my cover.

The next time I discover blue marks on my skin, I may reveal my inner fairy.

Psst–If you find this post interesting and think others might as well, would you mind taking a minute to stumble it? It would mean a lot to me.

Yip Yips and Nightmares

I grew up a Jim Henderson fan (also Jimi Hendrix, but that’s a different story).

Every Saturday evening I’d watch the Muppets (followed by Airwolf and preceded by some dance competition show if I finished my bath in time, which was not often because you would not believe the magical things that happened in my bathtub/Broadway stage [told you I'm a Broadway baby--anything can be used as a mike]; and the dance competition was with real dancers, not this celebrity stuff). (Have I mentioned before that I like parenthesis?)

I learned my alphabet from Sesame Street, which probably explains why to this day every letter and digit has its own gender and personality–go ahead, test me on this. It may also explain why I had imaginary friends growing up (in my day Snuffleupagus was Big Bird’s imaginary friend). Also why I like cookies.

But as much as I loved him, Jim Henderson also influenced one of my recurring childhood nightmares (although it hasn’t recurred in years).

It’s in my grandparents’ house (paternal, for those of you curious). There’s some gathering going on, usually Christmas, and my sister and I go downstairs to find alien creatures talking from this large mirror above the couch. They’re taking family members (mine, not theirs) back to their planet.

Here are the alien creatures: