Tuesday, November 23, 2010

It's Coming From Inside My House...

Lydia and I wake up every morning ready to go into battle. Depending on the seasons, we could be going to war against squirrels, the Ice Cream Man, people who use lawn movers or leaf blowers or snow machines at 7am on a Saturday.

We also fight ticks, mosquitos, colds, flu season, holiday season, end of the TV season and seasonal allergies. The point being, we're ALWAYS in full gear, weapons loaded and ready to kick some a$$ the minute we head out the door.


It seems that we may have missed something *very important* about where those battle lines between moms and our domestic enemies lie. Because I always thought my house was the Green Zone. Switzerland. The equivalent of yelling "Base!" right before you're about to get tagged. 

Oh, stupid Kate. I should have known better, because just as in any good horror movie, I'm slowly finding out that there are acts of evil and treachery happening inside my house.

How can you tell if you've been infiltrated? Here are some of the clues:
  • The toilet seat is up. And you only find out when your keister winds up in the potty water because you sank too far into the bowl. At 3:00am. In the dark. 
  • The cereal box in the pantry has no cereal in it. In the mad dash to get people out the door and to school on time, you grab the nearest box of empty. Who wants a big bowl of air for breakfast?
  • The phones have gone missing. The children all want to say hello to Nana or Auntie or Lydia, but don't want to share phones or wait their turn. So they each grab one and dash off. The phones, never to be returned to their cradles, are found days later, batteries dead, in their closets. Now Kate goes around her house yelling, "Where are all the Tom Cruises? Go find Tom Cruise, all of you, and put them away!"
[Editor's Note: It isn't just the phones that I call Tom Cruises - it's anything I find lurking in the closet that shouldn't be there. I know it's pretty random. The other day I was battling Dickie the Yard Fairy and my four year old son Happy came outside, phone in hand and saying, "Mommy, the Tom Cruise is for you." It was my boss. So I was all: "Oh, haha, no, we don't call you Tom Cruise, we call the phone that becau-- never mind." That doesn't necessarily do good things for one's career trajectory. I think he thinks I'm either overly, or under-ly medicated. - Kate]
  • Your bras have been re-purposed. Apparently there was a raid on Barbie's mansion and all the GI Joe's had to parachute in. And daddy has already made it very clear how he feels about using his handkerchiefs. Also, it seems they make impressive dual-fire slingshots. Which you discover when you find them in your now leaf-less trees. 
  • Your Internet has been hacked. You sign on and find this on the screen:

and the shaving cream and little paper cups you keep in the bathroom gone and then you go upstairs to find out that your guest bathroom is the Manhattan Project.
  • Clearly you've been robbed. That Costco sized tub of cheese balls that you hid where the Crock Pot normally goes and that you save for True Blood nights -- because, well, what blood is to them is fluorescent orange cheese powder to you -- is gone. Devise plan to trap suspected thieves. Then devise better plan to figure out way to coat Eric Northman in fluorescent orange cheese powder. Even yesser.
  • The vacuum cleaner has been killed. While performing the Hoover autopsy, you discover the culprit. Ponytail holders. That Target special of 100 elastic bands in every color that you bought last month has been whittled down to just the crappy dull brown one your wear around your wrist because it's the only. one. left. You would peel them out of their lint and fuzz web, but for the fact that last week you vacuumed up a huge bug and you're afraid it's still there. Waiting to exact revenge.
  • Emeril Lagasse has been kidnapped. And clearly, those responsible are hiding him in your kitchen. There's no other way to explain that one minute it's a normal kitchen, and the next BAM! there's peanut butter coating the faucet, a jelly pool slowly oozing its way down that space between the countertop and the refrigerator, eleven butter knives has been conscripted into duty and the floor not only adheres to your feet, but also provides a lovely crunch to entertain you while you plan your escape. There's a decent chance you'll be chewing off your own feet. 
  • Geneva Convention of Toothbrushes has been violated. You spare yourself a Full Surrender by opting to brush your teeth before heading off to school, only to find it's been *gasp!* dropped into the weird space between the sink and the toilet. There's only one solution for such horrifying treatment. A proper funeral. Your backup toothbrush is in your toddler's mouth, clearly violating the One Mouth Rule, and right as you relent and shove your kid's toothbrush in your mouth (gross, but necessary) said child says, "Oh, hi mom! Is that the toothbrush that was in the toilet last night?"
  • The Remote Control is -- well, remote. Where does it go? Isn't its prime location usually within about 10 feet of the television? Even better, it's stuck on Nick Jr. You can't change the channel, and Dora and that stupid monkey are on.
And there you sit, unshowered - well, except for the bum bath in the toilet - no breakfast, no phone to call Lydia and complain, the lack of bras and brushing of teeth have led to a Surrender, Eric Northman has been traded away for that little girl and her *mostly* naked primate, and your kitchen and bathroom are about to be declared official disaster zones by some guy with too little hair, too much Brill Creme and a carrying a clipboard.

And that's when you know the little terrorists have won. For now...

(c)Herding Turtles, Inc. 2009 - 2010

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