Nerds on Parade

Halloween, take three:

Noah's struggles with Halloween and dressing up ebbed and flowed this year, with one costumed activity being a roaring success and the next causing a meltdown of epic proportions. It was like spinning the wheel in Sensory Roulette. So I had no idea how his classroom costume parade party would go on Friday. 

When I arrived with Ezra in tow (and in costume), Noah had steadfastly refused to put his costume on while his friends got dressed. But then another mother showed up with a tray of chocolate cupcakes.

"See those?" I fibbed. "Those are for kids who wear their costumes."

BAM. Obi-Wan Kenobi IN THE HOUSE. And on parade.

With his faithful sidekick Yoda, seen here shortly before losing a shoe in the parking lot at some point.

Other than some mid-parade WHERE ARE THE CUPCAKES ALREADY fatigue, he did great. 

Ezra did too, though he did tend to gravitate to some very non-canon props. 

And then: FEASTING.

Halloween, take four: 

Trick-or-treating. The main event. Noah not only agreed to wear his costume with absolutely zero protest, he even allowed me to put on the cheap-ass synthetic-fabric tunic and rubber belt portion of his Jedi outfit (over his regular clothes, obviously, because ITCHY). 

Get ready for his hit single I Will Do Anything For Candy (But I Draw The Line At The Polyester Pants).

Jason dressed as a prawn-armed Wikus Van De Merwe from District 9. He had a great official-looking MNU Alien Affairs badge too. It was awesome.

At first Ezra thought trick-or-treating consisted of grabbing candy from our bowl, piece by piece, and dropping it into his bucket...

...so there was some momentary distress when he realized there was actually quite a bit more to it than that. And also some tears when he learned he was not allowed to go INSIDE the houses after ringing the bell. Like OH MY GOD, these people keep BOWLS OF CHOCOLATE right next to the FRONT DOOR. Can you EVEN IMAGINE what they might have HIDDEN IN THE KITCHEN? WHAT THE HELL, YOU GUYS.

Checking out the loot between houses.

(LIghtsabers are actually safety LED glowsticks from Life+Gear, who sent me a truckload of them back when Noah's Star Wars fanaticism first dawned. Awesome for visibility at night AND because they were technically too short to cause damage to TV screens, precious Ming vases or each other's skulls. Shout-out! Woot!)

(And yes, fellow nerdlings, I know Obi-Wan Kenobi should have the blue one and Yoda should have green, and I swear that was the way they were dispensed back at the house but you KNOW whatever your younger brother has in his hand is immediately 500 times more awesome than what you have in YOUR hand, so there you go.) 

(This from the kid who, when I referred to him as simply "Obi-Wan" to another mother at school, testily corrected me because "I'm Obi-Wan KENOBI, Mooooommmmm.")

I was Jessica from True Blood. I'm crying blood because Jessica is always freaking crying. 

I ordered the Merlotte's shirt and apron before I found out I was pregnant, and I briefly thought I'd have to switch to Arlene, the OTHER True Blood redhead (who is currently pregnant with what may or may not be the demon fetus reincarnation of a serial killer), but it turns out I don't have the belly for it yet. So I got to traumatize small neighborhood children with bloody eyes and fangs instead.

Also, yes, I was really, really freaking cold. But I was even more committed.

We stayed out until the buckets got too heavy to carry and little legs got too tired to walk. Also we had to get everybody to bed so we could stay up late and watch that zombie show on AMC with the lights turned off and the sound turned up because I totally enjoy NOT EVER SLEEPING AGAIN.

And that was our Halloween. How was yours? 

LET'S GO MURDER A TRUCKER. AND THEN CRY ABOUT IT.

Crime & Punishment

I'm fine! I'm fine! The EVERYTHING IS OKAY alarm is going off at full volume, I promise. Much like our neighbor's car alarm two nights ago, in the middle of the night, to which we responded by getting up, muttering a lot of curse words before slamming the window shut.

The next morning, we discovered that another neighbor's house had been broken into around that time, along with a good half-dozen cars in the area. Including ours. Although "broken into" makes it sound more dramatic than the reality, because our cars were unlocked. coughMORONScough. Nothing was taken from mine, though the glove compartment and center console had both been opened and tossed around, but they didn't even snag my phone charger or the stack of Emergency Tissues. 

(Here's what a dork I am: When Jason told me about the break-in, I was like, OH MY GOD THE ERGO CARRIER WAS IN THE TRUNK DID THEY STEAL THE ERGO CARRIER?)

("Um. No. That wasn't really the kind of thing they were after, babe.")

("Well, shows how much THEY know, because that's a really expensive carrier and they could totally make like, $80 at a consignment store. I'D steal an Ergo carrier.")

("Just tell me you didn't leave your cell phone in the car last night, okay?")

Jason's handsfree phone thing was taken, but even this was no terrible loss because he hated it and wanted to get a new one, and he hated it because it was so ridiculously complicated and required five specific voice prompts to make a phone call that I do kind of get a kick out of the mental image of the thieves attempting to use it without the instructions and being like CALL PAWN SHOP MAIN. NO, NOT TEXT MESSAGE. PHONE COMMANDS. SYNC. HUH? WHO IS IT DIALING NOW? OH FUCK THIS PIECE OF SHIT.

So that happened. Also, I went to a farm as a preschool field trip chaperone yesterday. Guess which thing was worse.

Since Ezra was coming along for the ride, I dressed the boys in seasonal and easily-visible-in-a-crowd orange shirts, silently congratulating myself on being so smart and from learning so many things from my years and years of experience at maybe doing stuff like this a whole three times before. 

Let's see. A field trip to a pumpkin patch. In October. Just a few days before Halloween. The whole farm was freaking lousy with orange shirts. LOUSY WITH THEM.

This was pretty much the way the whole day went. Viewed through the zoom lens, with the sounds of my shrieking after them to COME BACK HERE BEFORE A GOOSE EATS YOU.

Baby pigs.

Baby rabbits.

Baby chicken nuggets.

(Ezra's like, "SIX-PIECE, PLEASE.")

And an absolutely mind-blowing, life-completing encounter with a real-life SHEEP, like OMG BAA BAA BAA SHEEP SHEEP SHEEP!

An emu. They liked it. I distrusted it.

This is either a wallaby or a kangaroo. I wasn't paying attention. Either way, I just loved its expression of fuck y'all, I gots a TENT. 

At some point Ezra got tired and insisted on being carried everywhere, and I suddenly realized how ill-equipped I am for the reality of THREE OF THESE PEOPLE. 

Ugh. Hell in a petting-zoo pen, you guys. Noah got bit by a turkey, but he probably deserved it. Much like that turkey will deserve all that delicious, delicious gravy next month.

Frolic.

Strut.

Hayride.

Trying to catch a decent natural-looking photo before he instinctively does that exaggerated CHEESE thing he does all the time now and...

Sigh. Never mind.

PS. New post up at The Stir. Plus lots of great stuff at Mamapop today and while no, I didn't technically write any of that particular great stuff it will have to do until I can formulate a proper sentence about last night's Project Runway finale that doesn't disintegrate into HORRIBLE SEETHING EARTH-TONED RAGE. 

Trees, Knees and God-Knows-What Else (Nonsensical Bullet Point Edition)

I am feeling much better today, thank you. 

Not so much better, mind you, that I am capable of delivering a super-coherent blog entry or anything. I've yet to venture beyond Saltines, white rice and strawberry Jell-O, which means the best I can do for you today are some semi-deranged blood-sugary bullet points. Aren't you excited NOW.

1. Remember the tree that fell down after The Tornado That Apparently Happened While We Were In The Mall? This is what it looks like today:

 

IT'S ALIVE!!!!

No, actually, it's really not. A crew came by last week, hacked off all the branches, removed a couple of smaller trees that this one had taken out on the way down, and then just...propped it back up. And left it. You can still see the separation all around it on the ground, like a giant Christmas tree skirt, the only indication that this tree is NOT ACTUALLY ATTACHED TO ANYTHING, like it used to be. You know, like it was on the day it BLEW THE FUCK OVER. 

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Wrong Here:

     a) Another storm.

     b) Another EARTHQUAKE.

     c) Some goddamned wind. 

     d) Passing texting/drunk/mascara-applying drivers and/or bicyclists.

     e) Birds. Fat ones.

     f) Vicious regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Things That Could Possibly Go Very Right:

    a) FRIENDLY regenerating zombie trees of the apocalypse.

Moving on.

2) I got a mosquito bite that looks like the devil. Or possibly a very angry bull.

 

Oh, come on. Don't pretend like you don't see it. Just ignore my alarmingly knobby knees and turn your computer screen upside down. It'll come.

3) Robots, take note. You are NOT WELCOME at Noah's summer camp.

 

4) Blogher. I KNOW. The pre-conference freak-out posts on other blogs start earlier and earlier each year, usually ending just in time for me to realize that:

     a) Oh shit, it's Blogher! and

     b) There are Christmas trees at the mall already, MY LANDS.

In honor of our 12th wedding anniversary, I am dragging Jason (hereforeafterever known as Poor Jason) with me this year, and to several of the parties. If you see or approach us, please to be prepared for:

     a) Me to hug you, only in a horribly spastic way that might trigger your instinct to protect your head, and...

     b) Jason to look at you with wide eyes full of terror, and possibly slip you a note promising you one (1) slightly used purse dog or child (your choice) in exchange for safe passage OUT OF THIS CIRCLE OF SOCIAL HELL.

"But it's our ANNIVERSARY," I said to him several months ago. "We CAN'T spend it apart. Blogher will be FUN. You can learn about ISSUES. And MONETIZING. And WOMEN." 
 
I won that argument, so he's coming. Poor Jason.

5) I don't really have a number five. Here is a picture of my baby going down a slide.

I feel like there used to be a lot more slide, and I don't quite know where it went. 

53 Hours

We went to the mall on Sunday, mostly because it was officially Too Damn Hot For Life outside and had run out of other indoor time-killing options. Life lesson time, boys: If you get bored, just go somewhere and buy shit you don't need for awhile.

Anyway. The lights flickered once. Twice. We decided to leave, let the power go out and lead to mass looting at Build-a-Bear. We noticed it was raining really hard through the skylights, but by the time we got outside the sun was shining again.  

The only evidence that a tornado had touched down nearby was...well, there were a lot of leaves all over the ground.

Oh. And shit like this:

 

That brownish...thing? That's the underside of a really big tree that just up and fell over. It peeled off a nice layer of the earth's crust and mantle on its way down, and yes I said MANTLE because BOO-YAH GEOLOGY 101. Preparing me for moments like this and not much else.  

(My drive-by cell-phone photography skillz: YOU LOVE THEM.)

Not surprisingly, we lost power as a result of the storm. As did over 300,000 other homes in our area, which I swear is like, an actual high-density area where actual real people live and work and DVR their favorite TV shows and poop using fancy modern indoor plumbing, as opposed to McHillbillyville, USA or something. I get the sense that Pepco power lines are held together by little more than popsicle sticks and electrical tape and chewed-up gum from all the third-party contractors they hire EVERY TIME we get one of these huge county-wide outages, and each repair leaves everything a bit more rickety and outage-prone than it was in the first place. 

Last time it took 84 hours for our power to be restored. This time we only lost power for about 53 hours. Fifty-three! That's nothing! And the temperatures during the day were only about 90, 91 degrees tops. I don't even see the point in blogging about any of it. What do you take me for, some kind of whiny brat urbanite with no coping skills, or something? 

(DON'T ANSWER THAT.)

Unlike the winter outage, this one at least wasn't...scary, like we all going to contract pneumonia and then get into a terrible car accident when we try to drive to the hospital for medicine for our pneumonia because our fingers fell off from frostbite already scary. This outage was mostly boring and sweaty.

Noah: Mommy, can I watch a show?

Amy: No, sweetie, there's no power, remember?

Noah: Okay. I will watch a DVD instead.

Amy: Um, can't do that either, bud. 

Noah: Okay. How about...the Star Wars game?

Amy: New rule of thumb, Noah. If something 1) lights up, 2) has buttons, or 3) is at all possibly remotely fun, it requires power, and you can't do it right now. 

Noah: Okay. Can I play with your phone?

(And yet, just a few hours later, after the boys were in bed and Jason and I prepared to watch a DVD on his charged-at-work laptop, I totally went I KNOW! We can still catch the Mad Men premiere! You just have to rent it on iTunes or something! Why don't you do that? What? Oh. Right. Never mind. Yeah, we can just watch Idiocracy again, I guess.)

I kept trying to get work done at the coffeeshops and such, but so did everyone else from the 300,000+ powerless households. On Monday I drove to Jodi's house to bask in her recently-restored electricity, only to have it go out again after an hour and a half ("HAAAAA SO LONG SUCKER," I cackled as I left, gaining strength for future evil superdeeds from her misfortune). 

On Tuesday I brought a big-ass wall outlet splitter with me and very politely asked a woman hogging an entire precious outlet with both her laptop and cell phone if she minded if we expanded the outlet's use for everybody, and...actually, it turned out she DID mind, a little bit, as she testily informed me that Panera had "a lot of other outlets" so she "didn't see the point" in using the splitter. When I mentioned that the plugs were actually all full and a bit more in demand than usual because of the power outages, she was like, "power outawhah?" but finally unplugged her shit for 10 measly seconds, then purposely replugged everything in so her chargers covered up more than one plug, just so no one else could use them. I did not like that lady, very much, and thought to myself that she deserved to get blogged about. So. There. 

(Our power came back on last night, but I brought the splitter again today because there are still thousands of people still waiting for theirs. I was heralded as the Smartest, Nicest Person Ever. Which is MORE LIKE IT, INGRATES.)

Anyway. What the outage lacked in DRAMAZZZ, though, it certainly made up in DOLLAH BILLZ, because this is the current state of our once-packed freezer:

 

Okay, for dinner tonight, your menu choices are grated cheddar cheese, some fancy farmers' market flour that you have to keep in the freezer for some reason, a plastic ice pack and those weird flaxseed/spelt waffles that nobody likes. 

Bunnicula

Jason caught another mouse* last week -- a particularly feisty one that scratched at the trap all night and kept me awake until I kicked Jason in the shins and told him to move it outside or shove in the garbage disposal or something. He put it in the basement because he worried something else might attack the trap and eat it off the back deck and WHAT A SHAME THAT WOULD BE.  The next day, he drove it all special to a big huge field far away from houses or office buildings or my goddamn good baking sheets. He turned away after watching it dash off into the high grass, but turned back around when he heard a tremendous SWOOSH...just in time to see the hawk flying away with the mouse in its claws. 

*I KNOW. Oh God help me, I know. The first person to mention exterminators or poison traps or very small rodent-sized atomic bombs is more than welcome to come over and beat my husband with a common-sense stick, because my arms are plum tired out.

***

In other Stupid Nature news, a family of rabbits has moved onto our front lawn. It will likely not surprise you to hear that I've managed to make a Big Whole Thing about this, too. 

We discovered the bunnies a few days ago, after we came home from a very nice family outing at yet another toddler carwash interactive fountain, and Jason found a baby bunny just sort of...lying there in the grass, in front of our house. Concerned that it was injured or something, he picked it up. And it proceeded to scream this horrible, terrible bunny scream, over and over again. REEEEEEEET! REEEEET! REEEEEEEEEEEEEET! REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET!!!!!

Its anxiety was almost too much for me to bear and I started shrieking at Jason to PUT IT DOWN PUT IT DOWN MY INTERNET COMMENTERS TOLD ME THAT BABY BUNNIES CAN GET LITERALLY SCARED TO DEATH THAT ONE TIME AND MY INTERNET COMMENTERS KNOW STUFF LIKE THAT, and that's when I noticed that there were more baby bunnies hiding nearby, more sensibly in a patch of ivy. 

And THEN I noticed the mama bunny had dashed over and was crouched nearby, eyeballing us with...I don't know, really big eyeballs, looking for all the world like she was about to fly at our necks and rip our jugulars out.

 

Exhibit A: Like this.

 

Exhibit B: And this.

 

Exhibit C: GRRRAAARRR PUT DOWN MAH BEBEH YOU DEAD NOW BITCH

Jason wisely put the baby bunny down and we all backed away, slowly. The mother bunny followed us, like she was unsure if we still had her baby or not, all the way to our front step. I tried to help.

"Over there! They're over there! Go get them! And then take them over there! In the woods! Away from the road! This isn't safe here!" 

She didn't respond to pointing so I picked up a leaf and tried to throw it in the general direction of the babies, but it just got caught in a breeze and flitted backwards towards my legs. 

At this point, Jason, Noah and Ezra were looking at me with a mixture of horror and pity. They went inside while I continued to berate the rabbit about her choice of nesting grounds.

I gave up after...awhile and came inside. The rabbit stayed rightthere, outside our door, staring at us with the crazy eyes. FOR HOURS.

(I know because I checked. A lot.)

And she still hasn't left. Nor have the baby bunnies. We find them randomly crouched on the lawn; they scatter whenever we water the garden; we've watched them tumble headfirst down the cement steps in a braindead panic; we've even found them waiting for us by the front door. 

 

Exhibit D: OH HAI. 
  
And of course, their crazy-eyed mother likes to show up from time to time too. 

 

Exhibit E: Objects in photo may be more foul-tempered than they appear.

Most of the time, though, the babies are left to fend for themselves, which I know is NORMAL and all, but oh my God, it stresses me out. I feel like I'm babysitting, and therefore obligated to go out from time to time and conduct roll call and take attendance and herd them away from the road and open spaces, so I can now be frequently spotted outside in high heels, clapping my hands and yelling at things that nobody else can see to HIDE IN THE MUMS, YOU MORONS.

 

Exhibit F: MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!!!11!!

My plan is to essentially harass them enough that the mother rabbit will finally be all, "screw this, we're moving across the street" where they will be somebody else's problem. Or until someone in the neighborhood reports me to the police as That Crazy Lady Who Yells At Her Mulch All The Time.

Jason doesn't understand my obsession with the rabbits, since they are very much a nuisance, and I've always regarded them with the same callous callousness in which I view the mice -- we had a couple get into our backyard last year who liked eating our vegetable garden and I used to watch for them so I could let Ceiba out and watch the high-speed chase that always ensued, which was HILARIOUS. (Though I intervened the one time she caught one because...well, EW.) Plus, I am aware that they are, truly, just rats with better costumes. But. Babiessss! Who are only thisbig! With wittle white tails! I can't help myself. One day they will be free to be hawk-food or roadkill, but NOT ON MY WATCH, ASSHOLES.

 

Exhibit G: Also, I fear this one might kill me in my sleep. REET REET REET REET!

Area Woman Demands Medal For Heroic Rescue of Disgusting Thing She Totally Hates

Jason Storch, Mouse Trapper M.D., caught himself another one this morning. He was quite proud of himself. The dog and the cat, on the other hand, were all nonchalantly hanging around the trap, waiting for me to put their kibble down, COMPLETELY UNFAZED by the live mouse SITTING RIGHT THERE in a clear plastic box, and did not seem to be all ashamed of themselves and their utter uselessness. 

Also! This: 

 
Is EVEN MORE BULLSHIT.

That's a dishtowel covering up today's Gladware-encased rodent offering, on the front seat of my car, as the whole "release" bit of Jason's catch-and-release plan fell to me this time. ME! 

Technically, Jason offered to take care of the mouse...later. Like, "I have to go somewhere around 4 p.m. so I'll do it then" later. I pointed out that while it's fine and great that he's so determined to trap the mice humanely and all, there's something about keeping the things trapped in cheap plastic containers all day --wallowing in piss and shit and probably terrified out of their feeble stupid tiny poop-pellet-sized disgusting brains -- that strikes me as kind of cruel. 

(Also cruel: My suspicion that he likes keeping the mice around because he thinks the look on my face and the involuntary creeped-out shoulder-spasms I get each and every time I walk into the kitchen and see the container on the counter are really funny.)

And so that's why I -- the sole non-lunatic in a household of males that have all been completely brainwashed by the Disney animation establishment -- ended up taking responsibility for freeing the awful creature in a field near Noah's school. 

(The whole drive there, Noah kept trying to understand WHY I don't like mice, mostly by asking me if I liked mice or not over and over and over again, trying to wear me down and get me to say that I did. And wear me down he did, because I finally gave up and told him that yes, I like mice just fine when they are OUTSIDE, but that I don't like mice in my HOUSE. Or CAR. Or FOOD STORAGE CONTAINERS.)

(This half-truth is still probably better than the colossal outright lie we tell him about "sending the mouse back to his family" when we talk about setting them free, because I know full well that the mouse's family [and likely a litter of blind naked mole-rat dependents] are totally back at our house, inside of our wall.)

So after dropping Noah off at his classroom I snuck over to the edge of the parking lot with my dishrag-covered offering and set the mouse free. I watched it sit there for awhile before bounding (BOUNDING, HE HONESTLY BOUNDED, IT WAS GROSS YET ADORABLE) over to a tree to clean itself off. 

 

Freedom! Terrible, blinding freedom!
 
I drove off and then found myself worrying about the mouse -- God, maybe I should've walked over to those bushes so it wouldn't be left so far out in the open? Or over there, where it wouldn't be so close to the street? Quick, scan the sky for hawks! Should I go back and try to like, corral it someplace else? 

The mental image of myself, running (OR BOUNDING) through a field by the side of the road, trying to ensure the relative safety of a MOUSE, possibly while banging the lid and bowl of a thoroughly befouled Gladware container together, snapped me right back to curmudgeonly reality, which was: That thing should count its goddamn blessings already. 

 

FUCK YOU, MICKEY. GOOD LUCK NOT BEING EATEN.
 

AND THEN!

My weekend got EVEN BETTER, if you can believe it. 

After staggering downstairs in search of coffee on Saturday morning, I was greeted by the usual sight of Jason making pancakes for the boys. 

Oh, and this, sitting on our kitchen counter:

BELIEVE IT.

I took one look at that tiny pointy seizing rodent poop monster -- on my COUNTER, in my GLADWARE, which once held CHRISTMAS COOKIES -- and turned around and marched right back out.

Noah climbed down from his stool -- and his breakfast, which was also on the COUNTER, just INCHES away the scratchy disease-ridden furball -- and chased after me, imploring me to come look! Come look, Mommy! He's our FRIEND, Mommy! Don't worry, Mommy, it's just a little mouse, and he's a friendly mouse, Mommy. 

He took my hand and pulled me back into the kitchen, where Jason was practically on the floor laughing at Noah's earnest reassurances (the very same patch of floor where this very same blinky jumpy dwarf rat thing had been brazenly skittering around at all hours of the night for weeks, BY THE WAY).

I indulged Noah and looked directly into the big bulging eyes of the furry helldemon and said yes, he seemed like a very nice mouse.

"His name is Any," Noah said. "I love him."

I glared at Jason and asked him what kind of trap had finally caught the vile bald-footed sewer-dweller and he showed me a collection of humane traps he'd picked up at the hardware store. "I've had to put new bait in them a couple times because he kept going in there and then getting back out. Last night he finally got stuck." 

He added, "He REALLY likes peanut butter."

I poured a cup of coffee and eyeballed the pocket-sized ball of plague, who was up on its hind legs, trying to nibble on the airholes Jason had punched in the lid. The container already had a unbelievable amount of mouse shit in the bottom.

The plan was to drive out to the deep 'burbs that day to take the boys to a splash park, and release the skittering itchy shifty-eyed beastrat in the fields nearby. It took us a bit longer to get ready than we thought, and when I went back into the kitchen to pack up some water and snacks, I noticed it was sitting completely still, curled up in the corner.

"OH SHIT," I thought, and poked the container. It jumped up in a panic and started racing around so hard the container moved and I did an involuntary girlscream and jumped back about four feet. It stared at me through the festive red plastic lid. I stared back. 

I noticed it had eaten all the dog food Jason had so kindly provided for it a few hours earlier. 

I went to the pantry and pulled out a box of Cheerios, and God help me, I peeled back the Gladware lid and quickly tossed a couple bites of cereal inside. I debated putting a little water in the container too but thought that might just scare it more than anything. It stared at me some more.

"I still DON'T LIKE YOU," I hissed at it. "Just so we understand each other."

I think maybe it nodded. Or else it was just the beginning stages of some rodent-bourne palsy that will one day wipe out humanity. Either way, I think it got my point.

***

We drove a good 20 miles away and released Any the Mouse in a park, near a dumpster by a soccer field. The Gladware went directly into the dumpster. Now let us never speak of this again. 

Building a Better Root-Vegetable-Based Mouse Trap

So about the mouse.

It continues to elude Max's completely uninterested clutches, and Max continues to not give a flying fuck. 

Last night Jason and I heard something crunching on kibble in the kitchen, along with a metallic clang -- like one of the pets pushed the food and water bowls together while eating. 

Except that -- you guessed it -- both of the pets were sitting on the couch, with us. Jason jumped up and cautiously peeked around the doorway, but the intruder was already gone. I proceeded to have a full-body attack of the itching creepy crawlies while Jason checked the humane traps (I KNOW, OKAY) that he'd placed behind the stove at the assumed point of entry.

The good news is that a mouse had gone into the trap. At one point or another. The bad news is that he'd clearly had no trouble CHEWING HIS WAY OUT.

"So, that's that." I said. "We'll get some nice toxic traps that break their backs or fry their brains or something, right?"

He mumbled something while opening cabinets and pulling out casserole dishes or whatever and I went back to the living room. 

Turns out? Jason had a plan.

Behold. This was his plan:

For those of you who have no idea what you're looking at (which I imagine is EVERYBODY), you are looking at the cat food dish, hidden under a mixing bowl that has been propped up with a wine cork and weighted down with a sweet potato.

I'm just...gonna sit here for a minute and let you re-read that last sentence a couple more times.

I swear. I SWEAR TO GOD. This actually fucking happened.  

After laughing my fool head off and taking some pictures, I opted to go to bed. I mean, the evening could ONLY go downhill at this point, right?

At 4:30 in the morning, we heard -- OH YES WE DID -- yet another metallic clang. A more...forceful sounding one.

I poked my husband. "Did you hear that?"

He had. I poked him again. It was a congratulatory, high-five kind of poke. 

At first he said he'd deal with it in the morning, but I worried that perhaps the whole SWEET POTATO thing was maybe not entirely fail-safe, like what if the potato rolled off the bowl and the mouse can like, MOVE the bowl around like a little hamster-wheel and we go down there tomorrow morning and can't find it? 

(4:30 in the morning, you guys. And I'm fretting over the mental image of a POSSESSED MIXING BOWL skittering all over my house.)

Jason got up and went downstairs to check his trap. He returned a few minutes later.

"It wasn't the mouse," he reported. "It was Max. He was just sitting there, staring at the bowl, like, what the hell?" 

"I'm sorry," I said. "That would have been pretty awesome if it worked."

"Yeah."

"But seriously, you've got to let me nuke the bastards next, okay?"

"Okay."

 

(Sweet Potato Helmet Army Man Says Hold Your Ground! Fire When Ready!) 
 

Dear Cat

We need to talk.

 
Oh, don't look at me like that. You know. YOU KNOW EXACTLY.

Look. Cat. You've been a fine cat. For almost...wow...12 years now, you've been a very fine cat. Very affectionate and cozy and face-nuzzly and such. And I can't tell you how happy I am that you remain so healthy and spry and feisty after almost 12 whole years. 

Like the other night? When you were rolling around on the bed being all adorable and I decided to record a little movie of your adorableness but the dog felt all left out and whimper-y on the floor so I picked her up and put her on the bed and you were immediately all OH HELLLLLZ NO BITCH THIS BED AND TUMMY RUBBIN IS MINE and proceeded to lunge at her head like a cheetah in a nature documentary? 

Exhibit A:

Yeah, that. While not the adorable pet video I originally had in mind, I was still pleased to see you can still get all aggressive and feline-like, when you feel like it. 

Which brings me to my point: If you're still obviously so up for a good tussle, why the fuck do we have a MOUSE, a mouse in our KITCHEN, a mouse that comes OUT OF THE CABINET at night and sits NEXT TO YOUR BOWL and EATS YOUR FOOD and OH MY GOD, it's a goddamned RODENT.

(IN OUR HOUSE!)

Look, Cat. This isn't even the first mouse. We had one last year. Something I discovered when I pulled a baking sheet out the drawer under our stove and oh look, MOUSE TURDS. Do you remember that? You were at least vaguely helpful that time, what with all the INTENSE STARING you did that signaled to us that one of the sticky traps we set out had captured the mouse, the mouse that my husband (YOUR FATHER!) then refused to kill and kept trying to get me to LOOK AT IT and then he spent 20 minutes carefully removing the stupid thing from the trap before putting it in MY GOOD TUPPERWARE and being all, "Noah! Look! It's Ratatouille! Let's go get in the car and set him free somewhere so he can go back to his family!" 

And then we got in the car and he asked me to hold the container in my LAP and I yelled at him to put that thing in the TRUNK because NO, I wanted NOTHING TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS. And then we drove to a goddamned field and he set the goddamned thing free and you know, I bet this is the same goddamned mouse, not that I'm going to check its little foot pads for signs of past sticky-trap trauma or anything. 

Look, Cat. I gave you a pass last year because I thought the mouse was staying in non-cat-accessible places in the house. But now it has been brought to my attention that the mouse has been spotted OUT AND ABOUT, AT NIGHT. (Spotted by my husband [YOUR FATHER!], who again, did not respond to the sighting by like, throwing a fucking shoe at the thing or doing anything USEFUL, but instead just came upstairs and woke me up and was all, "HEY. GUESS WHAT I JUST SAW.")

Seriously. The thing comes out and eats your food. From your bowl. A bowl that we have since moved the fuck off the floor, and I can tell that pisses you right off from all the plaintive yowling you do every morning because meoooooooooowwwww I'm too old and lazy to jump up on a chaaaaaaair to get my fooooooood meeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooowwwwwwww halp meeeeee somebodeeeeeeee rooowwwlllll.

You know what, Cat? Tough freaking love. Do your job and get rid of the mouse and you can have your stupid bowl back on the stupid floor. What? I sound angry? I am. Almost 12 years, Cat. That's how long I've been feeding you and paying for shots and letting you sleep in my armpit and I didn't even TELL the Internet what you did to us while we were in Jamaica, going on a three-day hunger strike at the fancy expensive Pet Hotel, causing us and our emergency contact much stress and panic while we tried to find a pet sitter to go get you on goddamned SKYPE because we didn't even have a PHONE down there and then you were FINE and were just being a DIVA and after all of that, you're telling me you won't even TRY to kill ONE LITTLE MOUSE that is, for the record, EATING YOUR FOOD? 

You're kind of a disgrace, Cat. 12 years of face scritches and unlimited catnip have made you soft. I'm guessing there's not much to be done about that at this point. Except maybe this:

 
Love,

Person With Opposable Thumbs Who Knows Where The Treats Are Kept, Bizzitch

My Infestation, Let Me Show You It

A couple years ago, shortly before we moved from DC to the Stupid Suburbs, my recently-transplanted-from-California friend sent me a camera phone photo and a hysterical text message.

WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS FUCK YOU EAST COAST

The picture was of the most hideous insect I had ever seen. Including the time I found a cockroach in my bathtub.

(Although cockroach encounters are almost like a bizarre form of street cred for City People. It reaffirms that yes, I am so hardcore in my desire to Walk To Things (translation: Starbucks) that I am perfectly okay with spending half a million dollars to live in a 800-square-foot hellhole.)

Anyway, this bug was ugly. It was obviously some kind of beetle but the kind of beetle that would eat ladybugs for lunch and then poop out some kind of flesh-eating disease. All over your face. While you slept.

I texted back.

HOLY FUCK KILL IT KILL IT I AM THROWING SHOES FROM HERE.

My phone was silent for a few minutes. And then.

FUCK IT CAN FLY IT CAN FLLLY FUCK

And a few minutes later, she called.

"Cilannnnntrooooo!" she wailed.

"WHAT?"

"Cilantro! I squashed it with Skip's shoe and now the whole room smells like rotten goddamn cilantro."

(Skip is her husband.)

We both got on our computers and started Googling "cilantro smelly rotten egg beetles" and quickly determined that it was a Brown Marmorated Stink Bug. A nuisance bug accidentally introduced to our continent from China, like a plague of mass-produced lead-painted Thomas trains. And we learned that by squishing the sucker inside her house, my friend had essentially broadcasted to every other stink bug in the area that her house was a nice warm place to infest.

"That's stupid," she said. "That's the stupidest thing I have ever heard. Come to this house, bugs! They have shoes! It smells like death!"

Then she fell oddly silent, and asked if she and her son could come over for awhile.

"Amy," she whispered. "There are like, five more of them on the outside of the screen door. They're just...sitting there."

"Oh my God," I whispered back, for some reason. "Grab your keys and the baby and get out of there. Don't worry about anything else. We have diapers and blankets and you can borrow clothes if you need them. Just GET OUT OF THERE."

When she arrived, I immediately told her about the time I found a cockroach in the tub. To this day I will never understand why she moved back to California.

***

And now we live in the suburbs. And every fall it's the same disgusting thing. Stink bugs all over the outside of the house and window screens, waiting, plotting, inevitably finding their way inside. Mosquitoes, too. They sense their imminent wintery death and go completely berserk in September, biting you through seventeen coats of DEET, making every trip outside to drop wine bottles in the recycling bin an exercise in terror. This year, we have a nest of yellow jackets in the flower bed right outside our front door and Jason found a dried-out snakeskin near our dryer vent. And then there's the fucking CRICKETS. And then! Three days ago I noticed some other giant (HUGE) mysterious beetle-bug-thing on one of our windows, and as I have considerable problem-solving skills, I simply closed the window to trap it, because it just looked entirely too substantial to crush with a tissue. As of right now, the thing is STILL NOT DEAD YET.

It's all so gross, this stupid nature.

This year seems like the worst one yet, though. Almost Hitchcockian. The stink bugs just all simultaneously APPEARED yesterday. I noticed one on the crown molding in the living room...right as I heard the telltale buzzing of another one taking flight behind me behind me don't land on me don't land on me gaaaah. I lowered the window shades and HOLY FUCK, they were everywhere, just sitting there. First-floor windows, second-floor windows. I checked all our screens for points of entry and armed myself with the Shop Vac. 

We have a service contract with a pest control company, and twice a year they come out and spray for termites and check the perimeter and windows and set out little sticky traps to see if we can figure out how the fuck all these bugs are getting in and twice a year the visit ends with a baffled shrug. 

Yesterday, I think I cracked the mystery.

(Oh hey, if you're still reading at this point but are like, itching from head to toe a little bit? You might want to finally cry uncle and bail.)

So ever since the Great Fertilizer Dog Buffet Debacle and subsequent shutting down of the Canine Liver Contingent, we've been diligent composters. Yesterday, however, I left the pile's offerings (bruised section of peach, apple core, lettuce) sit out on the kitchen counter for juuuuust a bit too long, as we've yet to buy a suitable indoor container. I went to toss a banana peel on top and OH MY GOD, a fucking mushroom cloud of fruit flies sprang from its depths. I gagged and grabbed the nearest bowl (Sorry, Dora the Explorer), swept everything into it and bolted outside to deposit it in our composter.

(EXHIBIT 28430290 OF WHY HIPPIES ARE STUPID, DAMN DIRTY)

As soon as I opened the back door, the stink bugs attacked. Five or six of them flew towards the opening at top speed. I shrieked and slammed the door shut. The motion once again disturbed the flock of fruit flies who were following me and my bowl of mush like the Pied Piper, and a stink bug ricocheted off the door frame and landed on my hand. I dropped the bowl and shrieked again, and the bug fell off my hand...and into my shoe.

(Gardening clogs, okay? That I promise I only wear for GARDENING. And picking up dog crap. And fine, maaaaaybe taking Noah out to the school bus sometimes but it's just because they are usually right there by the door and that's just really convenient.)

At this point I probably looked and sounded like I was being attacked by bees. Or sharks. Or hell demons. I kicked off my shoe and sent it sailing across the yard and stood there for another three or four minutes shaking my limbs and hair and clothing while gasping out stuff like "ew ew ew ew ew shit shit shit."

When I stopped to catch my breath and retrieve my shoe and Dora bowl (opting to allow the compost to stay where it fell, providing all kinds of essential nutrients to the wood of the back deck), I made the mistake of surveying the back of our house.

Stink bugs. Everywhere. On the brick, on the windows, on the gutters. I slooooowly reached for the screen door handle and I SWEAR, they all fired up their wings, ready to attack. 

I dashed in as fast as I could, slamming the storm door closed (AND LOCKING THE DEADBOLT, BECUZ I ARE SMARTER THAN THEM BUGS). I walked over to the sink to deposit the bowl...and felt something on my ankles.

Two mosquitoes. I smashed them, leaving smears of blood on top of the already-forming welts.  (FOUR BITES, already. FOUR.)

And that's when I noticed something in my hair. Multiple somethings.

You guys. They rode inside the house IN MY HAIR.

By my count, THREE OF THEM. I have since vacuumed up one, another is MIA (shakes hair shakes hair shakeshair), and I have cornered a third one inside the living room blinds, unable to coax it quiiiiite close enough to where my vacuum can get at it.

No, seriously:

The way we live now.

(And just for the sake of completeness, besides the two mosquitoes that used my ankle as some kind of illegal border crossing van, minutes later I found a third one, BITING MY BABY ON THE FACE. Without thinking, I smacked it off him [AND THUS, HIS FACE], which shocked him so much that he did the whole heartbreaking face-melting-sobbing-real-tears thing, and then STILL woke up this morning with EIGHT gigantic angry red bites on his face and legs. Obviously, the suburbs are dirty, disgusting and absolutely no place to raise children.)