The Bluffton Sun - Published 11/13/2024
My home is under siege by a cruel but invisible adversary. It appears out of nowhere, leaving a swath of destruction in its wake. I have spent what feels like a lifetime trying to figure out how to rid myself of this demon. Short of burning my house to the ground, I am at a loss of how to defeat it.
Another such attack occurred late last night, as they so often do, which is why I cannot trap this filthy beast. I was about to grab my first cup of coffee, eyes barely able to focus, when I stumbled into the most recent onslaught. I’m momentarily stupefied, staring at a macabre display in my living room. The carcass of some animal has unceremoniously met an early demise. Its furry pelt matted down in what appears to be Annie’s mac and cheese, likely its last meal. It has been carelessly flung on the couch by my nemesis, like a cat when it proudly displays the vestiges of its prey for all to witness. Gingerly, I push it aside and audibly gasp at what the hide was concealing. My nebulous enemy clearly means to destroy me once and for all.
My teenage daughters are in their rooms, oblivious to the mass destruction committed during its nocturnal invasion. I attempt to alert them, praying they are not being held hostage by this evil incarnate. My screams of “GIRLS, COME PICK UP THIS MESS OR YOU ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING WITH YOUR FRIENDS ALL WEEKEND!” go unheard. God help us, this monster must also have powers that block out sound.
I start panicking, unsure of how to break the monster's obvious grip on my family. My yelling brings my husband into the room. He witnesses the catastrophic situation, and heads directly to the garage. He must be going to get a shovel to help me.
It is then I notice the grotesque promenade the beast took. It left the living room, next creeping up the staircase. Once clean sheets are now strewn everywhere, a pathetic display of defeat. Art supplies are scattered, leaving a colorful tattoo on the carpet. Exoskeletons of make-up purchases. Two, no three, dirty bowls. I am petrified to lift a damp towel and see what petrie dish of hideous lies beneath. An olfactory amalgamation of fast food, teenage perfume, and feet, slaps me right across the face. The vile beast is clearly bringing its A game to this party.
“What are you doing in the garage? We have people coming over!” I scream to my husband with no response. Either he is having trouble finding the shovel, or the monster has gotten to him as well. I am alone in this battle.
A deep sigh as my only fanfare, I head directly into the carnage, slogging through a sea of sweatshirts and dingy socks. I grab a lacrosse stick as my weapon. Thank goodness my daughter didn’t listen to my repeated demands to put it where it belongs. Someone’s school backpack falls over; its entrails spilling everywhere. I stifle a retch. Fruit flies hum a mournful dirge around a half-eaten banana and a container of pasta from who knows when.
Armed with nothing more than a Hefty and some choice curse words, I methodically begin to disassemble the pile of atrocity. Little by little I gather nail polish bottles, empty Starbucks cups, what may have been Jimmy Hoffa’s remains, and some homework cleverly hidden in the crack of the couch. No wonder it couldn’t be turned in. This creature’s evil knows no bounds.
The final remains of the villainy are tossed in the washing machine. The hardwood floors cry tears of joy at being saved. No, wait. That’s Sprite from a Stanley that I tripped over.My throat is raw from the ticker-tape list of threats spewed from the dark recesses of my soul. I am sweating in places that should never be discussed in mixed company, but I have reclaimed my living room. I also located all the spoons that “no one used” but are always missing, and my hair straightener that no one borrowed without asking. I collapse onto the couch, oblivious to the granola bar wrapper sticking to my butt. I take a long sip of my coffee, basking in the silent glow of supremacy. Yet again, no one saw a thing or knows how this atrocity keeps occurring. Even more mysteriously, the monster managed to keep the kids and my husband at bay for the entire episode. Such a powerful foe.
And that’s when I realized that while I was conquering Mt. Trashmore, the Barbies have become possessed. I will now have to cross over boxes of toys that my daughters have outgrown, but refuse to donate, and perform an exorcism in the Three Story Dream Townhouse. And, I must do so without a single pair of pink Marabou high heeled slippers. Well played, nemesis, well played.
Tagline:
Tracy Winslow is a Spanish professor and owner of Bluffton’s premier yarn store - Low Country Shrimp and Knits. In the 37 seconds a day she is not running around like a lunatic, Tracy can be found knitting furiously, Ouija-boarding her deceased metabolism, and attempting to write humorously about life’s antics and anecdotes in her humor column, Chaos on Fire.