“Honey, wake up…Honey, wake up….wake up!”
“What the hell? It’s freakin’ 2:00 o’clock in the morning. What do you want and it better not be some action.” Like any mother, the moment my child breathes funny in the next room, I’m at his bedside at warp speed full of love and concern, but being awoken by my husband does not warrant the same love and concern.
“Someone in the house.” He whispers. “Hear that?”
“Scrat-scrat-scrat-scrat. You hear?”
“Why are you still in bed? Get out there and save us!” Panic was taking over. “Wait. Take these with you.” I reached over and pulled a pair of class A Ginger dressmaker shears -compete with gaffer’s tape on the thumb-hole for a nice comfort grip- from under my side of the mattress. One plunge to any appendage could maim an intruder in milliseconds.
“What the hell are these? Where they come from?” A few weeks ago the Turk found my stash of steak-knives that I keep in the nightstand for protection when he travels. After a lecture about how unsafe it was to keep a nightstand full of knives in a house with a Midget and how I was no longer allowed to watch CSI, he confiscated my stash. I wasn’t overly dismayed as I had already determined while making a pair of fur chaps for my most recent design job that Gingers packed more of a punch per square centimeter than any dull steak knife. Upon his last departure after watching one too many episodes of Homeland, after checking the house for hidden surveillance equipment, I established a new weapon hidey-hole under the mattress. “Why you have scissors in our bed?”
“Let’s not worry about that now. Just take them out there and stab the intruder.” He briefly gave me that ‘Who Me?’ look that all men develop after marriage. “Yes you. You were in the army, not me. I’m a delicate flower. There could be a terrorist out there. Go get him ‘Komando’.”
“It is not a terrorist. Maybe a chipmunk but not terrorist.”
“I didn’t say it was a guy. I said some-thing. Why you never listen to me?”
“Oh for God’s sakes! You woke me up because you think we have a mouse? Give me those scissors!”
As I rolled over and pulled the covers over my head, I saw the Turk sneaking down the hallway clutching a pair of class A Ginger dressmaker shears to his chest in search of our intruder. Having seen this more than once over the years, I quickly returned to slumber knowing the morning would yield a fine tale of bravery chronicling Turk against nature.
Alas, over coffee the next morning, the Turk disclosed that he was unable to get a make on the intruder and his whereabouts remained unknown. To be safe, he and his midget sidekick spent the better part of the afternoon laying traps around the entire perimeter of our home – inside and out. At last count there were 14 traps in a house that does not have room for 14 traps. Having now witnessed more than a few battles between the Turk and God’s creatures, I knew the worst was yet to come. I just hoped it wouldn’t end like it did with the hornets…or the salamanders…or the frogs.
And after a week of laying in wait, this weekend, the battle raged on.
As the Midget lay sleeping and I was hard at work shaping a giant wig into Medusa for my latest theatrical extravaganza, The Turk was busy in the next room watching a series of documentaries on the current presidential candidates because “You cannot vote for someone who does not like foreigners.” All was calm. I had no idea the battle was even going active again. There were no shrieks or screams of horror witnessed in past battles, but rather the Turk simply sauntered in and said, “I got the little bastard.”
After six years, I’ve grown accustomed to living with a man who seldom uses nouns. I’ve adjusted to a husband who picks up conversations from three days prior without use of any identifiers and expects me to understand. I’ve come to love his lack of proper name use but I will admit, it can get confusing. “Which bastard? Mitt Romney? The Midget? Barak?”
“The intruder. I got him. He is squirming. I was just sitting here and I hear him scream. I think he scream to his friends – “Be scare of guy with funny accent! Don’t come here! It’s not party place. He can get you too!””
“How many beers have you had?”
“You want to see him?”
“No. I trust you. Just hide the body.”
|This isn't really him - though he does have the same outfit.|
The capture of the first intruder led to a 2 hour reconnaissance mission. Where did they come from? How did they get in? Where were his friends? There was a gathering of evidence and then a sterilizing of all things evidence had touched. And then there was the process of barrier construction – duct tape flew, steel wool was stuffed and profanity was spilled. It was on.
“There could be more. I will get them all. They will not party in my house anymore. Party is over.” Said the Turk as he struck a Patton-like stance. His Turkish army training always returns at his least sane moments. Thankfully, his old uniform is still at his mother’s in Turkey or he would have donned his little blue beret and camos to finish the job.
|Another midget komando|
The next morning, he broke the news of the first victim to the Midget. “Ah man! I missed it? That sucks. I wanted to see him squirm.” As The Turk began to recreate the prior evening’s capture to his protégé, they discovered victim number two ensnared. And to the delight of my little Midget half-filled with those sadistic Turk genes, he got to see it squirm. As a bonus, we also all got to see The Turk squirm as well. The Turk ushered his tiny capture into the next world as he walked through warrior regret, “I am sorry little mouse. I am sorry to make your babies orphans.” And on to gloating victor, “But you should listen to my friend last night when he say be scare of guy with funny accent.”
So while other sane families spent a beautiful fall Sunday raking leaves, sipping cocoa and watching football, we spent ours reinforcing barriers and going over battle plans. -“If one come while I’m at work, do not try to get him. Just leave him until I come. I take care of it.” He reminded me; as if there was any chance I was going to get in on this battle. “We will win. I know it.” The battle rages on.
For hundreds of years, the change of season has driven small rodents to seek refuge from the cold in the warm homes of humans and for those hundreds of years; man has battled to reclaim their territory. Some have won. Some have lost and later appeared on Hoarders. This is not the first time I’ve fallen victim to this problem and each time I am utterly traumatized. However, this time things are better. Because, 1. Fighting a mouse problem with a Turkish Komando is probably akin to bringing a gun to a knife fight. I am so gonna win. And 2. Mice within 100 miles now know, “Be scare of guy with funny accent. He will get you.”