There is a mouse.  He looks something like this:

Don’t let his furry little ears and innocent eyes fool you.  He is a sqatter.  An uninvited guest.  In our kitchen.  Has run out from under the sink several times and nearly scared the life out of me, this menacing, dangerous intruder.
So Peter has devised a plan.  I can only take one picture of this since he’ll hear and then he’ll get all self-conscious and then the jig’ll be up.  So here it is:

Nope, didn’t even hear the camera, so single focused is he.  Here’s another shot.  And it’s closer:

I’ve enhanced the picture, even though it makes the old baseball jersey he’s wearing look like an even worse color than it already is.  His plan?  Cheese in front of the fridge.  Mouse runs out to eat said cheese.  Peter stabs him with his new pocket knife (which is larger than a seven-year old should ever be allowed to handle).  There is a book light clipped to the pantry door, can you see it?  It’s providing a macabre little circle of light and it’s trained right on the cheese.  This plan was not a good idea on several levels.  So I convinced him to go get a mousetrap from the basement.  Only this is what he brought me:

Apparently, the last time we killed a mouse, we didn’t even bother to remove the head.  Just ripped the body off the trap and pitched it into the woods.  I was not raised like this.
The trap is in the trash.  The mouse is under the fridge.  I’m ordering pizza until someone kills it.
I was not raised like this.  Did I already say that?
And what he is up to isn’t the worst of it.  
Tess, as I type, is outside chasing the Kevins away from the Minions.  Wait, have I told you about the minions yet?  These are the Minions:

Only they don’t look like that anymore.  The Kevins have several events in my iphoto, chronicling the first weeks of their life.  The minions have three pictures, lost inside an obscure event labeled spring 2011.
Tess is outside chasing the Kevins away from the Minions.  She is naked except for her flip flops and a bathrobe which is not belted.  A bathrobe that is flapping open as she runs.  She has just quoted Beasty Boys to Peter (“So I went into the locker room during classes.  I went into your locker and I smashed your glasses”), which is totally not appropriate for children to listen to.  And they haven’t.  But they hear that one line from a negligent family member (you know who you are) often enough that it’s become part of their vernacular.  
Lucy is in her bed.  She is normal.  But only because she’s sleeping.  Grant too, but only because he’s at school.  Once Lucy wakes up and Grant gets off the bus, they will join in and become crazy too.  Happens every day.
This is a foreign country to me, but I’ve purchased the Rosetta Stone course and am learning to assimilate with the natives.  I’ve renewed my visa so I can stay here forever or at least until the house falls down, which might be next Thursday.  The natives run around with bb guns and swiss army knives killing stuff and asking me to fry it for dinner.  They rarely cut their fingernails and only come inside to eat, which they do with their hands only.  They are wild and ungroomed and totally dangerous.  Except for right now.  Right now, there is a clean little girl in a pink robe laying on her unicorn pillow pet next to a clean boy in a bright yellow jersey laying on his panda pillow pet and they are watching a movie in which a cucumber (who isn’t dumb) preaches the gospel and it all seems perfectly normal and civilized to me, all things considered.  I love it here.
This is me being real.  Me and my five people, nine Kevins, six Minions and a Keloid scar named Steve.


2 Replies to “foreign.”

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