Home Invasion

What would you do if your home were suddenly invaded?  No, I’m not talking about aliens or zombies.  I’m talking about simple humans, the kind that sneak up on you in the dead of night when you least expect them, like when you are casually watching Investigation Discovery and drinking a diet root beer and contemplating lying to the kids and telling them it’s a half and hour later than it actually is so that they’ll go to bed earlier.  That kind of invader.  The kind that seems innocent enough, but OH NO.
I’ll tell you what you do.  Well, at least here’s what I do, and it seems quite logical.  At the first sign that an intruder might be encroaching upon my sacred domain (you know, getting ready to ring the doorbell), I immediately abandon all my material possessions (diet root beer and remote control), race for the stairs, and leave everyone else downstairs to fend for themselves against whomever may be about to enter our home.
“Why?” you may ask.  Well, I’ll tell you why.  Because I am a troll, and if you can conjure up an image of Smeagol in The Lord of the Rings, all hunched over and mumbling as he makes his hasty departure into the shadows, you can pretty much imagine what I looked like last night as our unexpected visitor rang the doorbell.
I have been like this for quite a while, however, I will admit that as I get older, I fear my symptoms may be getting worse.  Still, my husband looked at me running up the stairs and told me I was crazy as I mumbled things like “It burns us” as I made my departure.  He knows all about this particular character trait of mine—I’m not sure why he was surprised when I left him to deal with our guest.
The threatening intruder happened to be the parent of one of Micaela’s friends.  I initially blamed my sudden departure on the fact that I was in pajama pants and I was not wearing a bra.  Because we all know that any sane parent would not allow their child into a home where the mother has (gasp!) boobs, and let alone boobs that are free of a restraining device past the hour of 8 p.m.  What kind of den of iniquity is this?!  Riiiight.  Ok, so I’m a troll.  I’m facing my problems.  Maybe.
So I stayed upstairs and pretended to be extremely busy folding laundry until Jason finished talking to the parent of the friend, at which time he came upstairs and mocked me for my troll-like tendencies.  In my opinion, people with disabilities should not be mocked.  (I think this might be a disability.)
He told me the coast was clear and that I (and my boobs) could come back downstairs, but of course I already knew that because I had enlisted the help of my 11-year-old, who is now apparently my mole.  So in essence, I am training my daughter to compensate for her mother’s lack of social competence.  I think that’s totally healthy.  She had already told me what the conversation was about, AND she’d told me when the coast was clear.  I am being enabled by an 11-year-old.
Before you judge, I have friends…I really do.  I even have one really good friend over at darthamethystos.com who would totally understand my irrational troll-like behavior.  This is why we get along so well.  We can act like Smeagol together and hide from people and sunlight and well, whatever we want because we are trolls.
Oh, and if you show up at my house looking for me, chances are I’m either a) doing laundry b) running around braless or c) breathing into a paper bag upstairs because there is another human being at my residence.

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