More often than not the Mister gets something in his head and full out runs with it. And when I say run I mean propels forward with such speed and intensity you are burnt on hearing about whatever it is within 10 minutes of his fixation onset. You might call this determined, the rest of us call it ‘stuck on stupid’ – in the most loving way, of course.
It could be a month spent obsessing and incessantly talking about the bats that may or may not have been in our new home during the previous owner’s tenure. It could be buying a decommissioned bus and driving a continuous loop of all the decent bars in St. Louis. Or, as it has been lately, it could be an obsession with the eradication of moths from the planet Earth.
If you have walked into our house, smelled any random coat or sweater that has the unfortunate plight of belonging to us, or spoken to him in general in the last few months you would think we have an infestation problem. And not just any infestation problem. Chances are you walked away believing that The Original Moth that spawned all moths worldwide lives somewhere in our home and it has become the Mister’s personal mission to save all cashmere and wool from this evil.
A couple of months ago he came home with what seemed like a reasonable amount of mothballs. I say reasonable, but I am talking about those same little white balls that are so odorous you would rather a moth just ate your damn sweater than walk out of the house with that scent wafting off your sleeves. He did me the unsolicited favor of adding them to every closet, sweater bin and drawer within these four walls. I had told him repeatedly about the cedar blocks I had invested in, but he insists that cedar (though a time tested defense) is ineffective…
You walk into our foyer and the first thing that hits you is that repugnant stank. As the weather turned colder I opened my sweater bins and found four little bags of these repellant wonders stuffed in each one… touching my clothing. I thought I had removed all of them, but somehow I still find them sitting atop the very shirt I had planned to wear that day. They are like Gremlins, multiplying while I am sleeping. Taunting me with their stinky shells and looking like really those gross chalky “lollipops” that I can’t remember enough about to do an accurate Google search to name. You know the ones.
In what one would think signaled the end of the moth balls madness in our home, a few weeks ago he spent a couple of hours with a few of his high school friends. When he got home I asked him if he had fun, and his reply: ‘everyone kept coming into the kitchen [where he spent most of the evening] and saying how much it smelled like mothballs.’ He was as upset as a dude lets himself get about these kinds of things. That moment could sooooo have gone down in the marital ‘I told you so’ hall of fame, I mean with it’s own glass walled case and flanked with some type of gold leafing. Instead I just laughed as much on the inside as I could and as little on the outside as possible, and told him that maybe he could consider pitching those dirty little stink balls. (Oh.lawd. the Google searches that that last sentence are going to produce.)
If you and I thought that would be the end of the mothball debacle we are both wrong, stuck on stupid always wins. As of this writing they are still popping up in sweater bins when you least expect them, and preventing a moth from circling within a 100 foot radius of our house. That, my friends, is how the Mister plans to eradicate the world of moths.