I have no escape plan for when the zombie apocalypse comes.
I’ve been meaning to do it. Much in the same way I’ve been meaning to get my teeth cleaned and check the fire extinguisher under the kitchen sink. “Meaning to” goes pretty far in my house. Like, “I’ve been meaning to get that closet organized,” or, “I’ve been meaning to pay the electricity bill.” “Meaning to” carries you pretty far. Right up to the point where you’re trying to do things by candlelight. And I don’t mean the fun things.
So I have no plan for the apocalypse. At best I have a vague road map that starts with “barricade door,” and ends somewhere around where we have started eating the insulation for the router cables. I don’t know what comes in the middle, and I don’t where the spot marked with an X is because I haven’t thought of it yet. Like I said, I’ve been meaning to.
However, recent circumstances here at Chez Lori-sometimes-still-called-Martha have raised the threat level on zombie attack up to at least the orange terror alert.
I’ve been a little preoccupied these last couple of weeks. And when I say “preoccupied” what I really mean is overbooked and overscheduled to the point where an unexpected ring of the doorbell is enough to put me in need of blood pressure medication and a good therapist who is willing treat not just me but the personality that split off from the rest of me at the sight of a door-to-door aluminum siding salesman. Just what I need. ANOTHER personality. I think I’ll call this one Clyde and he can join Gladys and the rest of them hiding in my closet of irrational fears and neuroses that I can’t be bothered to deal with just yet.
So this level of preoccupation has been rather intense and other than basic metabolic functions and feeding the people who seem to live in the house with me (I thought I had three kids and one husband, but that count doesn’t seem to match up with the soup line that’s forming in my kitchen on a nightly basis and I think it’s possible that I have become distracted enough that I failed to notice that both the neighborhood soccer team and watch program are now joining me for dinner every evening) I haven’t spent a whole heck of a lot of time on home maintenance.
However, I’m quite certain I have tidied up sometime between now and when “WKRP In Cincinnati” went off the air so the only explanation I have for the quantity of junk mail that is building up on the counters, the tables, the couches, the floor and the cats is a menacing one.
Zombie junk mail.
Now, you might suggest that the junk mail is simply growing in size and that my problem is not zombies, but something more along the lines of the Blob. (Side note, I had to type that three times before it came out b-l-o-b and NOT b-l-o-g.) Valid theory, I suppose, but not supported by the facts. Mostly, there are no girls in saddle shoes nor boys with horned rimmed glasses in my house and this is not a movie theater nor a bowling alley. So, this clearly cannot be the work of a blob.
Alternate hypotheses suggest the possibility of an alien pod situation. No. Definitely not. The junk mail is not being replaced with different, vacant junk mail that looks like maybe it just finished reading something like “Men are From Mars and so is My Cousin Maury,” there is more of it. So, obviously not attributable to pods.
No, clearly what is happening is that a small infestation of zombie junk mail – one piece from a long distance phone company is really the most likely explanation, they’re dead they just don’t know it yet – probably slipped past my weakened, overstimulated defenses, and has been slowly turning otherwise healthy, purposeful mail into junk mail. While we weren’t looking the kids’ report cards, the insurance bill, letters from beloved relatives and IRS refunds were being zombified and turned into offers for lower car insurance, pizza coupons and solicitations for donations to the local fund for battered Chevy Novas.
And now it’s everywhere.
I think now would be a prudent time to consider alternate points of exit from the house (which, if you have an axe handy, can really be anywhere you want) and which family members I think are expendable and can be sacrificed to the zombie junk mail in order to save myself.
That’s a tough one.
I may have to hold a lottery or solicit bribes.