Think back…waaaaayyyy back. Back to…ummm…lemme just check my calendar here…APRIL. Think ALL the way back to April. If you can remember back that far (and truly, I can’t remember how many bedrooms my house has from one day to the next), you might recall a little run-in I had with a Zombie Lightbulb.
I thought I’d taken care of that little problem. I thought I’d burned…er..decapitated…um…shot with a silver bullet…What the hell is it you’re supposed to do with zombies? I am failing Zombie Apocalypse 101!
I believe this is why I have this little infestation.
So back in April I had a zombie lightbulb. But, I thought the situation had stabilized.
I was so wrong.
And the worst part?
They’re after the children!
Here’s the FIRST sighting. You’ll note that it’s the same fixture that had the zombie scourge before. (Right. Of course you will. I’m impressed if you remember that my name isn’t Martha. Don’t worry about remembering – or not remembering – the last zombie swarm.)
Now, you might be tempted to think that that’s nothing more sinister than a burned out lightbulb. That’s the sort of thinking that gets you axed in the opening credits of the movie, PEOPLE!
No! Do NOT fall for it. Zombie lightbulbs are organized, they’re crafty, and they’re after your brains! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!
After taking this photo, I was planning on setting up a duck blind in the bedroom so I could monitor the macabre metamorphosis from dead to undead tungsten filament.
But that’s when my son, my youngest, my baby (who, by the way, is now taller than me) meandered into the bedroom, ignored the ropes, cans of gasoline and the sawed off shotgun and announced that he needed a new lightbulb for the overhead pendant in his bedroom.
This was the situation in his room:
Yes, okay, I can get behind the need for a new lightbulb here. After all, the boy has homework to do, and with the teenaged-boy-unwashed laundry, you really don’t want open flame anywhere near the place. The fumes alone could blow a city block sky-high.
So I went to the hall closet and rummaged through the lightbulb box, trying to figure out which bizarrely sized bulb I needed to put in his Ikea paper hanging fixture. That’s when the boy called out, “Never mind, Mom, it’s back on!”
My blood ran cold.
I ran to the room, and yes…my boy has a keen eye for undead illumination. This was the sight that greeted me:
Convinced, then, that I had a nest of them in the house, I ran back to my bedroom, camera in hand, determined to capture The Rise on film.
This was what I found:
Damn, too soon.
I waited, snapping pictures from the far side of the bathroom doorway.
Don’t hassle me about the angle, people, I was taking my life in my hands for the sake of photographic evidence!
Nada. (This is a defensive measure, zombie lightbulbs HATE the use of casual Spanish.)
The pack…herd…bevy…pride…band…troup…colony…flock….clowder…what the hell is the collective noun for zombies?
Oh, thank you Google. According to Answers.com:
Very good then. This…wait a minute… “Appetite?” Really? An appetite of zombies? Oh, I don’t think so.
Ok, this plague of zombies is wily. They knew I was watching. So I did what any diligent, determined, zombie fighting Martha Points mom would do: I hid in the closet with my camera.
Sadly, I never caught anything more interesting than this:
(And managing exposure while inside a closet is a bitch, let me tell you.)
So I have to confess to failure in catching the Zombie Metamorphosis in action.
But I know that lightbulb is just sitting there in the bathroom….waiting…
And with my luck I’ll probably be naked and wet when it finally happens. Cause there ain’t NOTHING like dealing with an aggressive, hungry zombie lightbulb when you’re naked and wet.
Cause undead electricity and sopping wet suburban working mom is a party in a box, let me tell you.