Disarming Bombs

Dum dum da da dum dum doo doo dum dum da da dum dum WAH WAH WAH . . . WAH WAH WAH . . .

(What, you don't recognize that sound track?  It's clearly James Bond.)

I sneak along the corridor.  I can hear the ticking bomb.  Thank goodness it ticks REALLY loudly so I can hear it all the way over here because the villain, contrary to all known Villainy Laws, has not attached a count down clock with big, red LED numbers conveniently letting anyone who might pass by know how much time is left until the big boom.  Very thoughtless.  But that is the nature of this villain.  Strikes without warning.  Or sometimes lots of warning.  Sometimes it smokes and fizzes like it has short circuited and you think it's been a false alarm.  But no.  It still gets you in the end.  And if you don't cut the correct wire first, you and the entire surrounding area are done.

And that's one of many things I don't understand about bomb makers.  Why are there so many friggin' wires?  And why can no one ever remember which wire to cut?  Why don't the wire makers just print right on the plastic coating "THIS ONE.  CUT THIS ONE." But no, the wire makers have inconsiderately not labeled which wire to cut.  Jerks.

I inch closer to the bomb.  I can feel sweat starting to trickle down my temples.  I have to get this right.  I foolishly ignored a smallish bomb the other day, thinking it wouldn't do any damage and now I have to call the maintenance crew.  Who knew how much damage a sneaker bomb could do?

Closer still.  I can feel the heat beginning to radiate from the bomb.  If I knew it weren't possible, I would swear the count down clock is speeding up.   The one that this bomb doesn't have. Time is running short.  I have to act.  And then . . . crap.  Duck and cover!

"GET OFF THE DUMPER!!  I GOTTA GET TO SCHOOL EARLY CUZ I HAVEN'T STARTED MY ESSAY YET!!!"

(muffled by the closed bathroom door) "I HAFTA POOP!  IT'S NOT MY FAULT IF YOU DIDN'T WRITE YOUR ESSAY!!

"JUST HOLD IT IN!" (pounding on bathroom door)

"IT'S POOP!  I CAN'T HOLD IT IN!"

"JUST RESIST THE URGE!  I DIDN'T POOP FOR FIVE DAYS AND I WAS JUST FINE!!"

"YOU ARE A MORON!  I'M NOT HOLDING IN MY POOP!"

"I'M GOING TO BE LATE!!" (pounding and kicking on bathroom door) "GET OUT!!"

Ok, the situation can be salvaged, I surmise, the bomb wasn't too bad  but there is definitely concern that shrapnel may get the bathroom door if I don't hurry.  It is, truly, the last door left upstairs without bomb damage.  Time to act.

"Matthew, stop it.  If you kick in another one of my doors, you will spend the summer doing yard work to pay for it."

(Looks at me, kicks the door.)  "I'M GUNNA BE LATE!!! HE DOESN'T NEED TO POOP!"

"We have enough time and you should have written your essay last night. And pooping is a basic human need."

I pause.  That was a mistake.  The villain has tricked me.  THERE WAS A SECOND BOMB HIDDEN INSIDE THE FIRST BOMB!!!

"MR. (redacted) HATES ME!! HE REJECTS ALL MY ARTICLES! WHY DO I HAVE TO BE ON THE SCHOOL PAPER?! WHY DOES EVERYBODY HATE ME?!"  (hand clench, teeth grind, eyes roll wildly.)

Sheesh.  Really, Cinderfella?  But still, if I'm going to save that last upstairs door, I have to move quickly and carefully.

"Listen, we have fifteen minutes to drive 3 miles.  You will be fine.  You can write your paper during Study Hall."

"HE'S DELIBERATELY POOPING TO MAKE ME LATE!"

Me:  (the "Are You Kidding Me" stare.)

Matthew: (the "Get Real Mom You Don't Even Know" glare.)

"Go get your  binder and go get in the car.  Jonathan will be out soon."

(Bathroom door opens.)  Ok, we have now entered the most dangerous moment of the bomb-disarming crisis.  A fully fueled and functioning flame thrower is approaching the ticking weapon of mass destruction.

"WHAT THE CRAP IS WRONG WITH YOU?!  RESIST THE URGE?!  WHO DOES THAT!!???"

I must act fast.  Time is gone.  The door (and the south wall, the north wall was hit by shrapnel last week) must be saved.

I step in between the bomb and the flame thrower.  I am a martyr.  I am saintly in my sacrifice.

"Nope.  We're done here.  Everyone get their binders and get in the car."

The flame thrower surges forward.  I can feel the heat threatening to burn the bomb and set off the detonation I've been trying to stop.  But no.  Not today.  Today I will save the door.

I lean in closer to the flame thrower.  "Car.  Now."

The bomb is still ticking and the flame thrower is radiating heat like a lava flow.  We buckle our seat belts.  Tension is crazy high.  I glance in the rear view mirror.  The bomb is giving me the Stink Eye and thinks I don't know.  But I am a genius and master of the rear view surveillance technique.

"I see you giving me the Side Stink Eye."

He turns and glares straight in to the rear view mirror.

"I see you giving me the Front Stink Eye."

And I have won.  He grins and turns around to face the back of the seat.

"I see you giving me the Back Stink Eye."

"Ok, now you're just lying," he says as he laughs.  But I've won.  We are laughing and coming up with variations on the Stink Eye.  But the anger is gone, the imminent threat of punching is gone, and my door is saved.  (Mostly because I moved the weapons from the upstairs hall to the car, but hey, that was part of the process.  And a tricky one.  They aren't toddlers any more whom I can just pick up and move.  They're both taller than me (but honestly, I could still take 'em if I had to.  And then spend a week in bed.  But still. I'd win.))

I am James Bond.  I can disarm bombs . . . er, teen boys.  I deserve a medal.  And a month-long vacation in Bora Bora.

ps:  This conversation is pretty much verbatim from this morning.

pps: And most mornings.

ppps:  But not the bit about "resisting the urge to poop."  What the heck, Matthew??

pppps:  I'm totally copying Jenny Lawson's brilliant use of "ps."  She's a genius.  You should read her books.

ppppps:  But serious f-bomb warnings.  Heads up.