Dear Sir:

An Open Letter to the Chainsaw-Wielding Homicidal Maniac at the Haunted Trail,

You’ve just leaped unexpectedly from behind a hay bale, revving your chainsaw motor like a monster truck engine and dripping blood like a soaker hose. And admittedly, I was startled enough to swallow the last half of my fun-sized Snicker bar without chewing.

But I’ve raised two boys to adulthood and have played the “Close Your Eyes and Hold Out Your Hands” game so many times I’m never really surprised by anything. Over the years children have jumped out from behind closed doors, hidden under piles of laundry, and shadowed me down the hall on my midnight trips to the bathroom just for the chance to scream “Boo” and test my bladder control.

I have two kids with cars of their own; one of them, Speed Racer, could make you drop your weapon and go all white around your bloody eye sockets just by offering to chauffer you to the corner for milk. He learned to drive on Crazy Taxi.

My Labrador is the only one in the house who can open the childproof top on the aspirin bottle, and my cat could star in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” if he hadn’t already stalked and eaten the cuckoo. I’ve had a stray ferret follow me home, and a there’s a spider the color of hungry who likes to stop by for a bite when the weather gets cold.

So, I’m sorry if the sight of you didn’t send me into a screaming frenzy, frantically searching for another way out. I’m trying to decide how your mother is going to get those rusty bloodstains out of your best jeans and whether you asked your dad for permission to wear that shirt before you cut the bottom off in the trendy ragged design.

And if you run at me again like you’re gonna give me a permanent bad hair day, let me tell you one thing. The only tidbit I remember from my Senior Women’s Self Defense class is how to stop an attacker from taking my virtue, my purse, or my shopping bags from Discount Day at the mall. So if you’re not wearing an athletic supporter, the only thing you have to protect yourself with is that impotent chainsaw.

But don’t worry. Speed Racer will be glad to take you to the hospital. Be sure to buckle up and keep your bloody hands and feet inside the vehicle until it comes to a screeching halt. And take notes.

You’ll get some great ideas for next year’s Haunted Trail.

Broom Beneath My Wings

Night was a memory, but shadows still lurked in the corners of the kitchen. Silence blanketed the house like, well, a blanket. I blinked in the direction of the newspaper and aimed a watery imitation of coffee toward my mouth.

Through the brain haze, I pondered the best way to use the name Justin Bieber in a blog post to insure maximum search engine potential. Two months ago, nobody had ever heard of this kid. Yesterday my newborn niece was born sporting an “I Love Justin Bieber” tattoo right on her binkie.

Son Two appeared at my side like a spirit. “So, what are your plans for the moth in the bathroom?”

He and I share a common bond. We may disagree on nonessentials like the frequency of bathing or the advantages of using a fork to eat, but when it comes to the inalienable need for a homeland security system to warn against rogue insects, we’ve got our priorities right in line.

I’m fairly certain that in a bid to secure the benefits of a hefty life insurance policy, my husband left the assassin moth behind in the shower this morning. It’s a clever ploy, but my warning system is far ahead of him. Daylight was still a stranger and I was not yet awake enough to know that I had eyes, but my internal sensors had already informed me there was a moth in the bathroom.

I rolled the sports section and nudged Son Two toward the door. “I thought you’d take care of it.”

Right. He’d decorate his first car with pompom fringe and rooftop reindeer before he’d take on an insect assassin with wings of death.

“I’m not going in there. The thing has fangs dripping blood.”

This kid is 19. If he ever marries, I hope it’s to entomologist with a proven catch and release program, or a ninja warrior woman wielding a No Pest Strip in each hand like nunchuks.

Besides, I knew his story was true. Blood-drenched fangs are a natural accessory of rogue moths. It also had the wingspan of a dragon and clutched the wall with spiked talons. Nature’s death machine. And it was probably hungry.

“Well, we could get the broom, wave it around, and see if he’ll fly.”

Son Two looked at me as if I’d suggested we don pink-tasseled thongs and volunteer to lead the cheers at the next Republican rally. To him it was more vampire bat than harmless visitor. “There’s no other door. Where do you think he’s going to fly?”

“The only other choice is to wake up your brother.”

Son One, Rip Van Winkle, hit the snooze button back at the half century mark and still has a five decade siesta to take care of before his eyelids see action. Waking him up before he’s ready is like summoning the Kraken. He rises from the depths, consumes all the groceries, and then resubmerges until suppertime.

Clutching the door frame, Son Two peered around at me. “You go first.”

Who says a child will do anything for a mother that loves him? Well I’m not excited about going all Harry Potter for him, either.

“Okay, give me the broom.”

He hands me the weapon and I embark as stealthily as Rambo on my version of Psycho II: Moth Balls R Us.

As I approached the creature, I realized two things. My son is slamming the bathroom door repeatedly on the heel of my shoe in an attempt to trap me with the monster. Also, if I lose control of bladder functions in the heat of battle, I’ll likely lose the element of surprise, slip through the puddle, and slide into the litterbox like it was home plate.

With one arm in the air like a seasoned fencer, I brandished my broom in the direction of the Moth Monster. “Hello, My name is Inigo. . .” Just then the moth took flight, circling the light fixture and landing on the handle of my broom.

I'm pretty sure it will be easier to remodel the bathroom than just repair the damage. The litter box looks like a strainer and there are spots on the tile that no longer match the rest of the decor.

I decided to name the moth Justin Bieber. It appeared overnight and was kind of cute, but all it did was flutter a little and create pandemonium everywhere it went.

Live Long and Pamper

I don’t always get much useful information from women’s magazines. If I could really Walk Myself Thin,” I would be decked out in Kate Moss’s cast off clothing and people would refer to me as “that poor woman with rickets” instead of “Tank.” I'll walk myself thin the day Richard Simmons sports a comb-over and wears Dickie's work pants instead of silk shorts.

So when I saw the article on how to live longer that suggested eating fruits and vegetables, I knew there had to be more to it. And since I am always trying to improve the quality of life for the man who promised to love, honor, and carry in the groceries, I came up with a quick list for hubby dearest to help him improve my quality of life.

1. Just Say No to the sarcastic comment. My new stretch jeans may make my behind look like two transfer trucks passing on the Interstate, but you won’t outlive the day old bread on the kitchen counter if you say so.

2. Refrain from asking the faux innocent question. It is not amusing to inquire if my mother was the star of Shark Week on the Discovery channel.

3. Never use the word “nice” in regards to my new outfit. Either it takes your breath away, or somebody at the Salvation Army is getting a leopard-print dress for Christmas.

4. Remember: “Refrigerate after opening” is not a suggestion. Neither is “Proceed with caution.” Come to think of it "Don't touch the roast on the second shelf" can be added to the list.

5. Three little words: No cat baths.

6. Use an old rag when checking your oil. Pass up any item of clothing that bears a "dry clean only" label or that looks as if it’s trimmed in lace that could be older than your grandmother.

7. Don’t eat any freshly baked item that you find in our kitchen. There are no such things as Pecan Pie Pixies or Double Chocolate Leprechauns who leave goodies sprinkled about the globe. If there is anything worth eating at our house, there’s been a death in the family. You know how refined sugar comforts the bereaved.

8. Stop putting Granny’s teeth in the dog’s mouth. He may look like he’s smiling, but the Purina sticks to his dentures. And Granny keeps getting choked on Pupcorn bits.

9. Back away from the cat. A kitty stretched out on his back may look like a cuddly ball of cotton, but he has a weapon of mass destruction on all four corners. A friendly game of Cootchy Cootchy Coo will result in a trip to see the nice folks at the all night trauma center. Luckily they do a great job with stitches. And I think you need just one more hole punched in your Frequent Flyer Blood card before you get a free pint.

10. It is now against Federal Law to feed hot dogs to the Dachshund. The last occurrence resulted in a chemical reaction that brought a swift penalty from OSHA for unsafe fueling procedures. It also set fire to the electric blanket and melted two pairs of house slippers and a Hello Kitty pillow sham, and took a team of Navy Seals and ten Boy Scouts wearing HazMat suits to secure the area.

Now that you're going to live longer, you may plan to use your extra time to improve my quality of life with clever surprises of sugary snacks.

Either that or we'll take a nap. Time with you passes too fast anyway.