Lately I've been exposing a little more of myself than I'd like to. Not in the gratuitous boobage kind of way, since I do like to run family-friendly companies, but in a teeny tiny annoying type of situation. I have moths.

Typing this feels like the title of this blog should be: Got Moths? Evidently I do, or do I? It appears that there are all kinds of winged and horned beetles, silverfish that are not fish but rather glittery little numbers that skim my hardwood floors and somehow...end up in my...closet? When you had a hole in your precious garments, I thought it was always a moth. Those of us in love with cashmere have encountered a moth or two, it's the karmic price we pay, I'm convinced, for being hedonistic shoppers who care nothing for starving African children and instead spend our money on plush fabric options.

Those of you who know me well know that I spend most of my time: a) thinking about what I'm going to eat, b) planning to eat and ordering, c) eating, d) writing blogs about my soap-stealing-nanny and my husband and now, drumroll please, e) holes in my clothes. Paralyzed by my own annoyance at how could I have a new hole in a sweater that just came back from repair at the dry cleaners, do I try and do anything about it? Nooooooooo. In fact, I just keeeeeep thinking about it, talking to my husband and whining. Did a little tiny invention called the INTERNET ever dawn on me? The place where I could Google "the evils of silverfish" and come up with something? Noooooo. Did it dawn on me that I have no less than 10,000 books on home maintenance/organization/mothering/nesting and nurturing? Did it dawn on me that I could pick up a g.d. book or, snap! head to the Container Store that I love and actually DO SOMETHING about this issue? Nope. Why do anything when you can complain mercifully and actually get sympathy. Economy in the tank? Children disappearing while shopping with loving parents from malls everywhere? Homes in foreclosure? These issues are nothing compared to the monumental catastrophe of the holes in my blessed cashmere. The Buddhists would have a field day here because it's all of this attachment to "stuff" that gets us super shoppers into massive trouble.

Finally I put my big girl underpants on and DID go to the Container Store. This turned out to be a little more than I bargained for, but, natch, I am in the middle of the solution. This solution involved full blown moth eradication in the form of a quarantine. You think I am joking.

7 million dollars at the Container Store later, I left with bags of pellets, tins, hanging devices and cedar smelling situations. I got the preventative spray, brochures and procedures. And then I went in. Armed with my resident handyman, Beto, we tackled the situation. This included but was not limited to masks, gloves and vacuum cleaners with special spigots. My 4 year old thought we were at war.

We were, with the silverfish.

I posted the "Quarantine" sign with the biggest, nastiest set of skull and crossbones I could muster. The 4 year old laughed. My husband groaned. "This is serious!" I screeched. No one cared. The little guy went back to Sponge Bob and my husband again tried to figure out why he married this holy dramatic terror. I persevered.

One full week later every single non-synthetic item has been boxed, bagged, sprayed and brushed. The quarantine sign remains although no one can seem to manage to keep the closet door closed. (This is necessary to build up proper fumes, for those of you inexperienced in moth eradication.) Today I cheerfully headed off to Mexico, glowing in the knowledge that I will go home to a pristine and perfectly moth and hole-free closet. I am in charge. I have won. Silverfish Be Gone!

Full of new found enthusiasm, I go through my security at United Airlines relaxed and comfortable despite the full body scan that awaits me, (can that machine see muffin tops?). As I lift my cheerfully packed , moth-free, freshly quarantined suitcase onto the conveyer belt, the good cheer plummets. My goodwill towards man and the sense of accomplishment firmly stitched in my newly fumigated back pocket reveals the evidence. Of the enemy. A hole. That's right. A G.D., FRICKIN', MIND-BLOWING, FOR-SURE-AS-DAY HOLE!!! in my COTTON t-shirt. I. GIVE. UP.

For now.

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