Alien preparedness

Stumbled across the movie Signs on TV the other night. I’ve always liked it. And while it’s not one of those rare flicks (e.g. The Godfather, Heat, The Game) that compel me to drop everything I’m doing to watch, I did get sucked in for a few minutes.

During that brief time, it hit me.

I’m not prepared for an alien invasion.

You probably know the film’s plot. The world is invaded by extra-terrestrials. These malevolent aliens are everywhere, even in a lovely two-story country home (with basement) occupied by a family of four.

The part I saw was when the men of this house (played by Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix) team up to nail strong and uniform planks of wood across doors and entryways. The result: Efficient, well-crafted, even aesthetically pleasing barriers that keep the aliens from advancing.

I can’t help but imagine how that scene would play out at our house.

Assuming the aliens would come in through the roof, they’d first complain about the lack of cool air circulating upstairs and that stain on the carpet.

I’d remind them they’ve landed on a hot and flat part of the planet that’s subject to the volatile price swings of a deregulated electricity market. At seeing their collective alien eye glaze over in macroeconomic confusion, I’d change my tactics. “Hey, I’d like to see you scaly intruders shell out 700 bucks a month for energy to keep this house cool.“

But I digress . . .

My wife and I would probably hear the aliens rattling around upstairs, perhaps jumping up and down in a series of unplanned and, frankly, undignified gravity tests. They’d be speaking very loudly, too, quite possibly in their frustration with the poorly maintained recumbent bike they’ve encountered in the guest room.

At hearing these dull thuds and indecipherable dialects, we'd look at each other and spring into action.

“We can’t let them downstairs!” I’d heroically proclaim.

Just like in the movie, we would grab some wood and start building a barricade at the base of the stairs to repel the aliens.

Only this isn’t the movie. This is our house.

“Honey, didn’t we have a 2 x 4 left over from the fence?” I’d yell while running into the garage.

“Look behind the workbench,” my wife would say. “If it’s not there, the kids might have taken it out to the fort.”

Behind the workbench, all I find is a paint can lid, two Pokemon cards, and a CD case for Foreigner 4 (disc missing). So I grab the wood I find in the garage, which amounts to a couple of mismatched shelves buckling under the crushing weight of pool chemicals and pavestones, a 31-inch Johnny Bench bat, a dog-chewed broomstick, and my son’s losing Pinewood Derby entry.

“Where’s the hammer?” I’d shout over the bizarre alien dialogue, which is growing louder – either because they’re getting closer to us, or they just succeeded in burning 200 calories on that dusty bike.

Upon only partially hearing my question, my well-intentioned wife makes a dash for the baking soda.

Hammer-less, I’d use a picture frame to pound the finishing nail I found in my rusty toolbox through the broomstick into the bat. That sad endeavor would fail spectacularly. Out of view from my wife, I’d sheepishly lay the bat and broomstick across the bottom two stairs with hopes the aliens might step upon either awkwardly and suffer a temporary loss of balance. Psychologically, this could be a victory for earth.

Then in a flash of brilliance, I’d remember the emergency terror kit my wife dutifully assembled after 9/11, tucked neatly away in the hall closet. Surely that packed box of utilities would offer some relief and, ideally, some defense in this dire situation.

I’d open the closet, push the ironing board aside and pull out the box . . . only to discover I was the only member of this household over the past six years not using the terror kit as a mini-hardware store. Grabbing the two remaining items in the kit – an unwrapped tarp and a Sharpie – I’d pursue a diplomatic approach with the aliens by writing a persuasive and, if I may say so myself, a very clever headline across the tarp.

Needless to say, we all get probed.