The I.S.S.F occurred not long after we moved into our apartment and the moving company showed up with our things. I had been in the kitchen and John was unpacking a box in the guest/man/extra/where-everything-goes-that-doesn't-have-a-place room. Or so I thought that's where he was. I turned around and was startled by some annihilation of a yet to be known substance. I punched the attacker. Instantly, I realized that the attack was harmless and the heap on the floor was my husband. I felt terrible, but I think he learned his lesson. A few weeks later, upon returning from getting the mail, my husband greeted me at the door. He told me to hold out my hands. When I did, he shoved a can of silly string in my hand and ran to the back bedroom. And so it began!
Thinking tactically, I assumed he was standing right inside the doorway of our bedroom. It would have been a good position if I didn't have 5 brothers and a dad trained in S.W.A.T. I squared up so that I was up against the perpendicular wall. I reached my arm across the threshold at an angle and fired. He swiftly jumped up on the bed frame, getting himself to higher ground. I continued my assault. His strategy was wise, but the execution was poor because I was able to cause him to lose his balance. My husband was once again on the floor. I sprayed him with no mercy until my can began to fizzle out, though I certainly felt the affects of his return fire.
We surveyed the damage. There was silly string from the front door to the back bedroom. It was on the floor, the walls, the bed, and hanging from the ceiling fan. It was stuck to light switches, in my hair, all over our clothes and dripping off John's eyelashes. Door knobs, baseboards, and shoes could not escape our artillery. Thankfully, silly string is very easy to clean up. :)
