What's Up Pussycat?

I can't figure out where they're coming from, or how they're getting in. Obviously there's plenty of opportunity. That's right, dear readers, I have experienced the joys of another mouse.

I knew the cats had something good when they woke me up at 3 am, hissing and chasing and finally scratching desperately at some unpacked boxes at the bottom of my bedroom stairs. When they were still perched on the risers, staring intently at said boxes at 6 am, I figured it was a mouse. I think I rather shrugged and proceeded to fall asleep with the baby until I almost made the teenager late for school. When I came back from chauffeur duty, the cats had trapped the poor thing under the vacuum cleaner and I couldn't kill it myself because I'd have the clean up the mess and that would just be too icky for me. Plus, he was just so small and helpless. And he had actually managed to survive two cats for well over three and a half hours. That should be rewarded, don'cha think?

Now it's become old hat to trap it in the really long bread loaf shaped tupperware. I didn't even scream as I took it outside and released it. This time, though, a little closer to the church as they don't wish us to have our guests park their cars in their humongous parking lot (hey, none of the leaves I've been raking outta my yard actually belong to any of MY trees, people!). So, I hope he's accepted by the other little church mice I've started many a career of.

I am Disney.

Stormy Weather

I have certainly been doing it all wrong. Here I am, racking my brain on a way to get back to school and get myself a degree that I can actually use (you know, some kind of career that comes with benies) when all this time I could have applied to be the Director of FEMA. Apparently any ol' schmo gets hired without qualifications all the time!

And then I can make sure to ignore coming disasters by emailing friends and colleagues about my wardrobe, dog sitters, and ordering the #2 at Sonic - complete with tater tots and a cherry limeade...which is quite tasty, come to think of it, so I'm not sure I can throw fault at that one.

Hey, I'd like to be livin' large, too! Where's my outlandish government job, benies, retirement and a rolled over 401k? What's that? What corruption boat? When did it leave? Can I catch the next one? It seems to be the growing trend in the new American Way...how can I catch me a piece of the action?

Guess I'll just email "Brownie" for some suggestions...

Cruella DeVille

At the dinner table this evening my teenager announced that her boyfriend (gulp!) said - and I quote her quoting - "Your mom would probably be a lot nicer if you'd help out once in a while." Let's see...that's both a sigh of relief and a real backhand. My husband and I have only been saying this for...oh...several years now. Of course, I realize it doesn't mean anything unless it comes from a friend or significant other. I felt young once, too. I think.

First, I feel vindicated. Aha! I'm not just an embittered, stressed and frazzled old lady who never gets a break from her kids and ages well before her time. Well, I am that...but, not just that. I am also someone who just needs a little help and some tenderness here and there. (Why, yes, that was an Otis Redding song cue) Is that so much to ask? A night out every once in a while. A karaoke here and there. A margarita and a ride home now and then. A bubble bath without pleas for help from a teenager at the computer ("How do I insert a picture into the page again?"), the baby pounding at the bathroom door or a husband who absolutely cannot in any way figure out how to snap a onesie and always brings the cuteness to me to finish no matter what I may be engaged in. Maybe even somebody else doing the dishes every once in a while - oh, how I miss my dishwasher and count down the months until I have one again.

But it stings, too. I used to be the nice mom. The strict mom, but the nice mom, too. My daughter used to defend me and my extroverted nature and used to say things like "You make friends wherever you go, don't you?" (which is usually true) Now I just ruin her life. I did used to be much more relaxed, organized (which is a key for me. If my home is tidy and organized - who knew that was gonna happen? - then I am organized and calm.), and..well...nice. The move, followed by...incident after happenings after...thing after thing...the house, the baby's lead poisoning, now the baby has hives from an "unspecified allergic reaction", the teenager suddenly having a major (and I do mean major) social life completely out of nowhere (which, of course, is one of the reasons we moved here), the house thoroughly ransacked and not a single room put together yet, etc., etc. (as Yul Brenner would say) I have to wonder, would others handle all this with more grace than I? I am quick to tear, quicker to anger than I've ever been, less capable than usual. When did I become the person I used to make fun of? When did I become a version of my mother. *gasp of horror* For those of you who actually knew my mother, I'm nowhere that bad...yet. But I fear. I quake. I tremble. WWMSD? (What would Martha Stewart Do?)

I used to dream of sequins and greasepaint. Now my dream is a file cabinet, some shelving and some closets for goodness sake. Why can't this house have one decent closet?

Yes, I'm becoming stressed out and not nearly as nice as I used to be. I know what steps to take to combat that, but I am in no position to take them at this time. Sort of that ol' damned if I do, damned if I don't kinda thing.

Wait. I just re-read one of those sentences and realize what I just said. My daughter has a boyfriend. A boyfriend. A cute, tall boyfriend. Who actually told her she needs to help her mother. I think I might just approve of this boy...

Itsy Bitsy Spider

And did I mention I love Halloween? Like I said, who's gonna look at me when there's this hunk o' cuteness wearing a silly spider costume? Mr. Arachnid actually went trick or treating, although some might consider him too young. Young, schmong. This kid rocks! As well, this kid also loves water, which we suspected but didn't know was true until he hit the kiddie pool at the Y this morning for his first Parent/Child Swim Class. This trouper even tried to blow bubbles in the water by the end of the class! (Oh, I'm sorry, you may wish to don shades if my beaming gets too bright). Yeah, I love Halloween. But I love my little man more.

This Old Man

So...this old man, see, he was playing the numbers, right? So, he played one. I'm not sure, exactly, how he played it on his thumb, but my bookie told me he did, so it must be true. Then he forked over a knick-knack from his great-Aunt Clara's house and then, you wouldn't believe it, turned right around, grabbed this big ol' Irish policeman and whacked him with his own billy club! I kid you not, this guy whacked the Paddy, but they must have ended up friends cuz later he gave the policeman's dog a bone (that must have called it even, I guess) and then he went rolling home. Now, when I say rolling...well, he used to roll his own cigarettes. And even though he quit smoking, some days are tougher than others. Which, I guess, is why it's so important to point out that he went rolling home as opposed to sauntering home or ambled home. Although if I'd had the day he had, I'd probably have run home hell bent for leather. Of course, I'm not an old man who played one, either.