No More Cheese Please

There was a dead mouse in the middle of the bathroom floor this morning. It lay on its side, legs and tail limply extending similarly to my dog’s mid afternoon nap position. I was startled when I saw it, even though I’ve been expecting it for days; the traps have been set since last Tuesday. I jumped and shrieked like the good housewife I am, and quickly closed the door. I left it there for David to take care of tomorrow. Disposing of dead mice was not something I wrote into my wedding vows, and since David said something about supporting me in all I do when he wrote his, I’ll defer to his words now.

It’s the first dead mice I’ve seen in nearly ten years. For a while, I was convinced that mice didn’t live in houses anymore. But ever since we've moved in to the new house, I've heard them scurrying around every night, eating Oscar's dog food, scratching the floor with their little claws, and running around in the walls doing who knows what to the insulation. I was annoyed, and afraid (in my teenaged years, I woke up to a mouse digging through my hair on my pillow--eww). We set the traps and I thought that was the end of it. I wouldn't have to think about mice again.

There is currently a dead mouse downstairs in the bathroom. It's laying on its side similar to how Oscar lays on his side now. I'm feeling guilty for the little mouse (and perhaps the five or so others that chose to die in more private quarters). The thing was basically harmless. In my childhood years, my brothers and I found baby mice in a drawer once. We kept them for a day and constructed obstacle courses for them and made them race until, well, until they died (probably from overhandling, lack of proper food, or something...God I'm a horrible mouse murderer).

Now should I expect a Blaura-sized mouse trap to be set for me somewhere? Should I forget the whole thing and except it? Should I make a shrine to all the mice ever killed with poison/traps/young children? A little of all three, I suppose. Are these the small things that really matter in life?

Obstacles in the Road

This will begin a series that I've been wanting to do for a while now. Occasionally, on the traffic report, there is the most interesting object obstructing traffic flow. Once it was a family of ducks. Another time was a kitchen sink. We can imagine how these items wound up on the road, but it's another trick to surmise their overall contribution to the flow of life. I've decided to report on these items as I hear about them and relate them to my new favorite subject--Marriage. Perhaps the topic I relate it to will change over time, but I don't see the well running dry on this one.

So, last night, around 11 pm I was listening to Coast to Coast AM. The traffic report came on. A washing machine was blocking traffic on the Bay Bridge.

Clearly, the washing machine relates to domestic duties. And why should I see it as an obstacle? Not only because I have quite a large pile of laundry that I ignored over the weekend, but because there will always be a pile of laundry. And if I am to follow my dream of avoiding the cubicle life-style, I must come to terms with the washing machine. If you are the one at home, you have to do the laundry. It's part of the territory, right? And since this blog comes on the heels of my "treat women equally" blog, I think I should mention that just because we want to be equal doesn't mean we can stop doing the laundry. Then we'd stink like the menfolk.

Actually, what I'm thinking when I envision a washing machine on the road is: Is it still there? I wonder if I could go pick it up. Washing machines are expensive.

I Said "Husband," He He

It's been like a dirty word, whenever I go to say it, so instead I gesture and over-emphasize. "You know, my husband." The word is still foreign to me. And it's like people are waiting for me to say it, and point out that it's one of my first times saying it. "Ooooh! Your husband! You said it! Oh, look at you blush, you blushing bride, you!"

Then again, being married for only a week and a half, I haven't had many opportunities to use the word with strangers. Until this morning. I explained that my husband had been into the store the other day. The woman on the other side of the counter wasn't phased. Who knows if it even registered. They have married people come in all the time. But for me, it was a huge hurdle. I'm always being told that I look sixteen, or twenty-two. One of these times I'm going to say something about my husband, and someone is going to stop me and ask "You're married? Are you old enough?"

Yeah, people. I'm old enough. I'm married. Get used to it. I know I have to.

Coincidentally...

I went back home to Colorado for my Thanksgiving adventures. Well, truthfully it wasn't at all very adventurous, but you might say there were moments of melodrama.

As many of you know, I am getting married in February. The planning is in full gear, meaning the invitations have been sent, the dress has been bought, and the florist has been contacted. The RSVP deadline is on Friday. But guess who's not coming -- my grandmother, who I've become very close to since my parents divorced several years ago. First, my dad told me she wasn't coming. Then my brother told me she wasn't coming. I still thought my powers of pursuasion would prevail, and that I could guilt her into coming, or somehow convince her that a trip to the mountains in the middle of winter is nothing but routine. But alas, my powers were too weak. She still said no.

My grandmother has not spoken to me face to face about her not coming, or even over the phone. Our main exchange was over email, because I knew I would never get two words in if I tried to talk over the phone, and supposedly she starts crying any time she thinks about it. It's very difficult to convey the entire situation (my grandma's fear of travelling anywhere, the usual old-person health issues, and her downright stubborness, for starters), but suffice it to say that I was expecting from her a heart-felt, possibly emotional, decline of invitation. It never came. It seemed she never intended to speak to me of the wedding.

Enter the bride, headed to Colorado for the Thanksgiving holiday. Bride had not spoken to grandmother in a month, still waiting for some word of regret. Nothing. Bride calls grandmother on Thanksgiving holiday. Grandmother makes no mention of wedding. Bride visits grandmother the day after Thanksgiving. As grandmother continues making no mention of wedding (she is sorting through her collection of newspaper clippings, trying to find something she had just quoted), over the radio plays the grand wedding march. The song everyone associates with the wedding. Bride opens her eyes wide, not believing what she is hearing. Grandmother pauses in her paper clipping search and says, "Well, listen to what they are playing," and hastily returns to her precious task.

I had never seen an 800-pound gorilla in the room. It's more terrible than seeing one at the zoo. I wondered if it was a sign? No, I decided, not for me. For her. And she didn't take it.

If there are psychologists who study the workings of the elderly brain, I completely admire them, yet wonder how they get anywhere. I just don't get it. I can't understand my grandmother's reasons. I'm sure she has many. I'm trying to accept that, but I think it's going to take me a long time.