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?

JEaNS

I've come to a sad realization. My jeans are out of shape. I know the old trick: wash them and they will be restored. But after a while, they are just too worn out. They hang from the hips without attitude. They make my butt look like a sunken pie.

And what makes it worse is that jeans are so difficult to shop for (unless you have that "certain" figure, the one even sweatpants look good on). So when the day rolls around when your jeans give you the "I just don't have the energy" look, and they begin to suck the life out of the rest of your outfit, it's only natural that you put off the search for a new pair. It's just too much work, and the jeans concur, "Nothing is worth making an effort for anymore."

Once you muster up the energy to go shopping, the word has spread. Your jeans have told every other pair of jeans in the entire world that you are coming. Therefore, every pair you try on skips straight to the hanging "I don't wanna make your ass look good" phase. The trick is to be impulsive. Grab a pair on your way to lunch. Don't take your old jeans with you. Better yet, don't even try them on.

I'm still waiting for the full bad-jean coma to sink in. Besides, I don't have time to shop for jeans (is that me or the pants talking?).