I am WOMAN

Hear me roar.

This weekend Hubby was out of town helping his sister pack to move. I was a free woman to take a bubble bath, lounge around, bake up a storm for a bake sale, read some novels, and watch a few movies. Around work, of course.

So instead I decided to become an adult. A situation presented itself, and it was time to see if I was going to remain a little girl or become a WOMAN. It was something that would separate the child from the grown up.

It was a dead mouse.

I cannot believe that it is 65 or so degrees and November. I stupidly assumed it was too warm for us to have mice, and so I let Hubby leave the state. Remember how I am with Mickey? If I had any idea, I probably would have forbid him to leave. Instead, I decided to be unselfish and to ship him to Colorado to be with his family. You know, the one that hates me? It was kismet, as there was a lesson to be learned.

I walked in the front door, and froze. There it lay, between the loveseat and couch, blocking the doorway to the kitchen, with the kitten's paw poised above it. I had my arms full, and rather than dropping everything and leaping onto the couch or armchair, I calmly (okay, so I was shaking and goosebumps were up and tears began to fill my eyes in fear) put down my stuff, and told the cat "NO!" and considered my options. I could spend the weekend going outside the front door and around the backyard to get in the back door to the kitchen/dining room every time I wanted something. I could call Hubby and demand he steal a car from his family and race down to Podunk (a 6 hour drive) and rescue me. I could cry and call my mommy. I could demand my father save me. Or I could face up to my responsibilities. I stepped over the body.

The little eye that was facing me stared up. I did not feel for breath or a pulse--I'm not about to be THAT grown up and adult. I simply backed away from him/her/it and into the kitchen. There was no way I was going to touch the thing, so I had formulated a plan that involved gathering a bunch of plastic groceries bags and that would be squishy enough that I wouldn't know if it was the body or the bags. I returned to the scene of the murder and I put the bunched up bags over the body. I then took the plunge and grabbed quickly, making the mistake of turning it upright as I raised the body and bags towards me to put it in another bag (hey, field mice have deadly diseases around here...one couldn't have too many bags!). The little body was still warm enough that his/her/its body folded. Gross, but I have to explain how close I was to squealing and dropping the doggone thing.

Worse still was it's little body folded and the eye moved, so I was suddenly convinced it was still alive. How I would have dealt with that, I don't know. That's apparently another lesson for another day. So I put the mouse in the other bag, double tied it and raced down the front steps to the garbage can.

I still pass over the scene of the crime every time I walk into the kitchen and imagine that little body. It's not a morbid or gross thing (thank God the cats don't ever eat the mice, they just leave them as they were when they passed on). The big cat climbed into my lap promptly after the short trip to the garbage can with the body bag, and meowed at me softly. My response? A loud ROAR back and a "thank you, fat cat." I passed the test.

Who knew it took a dead mouse to make me a woman?