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?

Beached Whale Warnings

If you get any sightings of a beached whale somewhere along the lines of Mexico, check to be sure it's not me.

I'm embarking on my first cruise ever tomorrow. I don't know why exactly I haven't been a cruise before. I seem to remember that my grandmother (my paternal one) took my cousin on several cruises and had discussed taking me when I got older--but when I got older, her cancer reoccurred, and then I got married and she died, so it never happened.

Anyway, Hubby has been attending a church for just over 18 months now. Initially I went with him (the first 2 Sundays), but then I've been on weekend shifts at work, and it's never worked out. So when the ladies of the church decided to take the cruise, Hubby decided with two of my friends that are members of the church, it was time for me to get involved and go meet some of the other ladies. I signed up, and over time, I am sad to say, my other friends that were initially going are no longer able to go. So I thought I was going to take this cruise bravely and put on my we're-all-family-of-God brave face and tackle the world with a bunch of strangers.

Fortunately, I was reviewing some of the e-mails that have come out, and have discovered that my friend K that I've known since high school is also going. So I sent her a message via her blog and we finally connected, and I'm probably going to be holding her hand the whole trip :) YAY!

The cruise leaves Texas and over the course of a bunch of days (see, I really have no clue what's going on!) we dock in two ports in Mexico--one of which is Cozumel and the other starts with a Y or something like that. I am at work now, but in just under 7 hours I'll be meeting a large portion of the group--meeting for the very first time as I don't know anybody but the pastor's wife who is graciously arranging everything--and we'll get in the church bus and a few cars and drive to...somewhere in Texas. I don't even know if we're going all the way to Galveston or not.

I'm totally panicked over what to pack (because you know that hasn't been done yet and I have 1.5 hours between work and meeting the others). I don't know what one wears on a cruise ship. I'm freaked that none of my clothes will fit. I'm pretty certain the swimsuits won't fit and I can't stop remembering Dan Rather's comments during a Presidential election and the whole Gore/Bush scandal and something about a long ride with a too small swimsuit (no, I don't know how that fits into anything in regards to the cruise but I didn't get it back then either). I'm petrified that I'm going to make a horrible impression on these women because I'm pretty sure I'll sleep and snore most of the way since I'm totally a night owl now and I don't want them to think I'm rude (the only time I've even seen some of their faces was at a quickie meeting and the pastor's wife introduced me saying that the women would know Hubby as he's always at church with other women--those women being said friends above--and there was a horrified look on one woman's face at the meeting). I'm afraid that I'll sleep all day and miss the ports and all the fun and bother my roommate (although we're trying to switch rooms so I can hang onto K with all my strength).

And my partner at work keeps telling me how brave I am to travel, and especially how she admires me going with a bunch of people I don't know because she could never do it. Little does she know I'm like a child going away for her first sleepover!

I'm pretty good about meeting new people when it's a situation I'm comfortable in, like when I go to trainings for work or when I'm doing something for the sorority or even when I was at a church that I'd been attending for several years. It's totally irrational that I'm this freaked out given that they are my sisters in Christ and that I'm very confident in who I am (it's only taken almost 29 years of life on this Earth to get there!). I'm sure it'll all be fine.

Of course, there are also things like people going missing on cruises that have been on Dateline recently that I should be worried about. So seriously, if you hear of a beached whale, make sure it's not me after I fell overboard!

The Mouse

There's a mouse in my house. And he ain't Mickey Mouse.

He's about 3-4 inches long, grey and very, very fast. He is also a magician, as he's on my counter tops in the kitchen.

I'm afraid of mice. I scream like a little girl and panic when I see them. Years ago, my first experience with a mouse resulted in my grabbing the zoo (we seriously have a million animals that are allowed to live here--dogs, cats, the occasional ant that finds its way inside the house--I won't even kill a spider, but there's just no room for a mouse) and racing upstairs, closing and locking the bedroom door and demanding that Hubby return home from work RIGHT NOW to take care of the problem. The second mouse encounter was as I was walking through the house and turning back to where I'd been and I saw the mouse (dead of course) in the middle of the path I'd just walked. Again, I called Hubby and demanded that he return home from work RIGHT NOW to retrieve the body--I was trapped in the kitchen until Hubby came to get the body...who's going to cross a dead body knowingly?

I have gotten better. I praise God that the cats don't eat the mice, but rather play with them until the mice stop playing and then leave them where they stopped. However, I still cannot do removal myself.

So this Sunday, I was putting dishes in the dishwasher. I have been aware that we have a mouse hole (they seriously ate a hole in my wall) for a while. It's on the floor behind the water heater that has a hole to the ground, because we live in a government built hovel that has no insulation or really foundation--it was temporary housing that's lasted about 40 years longer than was intended. Anyway, Hubby was supposed to fix the hole, but since he works some weekends and I work every...well, day, we haven't made the trip to the only home store chain I'm allowed in (allowed by Hubby to go in...there was an unfortunate incident several years ago at a home store chain that resulted in my sitting on the floor in hysterics and tears, and nobody wants that incident relived, so we just don't return for fear of flashbacks--another story for another time) and gotten foam or something to take care of the hole.

I should break here and explain that I don't want to kill the mice. The first encounter with the mouse years ago where Hubby had to race home was because I was trying to save the mouse's life. I swear it looked up at me with its beady little eyes and begged me for mercy as Tom Cat swatted at it...I seriously heard a voice reminding me that this horrid little creature that had me on a couch screaming my head off was also God's creature. That mouse got away because after I dragged the then 2 dogs and 2 cats upstairs, Hubby couldn't find it. Because of that first mouse, I will not set a trap. (Well, that and because then I'd still have the removal issue.) I don't think the glue traps are at all humane (and then I'd still have the removal issue and sticky paws on 2 cats to boot) and I've heard that the mice actually cry out when they are stuck to the glue trap. I don't want one of the traps that has poison in it that the mice then take back to their nests (then I just have dead mice in the walls and possibly dead cats from following the mice into the poison source). I just want them to move to another house. In fact, I'd like to plant them in my neighbor's house that's attached but down two units from my house...but that's again, another story for another time.

So this Sunday I'm loading the dishwasher when this grey blur tears out in front of me ON THE COUNTER TOP and takes off for the other end of the kitchen. I'm hyperventilating, trying to escape the kitchen, but the government built hovel we live in is a two butt kitchen, and Hubby is behind me with the fridge door open so there's no exit. I begin to climb onto the washer (who else but the government would put a washer in a kitchen?), when I realize that if the mouse is ON THE COUNTER TOP, it's quite likely he could make the short leap onto the washer. I was stuck, and I don't know the last time so many prayers have been sent in such a short compact time. Fortunately for the mouse, Hubby is so distracted by me that the mouse escapes behind the stove and is not caught for the Mouse Relocation Program.

Since Sunday, I have been afraid of the kitchen. I know he's there. I know he's waiting for me. I believe that every creak, every clatter, every little sound is him, plotting his revenge. I don't know how he's getting on the counter, but I believe that he's teaching all of his brothers and sisters how to get up there and no matter how much scrubbing and bleaching I do, he will have been there, laughing at me. He may be only 3-4 inches, and I may be 66 inches; he may weigh under one pound, and I may weigh--well, let's not go there--but he has my rear end kicked.

And somehow I'm supposed to use the kitchen to make meals, bake for a bake sale and get my medication that's stored in a cabinet there. Maybe I'll try to pretend that I live in Mickey's Playhouse. Maybe I'll write Mickey for some ideas. After all, they probably are related somehow.