Mice are cute, huh? They have those teeny, tiny little paws and the sweet little whisters and the furry little bodies. Yeah, they sure are adorable... in cages. Or maybe as food for a larger animal. See, mice do not evoke much empathy from me. In fact, they tend to put me into histrionics. I practically jump onto dining room tables. Go ahead, laugh. Get your giggles in, but I know what mice are capable of. They can chew through almost anything, carry all sorts of diseases, run faster than a speading bullet, AND leave little pellets wherever they go. I think it's the pellets that truly disgust me.

Anyhow, we now have a mouse. I'm not sure how cute he is as I have only seen him twice, and without my glasses, at that.

The first time I saw him was out of the corner of my eye as he crawled into my kitchen through an opening in my kitchen window and then fell to the floor behind the kitchen trash can, which is only two feet tall, and the recycling basket. I let out a bit of a scream, more of a should I exclaim out of fear because I saw a something drop from my window or am I hallucinating since I don't have my glasses yet and my mind and body are playing tricks on me for not taking care of my eyes. So, I went to investigate, armed only with my voice as I stated out loud to no one in particular as no one, but myself was there,"I know that is NOT a mouse."

I repeated this a few more times as I inched my way across four feet of my tiled kitchen. Then, my courage kicked in and I moved the trash with my foot, jumped back, jumped forward, kicked the can again, just to jump back again. Nothing. So, just to be sure I knew what I was dealing with, I picked up the recycling basket and out scurried the dark furry thing, giving me my second fuzzy glimpse of my new friend and pal and causing me to jump back with a scream. Yes, I screamed, not once, not twice, but my signature three screams, during which the mouse ran into the living room and hid under my TV armoir.

Great, just great. Here I was, cleaning my house and preparing for a new (used, but new to me) sofa and loveseat, and a mouse has taken up residence. Nice. Wonderful. Great. And, to top it off, I could not calm down after pacing for five minutes in my kitchen, AWAY from the living room.
I grabbed the most useful tool I know of in a situation such as this: my cell phone. And, weilding it like the weapon it can be, promptly called my dad.

"Hello." He stated, knowing it was me. I could hear the laughter in his voice. See, I'm the daughter that gets the giggles, and knowing that he would laugh at my histrionics, but unable to contain myself I replied.

"Dad? There's a mouse in my house." My voice was a bit higher in pitch than normal.

"Honey, don't play with your food." He didn't bother hiding the laugher now. I just ignored it, knowing that I was giving him a great story to tell at the Thanksgiving Dinner Table with my future husband sitting there.

"Dad, really, it's a mouse. I'm scared. I don't like them. They are scary. What do I do?" As if he could come through the phone and get rid of the hairball. I roll my eyes at myself now.

"Well, you could feed it poison. Then it would die."

"But, Dad!" I almost whined, or maybe I did whine,"I hate dead things even more than I hate mice." I believe that I even stomped my foot at this.

"Well, honey, I can bring you some poison tonight that the mouse will take to his hole and share with all of his friends and family and it will kill them all away from your home."

"Okay. Okay, but only if you PROMISE they won't die in my house! Oh, that is sooo disgusting."

I don't think he really promised, but he did state yet again that the mouse would go back to his den and share the poison and die there.

So, my dad came, brought poison, we placed it in the spots my dad said the mouse would be exposed to it and there for eat it. Then, to celebrate, my father took us out to ice cream, otherwise known in the presence of children as B and R. And you know what, for a minute, I didn't even think about my new pet. All was good and clean and right in the creamy delisciousness of that ice cream. And I didn't so much mind sleeping alone in my home that night as my father drove off with my son, taking him to play with my nephew for a day. Maybe it was more of the exhaustion that the day's ruckus had caused, but I'd like to say that my father's poison so specially placed and the creamy ice cream allowed for a very peaceful and completely restful night, despite the rummagings, chewings, and poopings of the mouse.

It's Friday morning and I feel the Wild Thing inside of me waking. By this afternoon me sweet and quiet side (yes, it exists) will vanish. Then I will be a Wild Thing and I will gnash my terrible teeth and growl my terrible growl. Of course I won't be just ANY old wild thing. I will be Max, King of the Wild things.

Yes, Max. I can relate to Max. I've often been sent to bed with no supper and visited the Land of the Wild Things. The fact that Max not only knew to visit the place, but was KING, well, come on, that is cause for admiration to say the least!

And, once I have become King of the Wild Things, or Queen for those of you who need to be gender specific on your titles, I will go home and eat leftovers, foregoing my motherly responsibilities of making a well balanced meal, and possibly allow my son to stay up, beating me at card games. Watch out world. It's going to be WILD!

Middle School

Yes, my child is in middle school. He shows all the signs including, but not limited to, his preocupation with video games, stories of the very dramatic happenings in his social life with the girls he likes or doesn't like or just plain happens to know, socks conveniently left in the living room to provide yet another reason for me to nag him, and the ever present blow out.

The blow out is the best part. Or maybe I should say the most obvious symptom of his new disease - Middleschoolitis. For example, the other day Bug and I were standing at the kitchen table reviewing an article sent by my mother in Colorado concerning lavender, and how it can be used in recipes. Bug has shown an interest in cooking more and more lately and even stated that he wants to be a chef when (or if?) he reaches adulthood. I, personally, liked the idea of him becoming a designer of video games, but I'm sure he'll change his mind a billion times before becoming what God intended for him anyway.

So, there we were, looking at the article together, bonding, feeling close, discussing fascinating topics such as the places we know of that lavender grows, when I happen to ask if he had vacuumed the livingroom rug. His response is that he did not because he just did it three days ago. I then explained that the rug needed attention again and to please do it. And then it happened. His face squirmed and wrestled with itself before finally settling on a look of absolute disgust and unbelief. He then took two steps back, splayed his hands at his side and yelled at the top of his voice,"Now I hate you, Mom!"

Well, seeing as how it obviously is a moment by moment choice for him as he didn't hate me then, but he does hate me now, I did the best I could to keep my face from showing any hint of the amusement I found at his choice of words, told him that he can hate me while he vacuums, and then went into the bathroom where I could silently snicker behind the closed door. Yes, silently, because what is worse than telling a middleschooler to vacuum? Laughing at them. Oooooh, that is the worst, and the "hate time" might just last a whole 30 minutes.

Ah, yes, you gotta love being the mother of a middle schooler. If there is nothing else, there is entertainment.

Because this is the first post of my first official blog I find that I do not know necessarily how to begin. The same thing happens to me each time I start a journal, a poem, an essay or any other project of any sort. I sit, pen in hand, poised to begin the greatest writing peice of all time, just to end up staring at the page. I cannot begin. I cannot put ink upon the paper, strike any thought down no matter how unoriginal, sad, angry, or cheery. I cannot even doodle. I am simply rendered incapable. The blank, emptiness of it all stares back, mocking my pen and I. My thoughts go into overdrive and then sputter to a standstill as they are frozen with the mere possibility or impossibility of it all. Of course don't ask me which as I can barely recall any thought process during those times. It's almost as though martinis have been shot directly into my bloodstream and I black, or, more appropriately blank out during those sessions.
It's not that I am unsure of myself or of my projects. Ask anyone that knows me, confidence is my middle name and if I do think that I cannot do something I end up researching the beast to death in order to figure out if my skills can conquor it, then often try it so as to claim yet another victory (I rule out overly fun items such as sky diving and bungee jumping as I like to keep all my body parts with m at all times and also, I do not like to pee my pants - been there, not what I call comfortable). So, when I set out on these project you can be sure that I know I can do it and I know what the creation will eventually be. I mean, I am sure of the middle and possibly the end, though that is really almost as uncertain as the beginning, yet I am unable to even pretend to know what the beginning is or how to begin the beginning. Maybe this is because I feel as though I am always in the midst of it all. I cannot find where any of my stories began and I am nowhere near the end of any of them. They are all tied together, linked by characters, places, and sometimes events that host the smaller events or vice versa.
When I think about it, in my little universe all events, all stories, are somehow tied together and the possibility of finding the beginning, never mind the end, can only be measured according to one's ability to untangle the strings of stories. And maybe the people that are the real story tellers, the real writers, are those that see the trees seperate from the forest, the skirting of the field, the drawing of the thunderstorm, the rising of the sun as individual events, without even trying. The full grown fir does not distract them from following the story of the baby fern at it's base. They can tell you that this is the way it began and this is the way it ends. That's fine. In fact, that's downright dandy. For them. As for for me, I'm the middle girl, always looking around in wonder at all the stories that never seem to begin or end, just one very long story in and of itself. Trying to capture as much of the story as I can. And, although it can be a little overwhelming to be in the middle all the time, I kinda like it. And I hope you do, too. I hope you totally dig it.