Rocks In My Dryer

It's Not Easy Being Green

All year, my middle son's fourth-grade class has had an aquarium full of African Dwarf Frogs.  The kids have cared for them as a class, learning about their diet and ecosystem.  But the end of the year is upon us, and the frogs needed homes for the summer.

And I have SUCKER written on my forehead, so it's a perfect match.

My son presented a compelling case, complete with bullet points and a closing argument, as to why he would like a chance to adopt one or two.  They're small, easy-to-care-for, and (he knew this would be the deal breaker) they don't smell.

(I have a fair amount of tolerance for annoying pet behaviors.  But I cannot abide bad smells.  Not a whiff.  Not a fraction of a whiff.)

My son brought home the paperwork (oh yes, there was paperwork).  He and I had to sign an agreement that we would care for the frogs and absolutely, under no circumstances, would we "release" the frogs.  And by "release", I can only assume they mean "flush".

"Are you absolutely, positively sure they don't smell?" I asked for the fourth time.  He nodded solemnly.  I looked at the paperwork again.  Then I remembered that episode of LA Law from 1987 that taught us that all legally-binding contracts pertaining to the adoption of African Dwarf Frogs become null and void in the event of a vile stink.  Really.  I'm just sure I remember that one.

I signed the paperwork, as did mothers of many other fourth graders, and my son anxiously stewed over whether his name would be drawn in the frog lottery.  (Oh yes, there was a lottery.)  There were 16 frogs, and there are 22 students.  You could take those odds to Vegas.

One afternoon this week, my son bounded out to the car with a plastic-wrap-covered Solo cup.  We were now the proud owners of not one, but two African Dwarf Frogs (Bud and Lou), and we headed to the store for supplies.  My son, having studied the frogs all year, was very well-versed in what they need (which thankfully, isn't much.)  They need to swim in distilled water, in a glass bowl with a vented lid, and they need regular fish food.

So I grabbed a cheap little bottle of fish pellets off the grocery-store shelf. 

"NO!" shouted my son.  "Not THOSE!  They will make the frogs constipated, and they would explode!"

This is the point at which I must pause to point out that I consider myself a reasonably well-prepared mother.  I studied ahead and braced myself for teething, potty training, stomach viruses, orthodontia, sleepovers, ER trips, sibling rivalry, The Talk, video games, and fractions.

But I will confess that in all my years of looking ahead, never ever did I factor in the possiblity of exploding, constipated frogs.  (It's created a crisis of confidence in me, actually.  What other unexpected dangers might be looming?  Guinea pigs with cholera?  Lactose-intolerant squirrels?)

I am happy to report that we dodged that particular bullet.  Thanks to my son's extensive frog knowledge, Bud and Lou swim happily in a bowl next to me at this very moment.  Nobody has exploded, and nobody stinks.

(I am struck that when one considers "nobody has exploded and nobody stinks" a statement of achievement, then one may have set one's bar a little too low.)

This parenting gig is full of surprises.

In the Interest Of Tying Up Loose Ends

Believe it or not, I'll often get e-mails from people who have read through some of my archives and are curious about where things stand now.  I've been saving up those questions for a giant update which will be interesting only to my mother, so unless you gave birth to me, please do not feel like you have to read on...

How is Dissan, your Compassion child you met in Uganda?

He is doing very well.  We just got a new picture of him about a month ago, and he is positively strapping--I think he's going to be a really tall man someday!  His letters have been frequent and happy this year--his family's health appears to be stable.  He always asks me to pray for him to do well in school.

Do you still like the paperbagged walls in your bathroom?

Yes and no.  That was a cheap and easy stop-gap measure for walls that are damaged.  In any room other than a bathroom, I think I'd probably still love it.  But over the course of the months (and it took a while) the high bathroom humidity has started to make some of the edges get crinkly.  One section near the shower has started coming down entirely.

But never fear!  A few weeks ago, I walked in there to find my problem-solving husband re-attaching that portion of the paper WITH A STAPLE GUN.  And let me tell you, when you reach a point where you staple-gun paper bags to your bathroom walls, then you know that you have truly reached the highest heights of sophistication. 

I'm ultimately going to have to find a longer-term solution (probably wallpaper), just as soon as I can find some time to work on it--so probably in 2033.

How are the pet rats?

Well, in a word, they're dead.  So I guess you could say they're not doing very well.

The last one died about three months ago, much to the despair of my sons.  My favorite back-yard flower bed is now a little rat cemetary, a fact I choose not to think about when I sit out there sipping my Diet Coke.  Certainly, the rats did not die from neglect--I was so proud of how my boys took care of them.  My oldest, especially, was so responsible, even carefully monitoring their little ratty diets.  (I tried to tell him that they weren't exactly delicate flowers; their grandaddy, after all, came from the sewer.)

It pains me to admit it, but they were good pets--smart and clean-ish, for rodents.  They were almost good enough to make me entertain the thought of getting more of them, but then I remember the tails.  I could just never get over the tails. 

Speaking of rodents, what about the mouse under the fridge?

It took a few a lot an outrageous number of tries, but we got him.  Actually, them.  There were at least four.  But they're gone now, as is the lingering smell.  You're very welcome, and enjoy your breakfast.

How are the new kitchen counters working out?

I love them.  LOVE them.  We went with quartz, which is a little less expensive than granite and much lower-maintenance.  And I have never regretted it for a second--I love everything about those countertops.  The good news is that the speckledy pattern I chose doesn't show streaks, stains or food.  The bad news is that the speckledy pattern I chose doesn't show streaks, stains or food, which means that sometimes I'll run my hand over a forgotten corner and, well, just eww.

How's your new baby niece?

She couldn't be any better!  She is healthy, content, and beautifully bonded to her new family.  She is also THE most communicative one year old I've ever seen--if I started describing to you how smart this child is, you wouldn't even believe me.  We're all just dazzled by her.  Many thanks to those of you who prayed for their family.

What did you decide about the kid cell phone?

We ended up adding a "kid phone" a couple of months ago, simply because our own phone contracts were up for renewal, and they offered us a ridiculously cheap family option.  It doesn't belong to any one kid; whoever most needs it gets to carry it.  Initially, I handed down more laws than Moses about that phone--you wouldn't believe all the rules I've attached to it. 

But (and this is the way things generally go around here), after all my stewing and worrying and concern that this might turn into some abuse of privilege or Very Serious Moral Issue, it's been a complete non-event.  My two older boys have been completely responsible with it, never once violating (or complaining about) my 427 cell phone laws.  The truth is, my kids have good heads on their shoulders.  I should give them more credit sometimes.

Did I forget anything?  (*UPDATED:  I've answered a few more questions in the comments section.)

An Open Letter To the People In the Fashion Industry Who Design Clothes For Grown Women

Dear Fashion People,

Today I went to the mall to buy a shirt.  Just a shirt.  Something girly and springy to put with my khaki capris, something dressier than the solid knit shirts that serve as my spring and summer uniform.

I looked and I looked and I have finally reached a breaking point on an issue that has bugged me for some time:

The camisole.

Everything requires a cami, seemingly by design.  It's a vast layering conspiracy, and the salesgirls are in on it.  I come out of the dressing room wearing a shirt that plunges down to there.  "Is it supposed to be this low-cut?" I ask.

"Oh," she says, "just throw a cami under it."

So I try on something else.  The bodice has a lot of eyelet-ish trim on it, and eyelet has holes.  Holes, all over my abdomen, including one gaping open over my most impressive stretch mark.

"Oh," salesgirl says, "just throw a cami under it."

Round three.  It looks like a safe-enough white shirt, until I put it on and realize it's almost completely sheer.  Bridal-veil sheer.

"Oh," salesgirl says, (all together now) "just throw a cami under it."

But here's the deal:  I don't want to throw a cami under it.  I don't want two shirts.  I want one shirt.  My reasons are excellent:

1.  I'm cheap and I'm out of closet space.  A cami is one more thing to buy, launder, store and generally deal with.  Let's keep it simple.

2.  I live in Oklahoma.  In the summer, it is hot.  Melt-your-skin-off hot.  Even-the-pool-water-is-too-warm hot.  What's-wrong-with-the-A/C hot.  If I have to endure that heat wearing two layers of clothing, I might be (*shudder*) tempted to remove the top layer, which brings me to point three...

3.  Ever since I hit puberty, I have devoted a signficant amount of effort to making sure that my bra strap doesn't show.  And even if your cami matches your bra, your bra strap shows.  I don't like that.  I suspect you would recommend I find a cami with a built-in bra, to which I respond that such bras were not created for women who have nursed four children, and that's all I have to say about that.

4.  I'm a middle-aged woman.  I'm not overweight, but still, I have a general layer of padding around my mid-section, and it is a cause of consternation.  The last thing I want to do is add another layer of squishiness.  Your cami fabric may be thin, but if I wanted to add two milimeters of thickness to my abdomen, I'd much rather do it at Krispy Kreme.

Perhaps you will say that you have introduced the cami as a "stylish accessory" which provides "fashionable layering options".

I don't believe you.

I think you want to sell two shirts.

And I'd march right up to Madison Avenue and tell you this in person, except I'm stuck in the dressing room in a see-through blouse. 

Sincerely,

Shannon

Sometimes Having a Blog Is Handy...

...like, when you need to make a biggish purchase and don't know where to start.

My digital camera is dead as a doornail.  It's not an overly expensive one, and it served me well.  But I know the drill, because I've done it before--if I take it to the camera place, they will tell me it's more economical to replace it than to repair it.  (Since when did our electronic devices become disposable?  But that's a post for another day...)

With soccer season, birthday season, and end-of-school season just around the corner, I know I can't make it very long without a camera.  I'm not a photo buff; I know digital SLRs are wonderful, but I just can't justify the expense.  Here's what I'm looking for:

Never mind, I have no idea what I'm looking for, because I don't possess the terminology to know what I'm looking for.  Here's a revolutionary thought:  I want to press the little button and get good pictures.  I don't want it to suck my bank account dry.  I want it to have decent zoom for soccer pictures.  I don't want an overly long delay when I press the little button (I hate that about digital cameras).  And as long as I'm making my wish list, I'd like for it to be able to stop by and pick up milk on the way home and establish peace in the Middle East.

If you have bought a lower-to-mid-priced digital camera in the last few months, I would love to know what you bought, and what you think.  I know I could just Google it for reviews, but I always encounter words like "aperture" and "contrast ratio", while my photographic vocabulary is limited to "that little silver button thingy." 

Help me, Internet.  You're my only hope. 

Google Fun

In an effort to see if I have even a drop of blogging mojo left, here's a quick stab at my favorite blogging pasttime:  collecting the various Google searches that people use to find my site.  Lately I've had some good ones...

hamsters loose in the garage how do I catch them?  Step 1) Make sure the garage door is closed.  Step 2) Come back inside.  Step 3) Announce to your household that this is why you gave birth to sons.  Step 4) Hand them a bucket. 

if you'd eat more comfort food you wouldn't have to go around shooting people  It's a quote from Lost, just for the record, but there's some stellar wisdom there.

two year old not talking at all not even babbling  Yes, I've been there, twice, actually.  My best advice would be to schedule a consultation with a speech pathologist.  The minute she steps foot in the room, your taciturn child will open his mouth, quote Shakespeare, and diagram sentences.  You will sit there in shock, your mouth gaping open, uttering not a word, and the pathologist will wonder if you are the one in need of therapy.  Ask me how I know.

are my expectations realistic?  I'm not sure Google can help you with this.  You might try Dr. Phil.

gag clean out refrigerator  Me too, sister.  Me too.

cheesecake chimichangas  Me too, sister.  Me too.

i've tried everything to catch a mouse  Hey, me too.  What finally worked for me was beef jerky actually TIED ONTO a 99-cent mousetrap.  Not at all helpful were glue traps, poison traps, screaming, broom-whacking, a college degree and a houseful of strapping sons.  Good luck.

poop in dryer  Yes, it happened once, but how did you know?  I don't want to talk about it.

dog giveaway  Oh, I feel your pain.  Having to give away a dog is terribly painful.  Not as painful as carpet that perpetually smells of pee, but still painful.

curse upon thee  Rough day?

my baby ate my deoderant  True story:  When my oldest was about 20 months old, I was getting ready in my bathroom while he watched a show on TV.  I peeked around the corner to check on him.  To my horror, I saw that I had accidentally left out a squirt bottle of kitchen cleaner, and Adam was raising it to his mouth.  I shrieked and jerked it away, but I decided to call Poison Control anyway, just in case even a drop of the cleaner had touched his lips.  They assured me it was fine, and I hung up the phone.  I sat down on my bed to recover from my weak knees and racing heart, dropping my head into my hands.  And I looked up to see Adam walking out of my bathroom, carrying my deoderant--he had TAKEN A BITE OUT OF IT.  And in that moment, I learned the hard way that the only thing worse than having to call Poison Control before 9 a.m. is having to call Poison Control TWICE before 9 a.m.

compassion international please t-shirt  (Mom, is that you?  Because you are the only person I know who would actually say "please" to Google.) 

you are crazy if you think I would wait  Sorry.  I got nothin'.

sharpie kitchen cabinets  Try a dab of nail polish remover for the cabinets.  And maybe an equally strong liquid for the momma.  

rocks dryer blog dumplin recipe  I'm not sure what pleases me more:  the idea that someone specifically searched for a recipe of mine, or that they had the uncommon good sense to remember to leave the "g" off "dumplin".

is there really such a thing as potty training?  Oh, sister.  I feel your pain.

cat caught in dryer  Really, it's like I'm the Lifetime Television version of Google searches, what with all the drama.

should older women wear bows in their hair?  Please know I say this with all the kindess and goodwill in my heart:

No.

tocks in y dryer  And yet you still found me.

Happy March 28th...

....or, as my daughter squealed when she woke up this morning and saw this outside our front door, "MERRY CHRISTMAS!"

(Note: I realize there are parts of the country where snow on March 28th is not odd.  But I'm in Oklahoma, and I had my air conditioner on a few days ago.  Suffice it to say, this is ODD.)

Now If Only They'd Brought Along the Tater Tot Casserole

The Duggars were in our city this weekend for a book signing.  My boys and I are fascinated by their show, so we were eager to attend.  We were especially excited to learn that the camera crew for their Discovery Channel show would be along to film the signing.  NO ANTICS, I warned, lest we end up on a Discovery Channel special entitled See? Some Christian Families Act Like Hooligans.  Check your local listings.

They introduced their crew, sang a song, and then they opened up to the audience for questions.  My middle son (also known as The Loose Cannon) shot his hand straight up in the air.  My mind raced with possible scenarios:  Please-oh-please, son, do not tell Michelle Duggar a fart joke.  I managed to get his attention. 

"What do you want to ask?" I whispered.

He whispered back incredulously.  "How does she homeschool so many different ages all at the same time?"  Ah.  It's good to know that a mother with multi-tasking abilities is a foreign concept to the child.

He never got to ask his question, incidentally, but there were some good ones from the rest of the audience.  If you want to see the videos, I posted them at YouTube. Here was their answer to how they came up with all the "J" names, and here was their answer about whether or not their kids wanted to go to college.  I loved it that they were momentarily stumped when asked about all the kids' ages, because I am stumped by the ages (and, well, occasionally the names) of just my four.

It was a really fun afternoon--the Duggars were funny, gracious and humble (and, incidentally, I think Michelle may have the prettiest skin I've ever seen).  They made it clear that they are not a perfect family with all the answers, but they're doing what they're doing only by God's grace.  I can relate to that just fine.

My Journey Through Frostbite (Or, "Hi, I'm a Soccer Mom")

Two of my sons play soccer, and I am very pleased about that.  It's an interesting and fast-paced sport, with many opportunties for gentleman-like behavior.  I'm an enthusiastic soccer mom--a shin-guard-washing, Gatorade-mixing, uniform-bleaching, sideline-cheering soccer mom.

Except when it's cold.

One of the curious quirks of this sport is that, especially as kids get older and begin playing more competitively, it becomes essentially a year-round activity.  There are off-season practices and tournaments, which means you may have to get to watch your child play in blazing, subtropical heat, as well as frigid, arctic blasts.  It's the type of information they don't tell you during Lamaze classes, or you might just back out of the whole deal.

This weekend my middle son played in an out-of-town tournament.  The forecast was in the '20's, so we went prepared:  my son wore numerous layers under his uniform, and we brought along mounds of cold-weather gear and blankets for the rest of us.  I thought we'd be fine.

I was wrong, of course.  Even though I've lived in Oklahoma for nearly seven years, I can never quite get used to the wind.  It not only comes sweepin' down the plains, it also threatens to remove the top layer of your skin.  It makes a sunny day in the '20's feel like Everest Base Camp.

The first match started, and we all huddled under mounds of blankets for an endless amount of time.  And by "an endless amount of time" I mean "20 minutes", because that's how long it was before my daughter started complaining of the cold.  There are many huge reasons I am thankful that sweet child was unexpectedly born into our family: the laughter, the songs, the pure joy and delight.  And also the fact that having a preschooler buys a mom a free pass to sit in the car.  "Sorry," I shrugged at the other blue-lipped moms.  "Corrie is too cold."  They nodded in understanding, and I think a couple of them glanced around to see if they, too, could find any shivering four year olds.

Thankfully, we had a parking spot that offered a decent view of the game.  Corrie and I thawed out while we watched Stephen play on.  I slipped off my shoes and propped my feet up on the dash.  Outside the wind blew so fiercely that the car shook.  The howling was fierce, and I closed my eyes and thought to myself that this must surely be how Ma Ingalls felt on those cold nights in the cabin on the Minnesota prairie.  If, that is, Ma Ingalls' cabin had bucket seats, a dashboard, and a Leapster.

It was still a great game.  My brave Hubs never once left the sidelines, even dashing over to the huddle during halftime to drape a blanket over our son's shoulders.  "Wow," I thought to myself, watching him from the car.  "What a great dad he is.  I love that man."  Clearly not enough to get out and help him, mind you, but still a good bit.  When it was all over, he and Stephen headed to the car--Stephen's face glowed with the excitement of a well-played match (or maybe it was wind-burn).  Either way, he climbed into the car full of enthusiasm, his body shivering from his capped head to his multi-socked toe. 

"So," he said, his blue lips barely able to form words.  "Let's go get some ice cream."

And we did.

Rhett and Link and Other Culturally Significant Parenting Tools

A couple of weeks ago, I linked to a YouTube video by Rhett and Link in a Lost post.  It was the first time I had seen one of their videos, and I meandered over to their site and proceeded to spend about an hour laughing with my older kids.  Now, strangely, no one in our family can say the word "guacamole" without singing this song.  (And you might be surprised.  The subject of guacamole comes up a lot.)  But this one is my very, very favorite:

"The "e" in Flickr was given to me like the key to an Internet city of which I am king."  Don't you want to embroider that on something?  Anyway, check out their site for some good, clean fun.

(By the way, I'm working on a piece for BlogHer about watching YouTube with your kids--specifically finding safe and clean stuff you can enjoy together.  For example, my sons love this one, and this one has painfully embedded itself deep in my brain, threatening to emerge at socially inappropriate times.  If you've ever blogged about the subject of kid-friendly-You-Tubing, I'd love to see the link, or if you have a YouTube suggestion, I'd love that too.  Many thanks!)

Geographically Challenged

Maybe you've seen this link before, the game in which you drag and drop the U.S. states into their proper location.  My parents sent it to me this week and suggested I let the kids try it.  Kids, schmids.  I spent a ridiculous amount time trying it myself, battering my self-esteem and calling into question the credentials of every social studies teacher I've ever had.  I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person--so how is it I am 36 years old and cannot locate New Jersey within 287 miles?

(I did, however, in a dazzling display of mediocre geographical skills, positively nail Texas and Florida.  The lesson in that is that you wouldn't want me as your navigator unless you're driving through a state with a significantly identifiable hump.)

Here's my theory: unless you're a geography buff, you tend to be most familiar with the areas in which you live or around which you've traveled at length.  For example, I can get a spot-on perfect score on any state that contains an SEC school.  I once lived in Chicago, so I can correctly place the states that border the Great Lakes.  I've traveled a lot around Colorado, so I can usually get the western states in their spot.

BUT. 

I'm of absolutely no use in New England.  It always surprises me to realize how far east Pennsylvania is, and I couldn't even begin to tell you how Connecticut, Massachussetts, New Hampshire and Vermont all fit together.  

I'm not much better with the Midwest.  I always get Ohio and Iowa mixed up (even though they're nowhere close to each other--it's all those dang vowels in the name).  And it always surpises me that Illinois touches Kentucky; it just doesn't seem like it should, you know?

And I couldn't tell you why, but it feels to me that Oregon should be on top of Washington, not the other way around.  I know, that makes no sense.  But I'm a geography-by-emotional-intuition kind of girl, a trait which, you can imagine, my husband finds especially adorable on long road trips. 

So, do you think I'm right?  Do you American readers have parts of the country you can place perfectly, but other parts that confound you completely?  And if so, which ones?  And is there anyone--anyone--out there who actually understands how New England fits together?

(By the way, it took MANY tries--and a conscious effort at leaving my Oregon/Washington emotional baggage at the door--but I finally managed to score a 90%.  It was the best I could do.  What was your score?)

Airborne

If God had intended us to fly, He would've given us wings.  I grow only more convinced of this the longer I live (and the more often I fly).  The entire process is laced with absurdity.

I am greeted in the security line by a surly guard who takes my ID and reads it carefully.  He looks suspiciously at my face, presumably to see if I'm a match. I am smiling politely and trying very hard not to look like a terrorist--I didn't realize it was a stretch--but it is evidently, because he examines the ID and me yet again.  Just as am I about to speak up and assure him he will find no one more invested in this plane landing safely than I, he finally hands back the ID and waves me through.

At the gate, I find a seat near a woman who, it appears, is some sort of sales manager for a candy company. I know this because she is a Loud Talker.  As I sit there, quietly, trying to read my book, she places call after call to the convenience stores who sell her candies, asking them how sales are and making suggestions on how to improve.  "Tell the customers it's almost Valentine's Day!" she chirps, loudly.  "They can buy a box and when their boyfriend gets home, they can leave a trail of candy from the front door all the way back to the..." I get up to move at this point, not especially interested in receiving romance counseling this way (though better here than at the convenience store check-out counter, I suppose).

Just before we board, the pilot comes out to chat with the gate attendants.  He is wearing a tie that is, shall we say, questionable in its good taste.  It is much too wide and it contains a cartoon emblem of a waving American flag, flanked by the snarliest- looking bald eagle you've ever seen..  I don't know whether to be comforted by this--maybe he's so patriotc he will go all Jack Bauer on any questionable passengers.  Or maybe he's a goofball who likes taking commercial airplanes on loop-de-loops.  I watch him closely.

We are instructed that boarding will begin, and we all stand, though we peasants must wait as the Priority Advantage Deluxe passengers board first.  I suffer an uncomfortable flashback to the eighth grade.

When we peasants finally begin our march down the ramp, my anxiety level builds.  I find myself scanning the plane for signs of trouble.  Loose rivets?  Signs of impact with killer geese?  Unlucky numbers painted on the side?  Though I am normally not at all superstitious,  I always touch the side of the plane as I walk through the doors.  I even give it a pat, the way one would a faithful horse, I imagine.  Easy, boy, easy. 

Take-offs are my most anxious part; the plane always feels, to me, as if it's groaning, pushing unnaturally against gravity.  I suck in my stomach; I don't know why.  It makes me look thinner, maybe it will make me feel lighter to a groaning airplane.

The flight is, mercifully, uneventful.

When we land Captain Questionable Tie comes out to greet us. "Welcome to Nashville," he said.  "It's COLD here in the midwest."  Everyone looks at him blankly.  "Oh, that's right, Nashville is in the South, isn't it?"

And this is the man who just drove my airplane?  Absurd, I tell you. 

Next time, a train.

Our Snow/Ice Day, In Pictures, Because We're a Little Bored

Subtitled: And It Would Be a More Effective Narrative Tool If I Knew How To Take Decent Photos

 

  

  

(Because nothing says "Happy Almost Valentine's Day" like the good Christmas china.)  

  

(Yes.  He's playing Nintendo with his feet.  Did I mention we're a little stir crazy?  There's no school tomorrow, either, so by Thursday morning we may be bathing with our elbows for entertainment.) 

But My Lips Are Silky Soft

Last week Hubs was cleaning out my desk drawer.  Partly because he is good to me, and partly because it is his preference that when one pulls on a desk drawer, one might expect that the desk drawer be unencumbered enough to open.  Picky, picky.

"Hey," he called.  "You might want to come look at this."

Here's what he had found in my one desk drawer:

"I think you have a problem," he said. 

I pointed out that if I had a "problem", they would all be Carmex.  As there is a trend-breaking Burt's Bees throwing in the stash, I assured him, I do not have a "problem", I merely have a "preference". (And, it would appear, a tendency for losing lids.)

This May Be the Point At Which I Move Out

A couple of months ago, we had a mouse problem.  It turned into a saga of epic proportions (or, at least, Snoopy-vs-The-Red-Baron proportions).  Before it was all over, there were numerous (unsuccessful) traps, over-turned furniture, a heart-rending speech about animal cruelty from the six-year-old neighbor girl, and a few late nights in which I nearly fell asleep sitting next to the fridge, broom in hand. 

The drama was heightened by the realization that we had not a mouse, but a family of mice.

Well, of course.

All across this country, the family unit is imploding upon itself in a vast case of moral decay, but WE get mice with a stubborn devotion to family values. 

The whole thing ended (I thought) just before Christmas.  The last mouse met his fate in a trap next to my fridge, while I, a previously humane soul, danced around my kitchen with glee.  Our rodent friends seem to have left me with a touch of crazy.

It turns out that's not the only thing they left.

When I started noticing a strange, midlew-ish smell in my laundry room, I began looking around for the culprit.  I couldn't find a thing, but the smell got worse.  And then worse.  Finally, a friend with experience in these matters (bless her heart) stopped by yesterday, took one whiff, and said, "I hate to tell you this, but you have a dead mouse."

Great.

We sniffed and searched and found that the smell is strongest just on either side of the wall that connects my kitchen to my laundry room.  We looked and looked for a logical entrance to the wall, but we couldn't find one, leading us to assume that (Yum! Enjoy your breakfast!) the mouse must have died actually IN the wall.  My friend told me that an open can of coffee grounds will help absorb the bad smell, but guess what one of my least favorite smells is?  Yep.  Coffee.  And now that I've smelled it mingled with dead mouse (Yum! Enjoy your breakfast!), I may never be able to step foot in a coffee shop again.

It is an occupational hazard of motherhood that you leave behind the diaper days with a wickedly strong sensitivity to smell.  As a result, I'm going a little crazy, resisting the urge to completely torch my laundry room (which I may yet do, considering I'm burning so many candles in there it looks like a Tibetan monastery). 

This is where I'm hoping the vast, random wealth of information on the Internet will come in handy.  I've done some Googling on the subject, and I'm hearing a wide range of suggestions and warnings.  Some people say the smell sticks around for months; others say it's gone in a few days.  If you have any knowledge or experience on the subject, I would be forever indebted to you for your best advice.  (And if you want to remain anonymous as you admit your experience in dealing with rotting animal flesh--Yum! Enjoy your breakfast!--I completely understand.)

What I Did On My Christmas Vacation

Hello, my internet friends--I've missed you!  I hope you had a great holiday season.  Here's a quick run-down of what I've been up to, in numbered list format, because I haven't blogged in two weeks and can't remember how to make a paragaph transition:

1.  Watched one of my sons give another of my sons a package of stink bombs for Christmas, and realized, in a very horrible moment, that absolutely nothing good can come of this.

2.  Had an otherwise lovely (and mostly stink-free) Christmas, in which my brother and sister-in-law showed us all up with the most sentimental, creative gifts you have ever seen.  Pictures to follow, just as soon as I find my camera.

3.  Have developed a slight obsession with Guitar Hero.  I feel certain that if this momblogging thing doesn't pan out, I have a future as a Pat Benetar impersonator.  I am, after all, a real tough cookie with a long historeeee.

4.  Started reading this book aloud to my children.  It's so good--very Narnia-esque.

5.  Got an e-mail from my designer friend Jo-Lynne of DCR Design that said something along the lines of "oh how I love you, but please, your blog header polka dots are pixelated and it is killing me, and please will you let me change it?"  And I said, "Sure, honey, but I think you're probably the only one who notices."  So she fixed it, and all these friends started coming out of the woodwork to say "THANK YOU for fixing the pixelated polka dots--they were killing me!" and "Oh, it's about time, all that pixelation was driving me crazy," and I'm all, "Really?" and feeling like I need to issue a blanket apology for the pixelated polka dots that were, evidently, gouging out eyeballs everywhere.  Who knew? 

6.  Awakened on January 1, 2009, with a viral thing including all manner of stomach unpleasantness, a raging headache, and a fever.  Spent the whole day in bed watching the SciFi Channel's marathon of original Twilight Zone episodes.

7.  Learned that watching Twilight Zone episodes while one drifts in and out of a feverish sleep will make for some trippy dreams.  Trippy.

8.  Had a fantastic visit from my husband's sister and her husband.  Cementing my affection for them once and for all, they gave me this for Christmas:

Barry Manilow.  Singing eighties music.  It's like one big joyous cheese-ball explosion, and I'm not sure I can contain myself.

9.  Did not finish my sister-in-law Lee Ann's personalized hankies, but I showed her the fabric and said, "Look, won't these be cute when I finish them in a couple of years?  Merry Christmas!"

10.  Finally took down my fall wreath and porch decorations, which seemed like a timely thing to do on January 2nd. 

11.  Gave some serious thought to going ahead and putting up the 4th of July wreath since I appear to have abandoned seasonal propriety altogether.

12.  It occurred to me that we have only 15 days to wait until the season premiere of this.  Raise your hand if you can't wait.

13.  The 2008 Weblog Award finalists were announced, and I was so pleased to see many of my favorites as finalists, including my sweet friend Jen of Conversion Diary.  You can vote for her {wink, wink, nudge, nudge} right here.  Congrats to all the finalists: go check out the entire list of bloggers here.

14.  Sent the kids back off to school yesterday with a smooch and a pat and equal amounts of relief and wistfulness.

15.  Am ready to jump back in my blogging groove.  WFMW resumes tomorrow, and I have a fun giveaway lined up for Thursday.  You'll need your thinking caps, so consider this your fair warning.

So.  What have you been up to?