Toning Up Thursday – Jeans shopping edition

Ok, first, I’m going to be  back to quilting soon. Don’t give up on me. I’m taking comfort in the fact that I’ve seen other bloggers lose their quilting mojo and then get back into the swing of things. I just keep hitting a brick wall; I used to be eager to sneak time in even if it was just 30 minutes, but lately, I just say, “Nah…I’m going to __________” and then I fill in the blank with anything else. After I post this though, I’m going to quilt for a little bit tonight. Really, I’m going to. I’m starting to crave a little time with the sewing machine (plus, I’m falling behind on my goals and feeling yucky about that…)

But, today is toning up Thursday update time. My frienemies that I was in the little weight loss challenge with extended the deadline for a week and then cancelled the challenge altogether. We may or may not have wanted to indulge in a little Valentine’s Day dessert when we all got dressed up fancy-like and had a fun dinner together 🙂 But, when I weighed in on Sunday, I discovered that I had lost my challenge weight even though we had officially cancelled.

I then bounced back up briefly, but when I weighed myself this morning since I’m going back to Thursday weigh ins,  I’m back to that challenge weight. Woo-hoo! That puts me only about 6 pounds away from my total goal weight. It’s looking more and more like I might be able to do a thorough purge of my closets before I move.

The way I figure it being down to my goal weight on Sunday was a gift that would carry me though….are you ready for it?…jeans shopping.

Yes, jeans shopping. Can I get an amen out there that jeans shopping is a harrowing experience for any woman even if she’s been working out like she and Jillian Michaels are BFFs?

Jillian Michaels is not my BFF, but I’m down to one pair of dark washed jeans that fit, and I’ve lost enough weight that a few pairs of jeans that used to fit are a little saggy-baggy. The final straw was Kohl’s sending me a 30% of coupon. Darn you, Kohl’s, you know how to woo me every time!

So, here’s how the jeans shopping went down. I ate pizza first. I know, it’s not a brilliant move, but by the time church was over, I had nearly worked myself into a frenzy about getting a slice of pizza at the mall food court. Leaving the food court, I entered Kohl’s on the junior’s section side.

Why do I even go into the junior’s section? I don’t know. I mean, I’m 32. The whole time I’m in there, I hear the voice of Stacey London from What Not to Wear whispering in my ear, “Is that really age appropriate?” And, I never find anything that has enough structure to it to look nice, but I persist.

And, I persisted in picking up jeans — in the juniors department — in size 7. I was secretly thinking, “Oh, you jest. Why are you setting yourself up like this?”

But, then I went into the dressing room AND the jeans came up farther than my thighs. What, what?!? I even got them buttoned. Happy dance! There I was doing a little spin and twirl in the itty, bitty 4X4 dressing room until I came to a screeching halt with my posterior toward the mirror. And, I was like, “Hey. Uh, this isn’t going to work.”

Now, for context you should know that these jeans that I was twirling about in were labeled Levi’s Too Superlow.

I know, really, why should I have thought they would work?

Low jeans rarely work.

Superlow jeans never work.

As an English teacher, I know that “too” is a word indicating excess.

So, “too superlow.” That should be stating the obvious, right? The obvious being, “Leave these on the shelf, honey child, they are not going to work.”

And, sure enough, as I ended my spin and twirl and did the butt check that must be done when jeans shopping, my alarmed thoughts shifted to, “Hey, where is the material that will cover my butt crack? Hey, a belt won’t work because a belt has to catch my hips and my hips are almost completely exposed. Hey, how can I function in these jeans…do normal stuff like sitting down without mooning everyone or like wearing a normal shirt?”

Stacy London stopped asking, “Are these age appropriate?” and started screaming, “These are never appropriate.”

So, buoyed by the fact that it was the jean’s fault that this was a no-go and not mine since they did come up over my thighs and button, I found my way out of the junior’s department to the section where clothes are made with enough fabric to cover people and nothing is labeled with “too.” It was a bit harrowing. After at least 15-20 pairs of jeans (and probably some dressing room attendants who couldn’t wait for me to leave), I found 2 pairs of jeans that would work and narrowed it down to my favorite since I still plan to lose weight and want to hold off on buying more pants until then.

So, my advice for all of you forming healthy habits. Eat your pizza if you need to get through jeans shopping but get yourself to the right department after that. And, never, ever try on anything that says “too superlow.” The tag speaks truth.

 

Full Moon Shenanigans

I got a quilty present today that I have to show here when the light gets decent enough to photograph it. I love it!

For tonight though, I thought I’d share a little bit of holiday craziness via a reproduction my evening Facebook status and my sister’s response.

To background this, I have to say that my dog, Deogi, is a thief.

Don’t be fooled by that face. If there is any food left on the end table in the living room, he’ll take it. If there is a cardboard box waiting to be recycled on the kitchen counter, he’ll “recycle” it by shredding it all over the living room floor. This habit has been getting worse since it’s been a particularly busy semester with me being on the run quite a bit and us not making it to the dog park as much as Deogi would like to go. So, in some regards, I’m bringing these horrors upon myself.

The second little piece of background is that my sister dislikes Deogi; we could probably go as far as to say that she hates him. She’s not an animal person to begin with, and he put himself in the dog house, literally, with some not so nice behavior back when I first adopted him. He really and truly likes her now and gives her this hopeful little tail wag when he sees her, but it’s a grudge match that I don’t foresee ending unless he does something amazing like dragging me from a burning building.

So, anyway, here’s how (in slightly edited fashion) things went down around here tonight:

My Facebook status: came home from work to find that the dog had eaten almost an entire loaf of italian bread, 2-3 nutella brownies, and all the packaging for my sister’s surprise Christmas present. I asked him, “Are you from Satan?” I think it was a legitimate question in the moment…

My sister: But my surprise present is still safe??!

Me: well…I’m going to try to buy a brand new one, but if I can’t, I promise the present will be thoroughly sterilized and almost like new…minus any cardboard packaging because that was a lost cause. I was like, “For real?!? You know she already hates you, right? This is not going to help.”

My sister: lol. i can’t wait to see what this is. If it can be sterilized with *very minor* teeth marks, you shouldn’t buy another one!

Me: P.S. if you factor in a full moon and the nature of your present, his behavior almost makes sense. I think perhaps he chose your present last…maybe when the mailman came and triggered his kill mode and he was already on a nutella brownie sugar high.

My sister:  I like surprises. It sounds like you bought me a baby vampire for Christmas…

 

I’m glad Christmas is coming soon because it’s much harder to keep a baby vampire under wraps than I anticipated.

And, for those of you worried about dogs and chocolate, I don’t recommend feeding chocolate to your pets, but Deogi seems to be weathering it this time just fine — as a matter of fact he was acting like a 10 month old puppy instead of an 7 or 8 year old dog. He seems to have come down from his sugar rush and is striking a sleeping pose on the couch that looks something like this.

 

Living room…evolving

This may be one of my most poorly photographed posts in some time, but I cannot convince my camera to translate my soothing yellow walls into anything besides a sickly hue reminiscent of poorly stored photos from the 70s. Ah well, you’ll get the point of the project nonetheless.

I’m in the midst of some living room rearranging. For some time now, I’ve been using one of those laptop trays that slides under the couch because if I put my laptop into my lap for hours to grade I need to visit the chiropractor in no time flat and the laptop overheats, emits a death scream, and shows only wavy gray and white lines on the screen.

So, this tray works out fairly well. It keeps the laptop from overheating, but when guests come, I feel the need to shuffle it to the basement, and there’s not any room for a book beside the computer if I’m trying to research. It’s probably the last of college era type furniture in the room.

Plus, let’s face it. The final straw with this tray was when I had a Skype “first date,” and since I was nervous, I kept kicking the tray and jostling the computer while I was talking to the guy. The guy must have thought….well, I don’t know what he thought, but there was not a second date, so it couldn’t have been good. It’s probably disturbing to see a disembodied head bouncing around.

And, no, I do not always keep a box of cheese-its on the end table. Let’s call this photo series “my life unedited.”

So anyway, the tray was functional overall since I don’t have many Skype first dates (one in my entire life to be exact), but I spotted a coffee table on clearance at Wal-mart for $60. And, I snagged it and put it in my cart. And, then I talked myself out of it and put it back. But, a week later when I went back, it was still there. So, I had to make a decision. It came home with me. And, Sunday night, I took a time out from craziness to put the table together while I watched the Steelers game.

Ok, so now, you might be asking a few questions. The first one might be, “Yuck, why do all these photos have a sickly death pallor?” And, that one doesn’t count because I already told you. You might also wonder why I used the one with the dog in it. Well, if it’s going to be a bad photo, make it a really bad photo is my theory.

The next two questions might be more legitimate. First, why would I pay $60 for that table? I know, I know. I asked myself the same thing. Seriously, yard sales or Craigslist would have yielded a coffee table for $10 – – even $5 if I put on my game face and bargained

The second question would be, “Why is your coffee table slammed into your couch?”

Are you ready for this?

Bam! The tabletop lifts up and turns into a laptop stand — with storage too. Have my cheese its found a new home?

This little expandable feature won the day for the table. I got to thinking about how much it would cost simply to buy the hardware to expand a table top and realized it probably wouldn’t be cheap. Plus, there is that whole issue of me being terrified of circular saws that is putting a cramp in my furniture building mojo.

This project isn’t quite done because the table feels a little too high. So, I think the legs have to come off again. I’ll ask my dad to shave a few inches off the bottom. I don’t care if it’s more of an ottoman height when it’s closed. And, since it weighs about 50 pounds without cheese its stored in it, I want to add casters to it that will allow me to roll it from the couch to the center of the room. I don’t want these casters to break the bank since I’m already cringing at spending $60 on a table. I was thinking that something like factory cart wheels would be amazing, but they would probably break the bank. And, I suspect they wouldn’t truly make the table all that mobile since it would only move in a straight line. So, I should be more realistic and go with something with a ball bearing. I found these nice aged brass ones that would cost $13 (plus shipping) when all is said and done. I might take this search to ebay too when I get some breathing room in my schedule. And, if anyone has the insider scoop on furniture casters, give me a lead.

At the end of the day, I figure that since I sit on my couch just about every day to work on grading, emailing, blogging, eating, a decent surface to do all those things might not be the worst investment that I could make.

And, yes, that is a stack of fabric next to the computer. I haven’t touched a sewing machine in days. I might have to move the fabric because I think the intense desire to reach over, pat it and say, “I will try to make time to play with you soon” is getting a little pathetic.

Time to confess

Normally, when I’m done with a project, I’m feeling like I could strike a victory pose.

Mind you, I don’t always wear a headlamp as I strike the pose; that particular time it was just because I had to wriggle around under the dishwasher to complete my project.

But, tonight, it’s time to confess. It’s time to tell you about the seriously ridiculous discovery that I made after piecing my recent star surround quilt.

Yes, it’s the story that prompted this face instead.

That’s my I-cannot-believe-this face just in case you have a hard time interpreting my Friday evening self-portraiture attempts.

I’m not going to rehash the whole story since I wrote about the star surround complications before. Suffice it to say that I cut a piece of red fabric that I was not supposed to cut on the diagonal, which left the piece 1/4 inch too small on two sides once I sewed it back together. I rampaged through my scrap fabrics to try to find more red from the same dye lot.

I keep my fabric less than 1/2 yard in 3 primary locations:

1) Really small pieces get cut into either 2 inch squares for an eventual postage stamp project, 1 inch strips in case I want to make more book quilts, or 5 inch charms.

2) If the fabric doesn’t fit into any of the categories above but it’s small, I throw it into a general scrap box.

In my search for red, I checked both of those places. I only turned up postage stamps, not enough to fix my mistake.

Notice that I did not check location 3…

Instead, I ripped out many, many seams. Yeah, many seams. I definitely spent a couple hours ripping and trimming.

And, I got the quilt together eventually, and I love it.

Then, I saw the modern Christmas quilt along that I’m going to join. I was so excited that I decided I couldn’t go to sleep without rummaging through my scraps to see what I have on hand to make the quilt.

That’s when I checked out location 3.

I keep my sizable scraps in a filing cabinet drawer. They are organized by color and draped over the edge of file folders (thanks, Pinterest, you organizing guru). Take a close look at the middle of the picture. Yeah, the middle…in the red section.

You probably know where I’m going with this.

There was a whole 9×32 piece of the red I needed. That was enough to make multiple squares to replace the one I cut.

I was flabbergasted.  I guess I just saw the postage stamp sized red scraps in the crisis moment and figured that was all there was left to the fabric.

But, really, I think there is a bright, shiny lining to the cloud in this story. I have now created the best excuse EVER not to clean my sewing space. If anyone ever questions the mess, I can say, “Well, there was this one time that I got too aggressive about putting fabric away while working on a project…”

And, if any of you want to use my excuse for not cleaning your space, feel free. I’m glad to free you from the obligation that you might feel to clean instead of sew this weekend.

 

Refrigerator Ethics

Gr…I want to post about my quilted placemats, and I just can’t seem to get them done. Sigh… I’d be tempted to stay up late to finish them tonight, but I need to start adjusting my schedule so I’ll be ready to score high school exams in two weeks. I’ll be up at 6:30 am, so I can score from 8 – 5:30. Yes, 8 hours a day… for 7 days straight. I’m just going to keep telling myself that I’m going to have an awesome time with my roommate in the evenings and that I’m going to love coming home and buying a new oven without feeling guilty about the expenditure. Otherwise, I might be tempted to poke myself in the eye with a pencil before the week even gets started.
I’m still trying to clear up some school projects too, so I was at work today and realized that the fridge in the faculty break room has me absolutely stymied.

My current state of torment started with grape jelly.

Grape jelly is on the door of the faculty fridge, and it looks like my grape jelly — the brand I buy. But, I’m sure other faculty shop at Aldi’s too. But, I do seem to remember taking grape jelly in at some point, so I could have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches instead of just eating peanut butter off a spoon for lunch. Now, I don’t know if that is my grape jelly though.

And, here’s where I’m stymied. I can’t figure out the etiquette of the workplace fridge.

Sure, I could label my food. But, I don’t want to do that. We have an established order of business in our faculty break room. If food is in the fridge, it belongs to someone and is off limits unless it’s explicitly labeled for community consumption. If something is on the table in the center of the room, it’s ok to attack it and consume it like a ravenous lion that hasn’t eaten in a week. No one who has their wits about them would ever leave food they expect to see again on this table.

So, with this order established, I feel strange labeling my food in the fridge. I don’t want any colleagues reading this to get offended because this is a matter of personal preference. However, labeling food in our work fridge seems needlessly aggressive to me. If I were to scrawl “Jess” across my spinach and egg salad or my leftover eggrolls, I’d feel as if I were implicitly saying, “If I could chain a savage dog to this styrofoam container, then, heck, yeah, I’d do it. Keep your paws off my food.” But, we’re nice people. I don’t feel like I need a savage dog to guard my food.

On the other hand, if I don’t label my food, I’m left with the grape jelly conundrum. Is it mine? And, since we’re all nice people, that grape jelly could be in there for years if it’s mine. Because  no one else is going to touch it if it’s not theirs. I’m serious. They won’t. There is a frozen pot roast in the freezer with an expiration date of 2009. I’m pretty sure it’s mine. But, what if it’s not? I’d be throwing out someone’s pot roast, and even if I’d be saving a life because no one should eat frozen pot roast that has been expired for four years, something still feels wrong about doing it.

And, as I write this, I’m thinking I remembered that I left stuffed pepper soup in the fridge by my other office. Hm…I’d better check on that tomorrow because I’m not sure what stuffed pepper soup will smell like 4 years from now.

Still here…

Two days — that’s how close I am to wrapping up classes for the semester.

I had a horrific week last week — one of those kinds that I could only write about publicly if I had a pseudonym so anonymous and untraceable that I could do highly sensitive  undercover work with it. But, this week is leveling out. A few unexpected bumps cropped up along the way — like having to sub in for a prof this week. Fortunately, her class was scheduled to give presentations, so a video camera was all I needed to jump in as substitute. And, seeing her freshmen present on what they’ve learned in English class this semester has actually been fun.

The writing center has been abuzz with conversation about John Donne and secular and sacred poetry and last minute visits.

This is the time of the semester that my brain gets so overloaded that I think, “Is this essential right now?” If I answer no, there is a good chance that it’s waiting until next week. So, if you would come to my house, you’d see a thin film of dog hair on, well, everything. It’s be there waiting for me when I get around to it. My emails is stacking up, and hopefully, I’ve answered the essentials. Next week, I’ll try to set aside some concentrated time to deal with it. This shedding of the non-essentials is actually quite freeing. For now, I concentrate on breathing and pacing myself through grading – and coffee.

And this week, I’m mostly just thinking about cookies. Yep, I realized something the other day as I was in my office eating cookies for breakfast.

Don’t judge. I ate a banana too.

I realized that I have a food crush. Yes, an infatuation with Biscoff cookies. The feelings are hard to explain – as they so often are when in the throes of springtime love. So saying these cookies are addicting will have to suffice. I should ask the administrative assistant to ration them out to me so I don’t sit at my desk stuffing my face with them. But, she’s on vacation, so there is no one left to protect me from myself.

Don’t judge. I bought a Nutribullet this week and have consumed two smoothies full of spinach, carrots, and cucumbers…and more bananas.

Also, don’t judge. Of course, I did not pay $120 for the Nutribullet. I get Kohl’s coupons.

Anyway, back to those cookies. As my brain was paralyzed by overload, I sat in my office munching on my cookies and reading the packaging (because reading email would have been an overrated use of my time). And, I realized that Biscoff touts itself as the “airline cookie.” Huh…apparently these cookies are served on European airlines, and the airline patrons were so ga-ga over them, understandably so, that the company started selling them to people on the ground — people like me.

This led me to wonder if any other airline food has ever before in history managed to create excitement. Unlikely.

I’m also pondering why U.S. airlines can’t seem to come up with a crush worthy food. Also unlikely considering that some of the airlines still serve peanuts despite the fact that peanuts these days seem to make 99 out of every 100 people have some type of allergic reaction.

At any rate, thank you, European flyers, for making such a clamor over these cookies that they found their way to me, in my office, so I could eat them for breakfast.

After consultation with the Biscoff website, I’ve discovered that there are Biscoff cookies that are coated with chocolate. I want these intensely. But, I should probably pretend like I do not know that they exist.

Then you would have to judge me for eating the entire $28 package of 100 cookies — for breakfast. No banana.

Disclaimer: Biscoff didn’t pay me to say these nice things about their cookies. Really, this is about the best my brain can come up with for content, leading most of you to be glad that I only have two days of classes left as well.

Offer: Biscoff is more than welcome to sponsor this blog, a terrifying prospect for them I’m sure.

 

New word of the week

I particularly dislike it when people say OMG. It’s a little too close to dragging God’s name through the mud for me, so though I’m not a fan of cursing, I’d probably just prefer they straight up curse if that’s what they want to do. Then, I just know that perhaps “using their words” as we tell young kids to do is failing them in the moment.

With that said, I get why OMG has snuck into the our language, or at least, I have a hunch that is completely devoid of any empirical linguistic research evidence. Sometimes, we do just encounter an event that boggles us – we want to express dismay, disbelief, and  general shock. Maybe we are after all trying to tell God about it.

But, in light of the fact that I don’t want to use OMG and that cursing at my workplace is quite clearly frowned upon, I’d like to propose that “Oh, YKM!” move into our speech. I know to make it do so, I’ll have to reprogram the world to forget that in texting it’s become the substitute for “You’re killing me.” Because, instead, I’d like it to mean, “Oh, you’re kidding me!” Think about it. Wouldn’t “Oh, YKM!” be a great way to quickly express dismay, disbelief, and general shock when saying, “Oh, you’re kidding me!” would take too long or seem too harsh?

“Oh, YKM!”  I just realized I could have been using this phrase all week.

For example, when I came home after the Monday to beat all Mondays and found a dead mouse in the trap by the couch, I could have sighed loudly and said, “Oh, YKM!”  as I slumped my shoulders in despair.

Or, when that crazy driver was in a super rush to pull out in front of me a few day ago and then determined to drive about five miles per house, I could have shaken my hand at the windshield saying, “Oh, YKM!”

Or, when my email inbox topped 800 — again — I could have just curled up under my desk whimpering, “Oh, YKM.” No, actually, the full, “Oh, you’re kidding me” would work better in that situations.

Or, last week, when I fell through one of the holes in my walkway with such a lack of grace that my shoes flew off, I grasped to the fence for dear life, and I found myself standing barefoot in a mound of loose dirt, I could have said, “Oh, YKM!”

Yes, I’m liking this new expression. The next time life serves up an order of crazy with a side of chaos, I’m going to use it.

My own little cake wreck…

I learned this weekend that it’s best for me to not try to make Easter themed food. Last year, I made the creepy deviled egg chicks that the family was squeamish about eating — and understandably so.

This year, not wishing to let that tradition of food gone terribly away die, I made a cake – the ugliest cake ever. My mom and grandma wanted me to try to replicate the buttercream icing from the birthday cakes that we used to get from the Catonsville Bakery. I mean, it was really no big thing that they were asking for since the last time I had that icing was when I was….oh….five. And, then I ate the smallest bit, scraped it off my cake, and gave it to an adult. I wasn’t a fan, but I would have been happy if I could have replicated the icing for them. I told my mom I wasn’t going to go all out on the decorating because it’s been about two and a half years since I decorated a cake. That  one turned out ok for the most part though the monkeys could have used a little work.

But, my mom told me that if the icing was the right kind everyone would want roses on their slice of cake, so they could have more icing. I wasn’t even good at making roses when I was practicing them, so I knew making them after such a long break from decorating would be a disaster. I figured that instead I could do Easter eggs on the cake. How hard could they be?

Uh…they are very hard to make. And, yes, those are supposed to be Easter eggs. This cake shall go down in the family history as the little bunny doo doo cake for what should be fairly obvious reasons.

Ah, well. Sometimes creativity is risky. If I’m going to attempt something next Easter, I’d better start a rigorous training program by the Fourth of July to prepare.

Blogging in my Dreams

On Saturday, I slept in. Like really slept in. I went to bed around 2 or 3 am and slept until after 11. I half opened my eyes, and the dog came and laid down next to me because he loves sleep in mornings. They mean I’ll lay there and pet him for a bit instead of jumping up to get the day started. I then fell back to sleep. Finally, I woke up after 12 and put the dog out (what a good dog to wait all that time). We curled up back in bed, and I read a short mystery story. Then, I went back to bed until after 2. Oh, those kinds of Saturdays are sometimes very welcome.

In all that sleeping, I was bound to dream. I had a dream that I was walking in New York City. For some reason, I was carrying a very, very heavy bag with me. I walked to the far reaches of the city for no apparent reason, and then I turned around and started to hoof my way back across the city. Again, I have no idea what I was accomplishing. Maybe this was symbolic of my rather non-productive Saturday.

As I was trudging through the city with this heavy bag, I remember coming across huge escalators, and somehow they were a shortcut to where I needed to go (even though I didn’t know where I was going). So, I rode the escalators to the top and found that I was confronted with a giant sliding board that curved all around like a water park slide. That was the only option; I couldn’t go back down the escalators, so I had to take the slide. I was dreading it with that heavy cumbersome bag, but I made it down the slide.

The slide deposited me in a very, tiny cramped space with no exit except for two PVC pipes about 4 inches across. (Maybe I should have played less Super Mario Brothers as a child.) I was highly distressed in the dream because I had no idea how I was going to get my body stuffed inside the pipes to get out, and I knew I was going to have to leave my bag behind.

Here’s the most bizarre part of the dream — as if the rest of the dream wasn’t bizarre enough. The slide ended in  a mass of  circular curls, and I thought to myself, “I need a picture of that, so I can describe this on my blog.” I took out a camera and was trying to maneuver all around the small room to get a good angle for the picture.  I consciously shoved aside my panic and told myself to get the picture and then worry about how to get out. Then, I woke up.

I’ve always told people that being a blogger changes my perspective on life because it makes me pay attention to stories. I just don’t think it’s ever invaded my dreams before.

Mouse in the House

Clearly, Dr. Seuss did not ever struggle with actual rodents invading his living space. No person could fight that battle and find it fun to make rhymes about such events. Lest my readers think I’m overly dramatic about such events, perhaps some history lessons would help. Here are some of my animal encounters. Let’s see, there was the bat in the living room, the time that I thought there was  dead possum under the deck, the time that there was actually a dead possum under the deck (and a dead squirrel on the stairs…and in the trash can), and the epic mouse battle of 2009.

And, now the mice are back. I suspected as much two nights ago when I heard noises from behind the coat tree in the dining room and then had to coax the dog away from that corner where he had his nose planted up against the coat rack. Then, last night the noises returned behind the coat tree and seemed to then move into the living room under the love seat, which is entirely too close for comfort, especially after someone at work told me about the time that a mouse ran up her pant leg and bit her while she squeezed it to death. She’s a very truthful individual; she was not reciting an urban legend.

Today, I went to Walmart and stocked up on traps. I got some of those nifty little ones that trap the mouse and keep it dead in a little black disk, so I don’t even have to see it. That’s my first line of defense, but I’ve got two back up plans if they fail. I’m so freaked out though now that I’ve been on the shopping excursion because there was a rat trap. It was so big, and this mouse is so noisy. My imagination took of like an Olympic 100 yard dash runner, and I could just picture having to deal with a rat the size of a small household cat.

I hope the mouse dies soon. It’s causing tension between the dog and I. I’ve told him about 10 times to get out of the dining room, so the mouse will come out and go into the trap. Deogi got miffed about that and went upstairs. Of course, he thought he was being all sly in coming back down and slinking into the dining room 5 minutes later as if I couldn’t hear  the bottom five stairs creaking.

If he could talk, here’s the conversation we would have had two nights ago:

Me: Deogi, it’s time for bed.

Deogi: I’m staring at the coat rack.

Me: Deogi, stop.

Deogi: I don’t hear you.

Me: Let’s go to bed.

Deogi: I’m staring at the coat rack.

Me: Bed. Now.

Deogi: You hear me.

Deogi: I’m staring at the coat rack.

Me: RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Deogi: Fine

And, here’s how the conversation would have gone last night while he was on the couch next to me, staring intently at the middle of the living room floor.

Me: What are you staring at?

Deogi: I’m concentrating.

Me: Seriously, your eyes are bugging out of your head. You’re freaking me out.

Deogi: Freaking you out?

Me: Yes.

Deogi: You’re the fruit loop here. You’re the one whose been moving your laptop stand and power cord around for the past 30 minutes like it’s under attack.

Me: I feed you.

Deogi: I know, but you’re still annoying me with your paranoia.

Me: Well, you’re confirming my paranoia by staring at the floor.

Deogi: Stop worrying. I’ll eat the mouse.

Me: You’ll get rabies or the bubonic plague.

Deogi: It will taste good.