Mouse traps, in a house with this many cats?

Part of our weekend plans will involve setting mouse traps in the house. We have four cats, yet we still have mice in the house. I find this disappointing. I have accepted that they will never do the dishes, vacuum, get a job or even pick up after themselves, but to not fulfill a role that is so clearly theirs seems like a violation of our social contract.

Two of our cats are outdoor kitties - Fingers and Friendly. Fingers is a Hemingway cat and has massive thumbs on his front paws and Friendly is, well, really friendly. One of these two regularly kills mice outside, eats the head and top half of the torso, and leaves the bottom half as a gift for us on the edge of the driveway. As G's mom says, it's nice that they leave the part with a handle. It is nice.
G and I guess that the outdoor hunter is Fingers. We may be wrong - if we were guessing between the indoor kitties, Stripe and Morgana, we'd guess Stripe and we'd be wrong. I've seen Stripe help in the hunt, but to my knowledge, only Morgana caught the three or four bats that came in at one house, and Morgana's brought me a mouse before. But not Stripe.
Of course, having seen the mouse in the laundry room the other day and then seeing Morgana stalking in there, I assumed I'd soon be dealing with indoor kitty gifts any time now.
No. Yesterday afternoon I stepped into the kitchen and had clear site into the laundry room, where Morgana lay comfortably in the doorway, watching the mouse scurry around on the laundry floor. She watched, but made no effort to attack it. Only once it had disappeared into it's hiding spot did she get up and look around, appearing somewhat dejected that the toy was gone.
If that had happened in the basement, where the outdoor kitties have access, I'm betting I'd have a dead mouse or two.
And Stripe? Stripe still hasn't shown any signs of even noticing a mouse in the laundry room. She's too busy lounging in front of the fire these days.

And hence, the need for mouse traps in a house with four cats.

English (pirate)

I switched my language preference on Facebook to English (pirate) some time ago, and am finally beginning to get the translations so that I can navigate again. For a while, that really slowed me down.

Now I've begun to look for English (pirate) in other places. G was setting up his new computer last night. When he got to the language section and was selecting English, I was asking for English (pirate) and was genuinely disappointed that the new Windows 7 doesn't have it.

Which makes me think that Apple should make it an option in the next OS. And they're actually cool enough to do it, IMHO.

I watched G fight with that PC and Windows 7 (he's still fighting with them, actually), and all I could think was "thank goodness I have a Mac." It's not perfect, but it's a good beast. Mostly.

But it's gonna be pretty cool when I can switch the OS language preference to English (pirate). Apple is possibly working on it already. If not, someone mention the idea to them. I want English (pirate).

Money

I am talking with G about what I'd like to spend some of the soon-to-be unemployment money on. He is listening and nodding, but interrupts me to say, "You don't have to justify any purchases with me, you know." I pause and say "Well, I'm maybe not justifying, per se - they're reasonable expenditures - but letting you know that I plan to spend money on these items. Like you let me know about buying the computer stuff." "Well, yeah," he says, protesting slightly, "But that's our money - Oooh. Right." "Right," I say with a smile, "It's our money."

Creme Brulée

I am covering the custard layer of creme brulée with sugar as he watches in anticipation.
"How long does creme brulée take?" he asks.
"Just long enough to make the sugar melt together to form a hard crust on top." I answer as I place the ramekin under the broiler.
"Ahh," he says knowingly, nodding his head. After a brief pause he asks, "How long does creme brulée take?"

New Posts Coming - Really.

I've taken a few posts down - ones that dealt with that sociopath, mainly - as so much has changed in my life in such a short time, that I keep forgetting that the sociopath was part of my life, and I'm not interested in remembering.
So, those posts are gone.
I've got a few posts that I'm working on, mainly about the roofing expedition of mine and G's, and I'll be putting those up in the coming week. You might be thinking that the roofing posts will bore you. Pshaw. You think the roofing posts are really going to be about the roof? No, of course not. They're about the relationship. We may have replaced the roof, but we built something way bigger in the process, and I don't think he or I had a clue we were going to do that. Let me just say this - if G and I weren't good for each other, if we didn't have a great relationship happening, we would not have survived the roof job as a couple. No way. *That* was intense. And probably the best investment of my time, energy and effort so far in my life. Good stuff.
I talked with G and we decided it works for us if I take up the November novel writing challenge, so hopefully I'll get through the first draft of the novel I've had knocking around in my head for years now. I anticipate blogging a bit more during that phase, too, since, if I have trouble working on the novel, I plan on blogging instead or at least progressing a few potential posts.
As you can read, it's my hope to provide a bit more content here by the coming year. It was my intent last year, too, but hey, Rome wasn't built in a day. I said that not so long ago to G and he said "No, but it did come down pretty fast." I'm just glad we weren't talking about the roof or our relationship at that time. I'd have had to wonder about that.

Ginger

From the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I remove several fingers of ginger root.
“What’s that?” asks G, looking at the beige segmented cluster inquisitively.
“Ginger.” I reply, holding it out for his closer inspection.
“How long has she been dead?” he asks with incredulity.

Two Months

“Yeah, you don’t seem to be thinking ‘I wish she’d go home’ about me,” I say to G as we talk over dinner on the two month anniversary of my moving in with him.
“Oh, I think that a lot, actually,” he says casually, “but only when I’m at home and you’re not.”

Nevermind

We return in my car to his workplace, where his motorcycle is, on the industrial side of town after dinner and socializing downtown. He goes into work to get his helmet and leather jacket while I leave for home, having agreed we’ll meet there. I head east on Hall Street, to the 131 North onramp and hop on the freeway. I cruise along at 82 mph, a rate that is somewhat above the limit, true - it’s a beautiful summer evening, and I’m feeling good.

I take the I-96 interchange and head west into the sunset, thinking about G. We take a couple minutes to watch the sun set together most nights, and it pleases me to know that he is some miles behind me in traffic, seeing the same sunset, and that he is probably thinking much the same.

I am a few miles away from my exit when I notice a motorcycle approaching from behind at a fairly good clip. I know that it cannot be G, because I have been traveling at 82 mph continuously, and he’d have to be going quite fast to catch up with me, considering the late start and all. Quite fast. At the rate the motorcycle behind me has been traveling, I expect it to pass me fairly soon. When it does not, I check on it in my rearview mirror. It’s keeping time with me now, oddly enough.

I take my exit, as does the motorcyclist, and by now, I can tell that it is G. I start to wonder how fast he was going to catch up with me, and ponder this the last few miles home. We pull into the drive together, I get out of my car, and start towards the pole barn where he parks the motorcycle. As he emerges, my first words to him are, “How the hell fast were you going that you managed to catch up with me?”

He grins widely and says “I was ONE light cycle behind you - how the hell fast were YOU going that it took me over 20 miles to catch up with you?”

Oh.

Right.

Nevermind.

Grilling at home with G

G is about to start the grill, and asks how much chicken we're grilling, so he can gauge how much charcoal to use. I look over the three of everything from the pick-of-the-chick package and answer, "About one and a half chickens".

He is silent a moment and then asks, "Metric or English?"

And that's one of the things I love about our home - we both laugh a lot.

Day 12 in the Country

Today, I set out to mow the lawn early in the day, before it got too hot. I hopped on the mower, and got to work. I started to round the fire pit, and had to go around the bush that G had pulled into the yard with the truck and the chain days before.
I got in close to the bush. The grass was tall.
The grass hid the chain. (See Day 8 in the Country post.)
Wow. Did hitting the chain ever stop the riding mower fast. And hard.
I threw in the clutch and the brake, disengaged the mower, put it in neutral, and thew the key to off, not that it was running at that point, anyway.
I spent the next two hours outside in full sun with my arms under the mower (I know, I know, I know) trying to get the chain unwrapped from the blades. The blades didn't bend (much), but it has to have damaged them a little. Once I finally got the chain free, I got the mower started again. It runs. It cuts. All good.
Except for the nicks in the blade from a frickin' huge chain.
I'm a little tempted to not mention it to him, as he might get pissed at himself for the chain being in the lawn, but it's not like I wasn't there when the chain was deposited in the lawn, so I SHOULD have known it was there. I blame me. And so, I don't want to not tell him, as I want to come clean on it.
And all this is skipping the Day 11 in the Country post, which was really just a bit too much of a day for me. It included cats escaping the house, aerial antennas, and other interesting events that I may, or may not, muster the strength to post.

Day 8 in the Country

It is hot and humid, and G and I are discussing the air conditioners, and which windows to install them. His preference in the master bedroom is a window blocked by a large thorny bush. Because of the thorns, G hates the bush, and dreads installing the air conditioner. However, the other window is over a slope, and is difficult to reach, at best. I mention how a chain and a truck could probably rip that bush out in minutes. I see a light turn on in his eyes. Five minutes later, he has a chain wrapped around the bush and attached to the tow hook of the truck. He is excited. He hops in the truck, backs up some, and then goes forward, swiftly giving the bush a yank. It lifts some, but does not quite leave the ground. He backs up and then gives it another swift yank. It nearly frees from the ground. He stops and backs up again. “You can probably just go now - it’s pretty much free but it’ll come out with just a little tug.” I say. “Oh, I know,” he says with a grin, “but I want to see it fly.” He gives it another swift yank, and it leaps from the ground behind the truck. G keeps going, across the drive, into the side yard, behind the pole barn to the fire pit. He stops the truck there, releases the chain. He is still grinning.

Good fun.

Homeward Bound

G left with my stuff this evening.

It was an odd feeling to watch him pull away, all my stuff in the bed of the truck or the small Uhaul trailer behind. Part of me wished the stuff was just gone, that I was unburdened from it all, that I could just pick up and go, let the wind push me which way it might.

But then I realized that much as I don’t care about the stuff and whether I ever see any of it again, I want to see the man driving the truck away again. Again and again.

So, west I’ll go, to G.

G left earlier than he normally would on a Sunday, both of us knowing it was the last weekend that one of us would leave, and that I’ll be home to stay on Thursday of this week. Those are the words I used, “I’ll be home on Thursday.” He didn’t skip a beat in replying, “I’ll see you at home on Thursday, then.”

That’s a big word: home. He knew what I was saying when I used it, and he knew what he was saying when he replied with it.

I spoke with J on the phone earlier this evening. She’s still in limbo in Ohio with the family farm up for sale, not knowing if it will sell or if it won’t, if she’ll come back for her teaching job or won’t. The not knowing is hard on her. I can understand.

That’s where I’ve been for a long while, too. When S said he was selling the house now instead of in two more years like the original agreement, or even next year like the revised agreement from this March, it killed me to not know what I was doing, and where I’d do it from.

G immediately offered his home, but I couldn’t just agree to that. We’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for only three months, even if we’d known each other a year and a half. To me, that felt powerless, it felt like running to a man to ‘save me’ and I couldn’t work with that idea. I had to find a way to take care of myself without relying on him.

So I said no, and explained my reasons. G accepted them, and let it go. As I continued to stress over how and where I’d live, I found myself repeatedly coming back to why I couldn’t live with him. I looked into my other options, found some, and chose to go with those, even though they weren’t a great choice for me, the cats, or for the others I’d be staying with. But it would have worked, and still will, if I need it to. They’re family: If I need them, they’ll be there for me.

But if I was going to rely on them, why wouldn’t I rely on G? Wasn’t he also a friend, also family?

And then there was that conversation with G, in which he asked “You have choices, and you’re choosing one which will be harder on you, but you’re sure it’s NOT a commitment issue?” As G expected, I couldn’t answer that. I had to reconsider what I was doing and why, and the only reason I could come up with to not live with him, was fear. And as A pointed out, I wouldn’t want to be making my choices from there.

There are still so many questions for me in this move, so much to live my way into the answers on, but where to be in the here and now, where to call home, I finally have figure out. And I’m grateful. Not just for a place to call home, but for the reason I would call it home: G.

I couldn’t walk away from him. Even if he didn’t have all my stuff.

come live with me

“S just accepted an offer on the house,” I say while standing on G's back deck in the afternoon light. He is in the yard, shoveling fifteen cubic yards of dirt for me, for my vegetable garden, while I get started cooking dinner on the grill. “I have thirty days to get out.”

“Good - you’ll be moving in here soon then,” he says, stopping a moment to grin at me.

Later, as he is taking a break on the deck, each of us with a beer in hand, I ask, “You’re really okay with me moving in?” “Yeah,” he says, “I have been for a while. It’s you that’s needed time with it.”

I know that he is right, but it stumps me, regardless, that this relationship is real and really happening; that it's not a trick of the light, an illusion. Abruptly, he drops his shoe to the deck and says, “There - the other shoe dropped. Nothing’s changed,” looking at me sideways with a benevolent grin.

This man has been and continues to be, more than I could have ever dared dream for. How he knows what to say, when to say it, and when to shut up and wait for me to think it through, I don’t know. But somehow, he knows, and soon enough I'm putting myself where I said I would not put myself again.

Mystifies me.

When S and I finally split for good in 2008, I was sure I wouldn’t want to have a boyfriend again until the summer of 2009 at the earliest. I also knew I wanted to see G again, as I’d been attracted to him when he and I met the first time S and I split in 2007.

Fall of 2008, I was open with G that I wanted to see him, but that he could only be my gentleman friend at that time, not my boyfriend. I didn’t want to be in a commitment - just dating. He was fine with that.

I asked him to be my boyfriend two dates later. It was January of 2009.

And, to be honest, brutally honest, I was sure I’d never let G be my boyfriend, because he lived too far away. I knew I’d never leave Ann Arbor, so why get involved with someone from out of town?

Everything is different when it comes to G.

So, here I go again, willingly, where I said I would not go, doing what I said I would not do.

My to-do list for the day, in the spirit of my friend, A:

job interview
finish newsletter
blog
do dishes
clean house
do laundry
love Greg
pack boxes
write
drink semi-heavily

I'm looking forward to some of these things more than others, as you can imagine. And, yeah, I am counting this entry as blogging for the day. It's better than the usual nothing!

Even a Blind Squirrel...

I was telling G about a comment a family member made, which I found a bit irritating in its misjudgment of me, when I announced to him that I should always do the opposite of this persons advice. Then I realized its one of the people who thinks I should move in with G. Telling him this, I added, "Maybe I won't do the opposite on that one," and he said "Well, yeah - even a blind squirrel sometimes finds a nut."
Not only is he on my side, but he's funny, too.

Freak Out at the Helm

“I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this - you’ve been at the helm since you were five. You’re clearly capable of weathering this. I don’t understand why you’re in doubt of yourself.” And, of course, he’s right: I have been at the helm since I was five, and I am quite capable of captaining this ship through this storm.

I want to tell him why, that it’s never too late to sink the ship - never too late - but instead I just smile and say nothing, choosing to let him live his way into the answer on his own.

La Fin du Monde

“La Fin du Monde?” he asks, examining the label on the bottle of beer he’s just opened. Upon reading the alcohol content he teases “Nine percent? Are you trying to get me naked?” “We split a 750 milliliter bottle of La Fin du Monde on a date, and I did get you naked,” I reply confidently. “Oh,” he says, looking back at the bottle, “It works then. Good,” and takes a long swig.

Under the Category of: I Knew That

Tuesday morning I woke to find the house cold. I wandered up to the living room to check the thermostat and read 57 °F, well enough below the set point for the heat to have come on. It shouldn’t have gotten that cold. I could hear the circulation pump running, but when I put my hands on the radiators, they were cool, not warm or hot. I wandered downstairs, grabbing the long lighter as I went. We’d lost power the night before, and since it’s hot water heat with its own tank, the pilot can go out and yet continue circulating hot water - for a while, anyway.
I opened the boiler panel, then the pilot/burner door and propped the little door open with its hook. Moving the ignitor lever over to the ‘pilot’ set point, I re-lit the pilot and watched that it stayed lit. Satisfied, I then moved the ignitor lever over to ‘furnace’, wanting to make sure that the pilot stayed lit once there, too. A half second later, I hear the jets on the burner, a one foot by one foot plate, just inches beyond the pilot light, open. Just as I think “Oh, shit, the burner’s gonna -” a small fireball erupts from the door as the burner ignites. I hold perfectly still - something I learned in my first fireball incident: Never pull away from an imminent fireball - it just comes with you. More on that lesson another time.
Anyway, a half second more and the fireball is gone, and I think calmly “I was supposed to turn the heat down at the thermostat before I did this... I knew that.”
I appear to have singed a few of the hairs on my right thumb, but absolutely no other sign of fire damage on me.
Some of you may argue otherwise. That’s what the comments section is for.

The Taoist Farmer, or "Maybe"

There was once a Taoist farmer. One day, the Taoist farmer’s only horse broke out of the corral and ran away. The farmer’s neighbors, all hearing of the horse running away, came to the Taoist farmer’s house to view the corral. As they stood there, the neighbors all said, “Oh, what bad luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”

About a week later, the horse returned, bringing with it a whole herd of wild horses, which the Taoist farmer and his son quickly corralled. The neighbors, hearing of the corralling of the horses, came to see for themselves. As they stood there looking at the corral filled with horses, the neighbors said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”

Soon after, the Taoist farmer’s son broke his leg taming one of the wild horses. The farmer’s neighbors, all hearing of the son breaking his leg, came to the Taoist farmer’s house to see him. As they stood there, the neighbors all said, “Oh, what bad luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”

At that same time, in China, there was a war going on between two rival warlords. The warlord of the Taoist farmer’s village was involved in this war. In need of more soldiers, he sent one of his captains to the village to conscript young men to fight in the war. When the captain came to take the Taoist farmer’s son, he found a young man with a broken leg who was delirious with fever. A few days later, the son’s fever broke. The neighbors, hearing of the son’s not being taken to fight in the war and of the return to good health, all cam to see him. As they stood there, each one said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”

A Gift from Stripe

I’ve been away a few weekends lately, and haven’t been around to scoop the litterbox daily. Stripe is rather particular about the litter box, preferring it be scooped twice daily, but she’ll tolerate the weekends, and respectfully use the box.
On a recent weekend, however, I neglected to scoop the boxes when I returned home, and let the chore go an extra day, perhaps even two. Stripe rebelled. She pooped next to the box, just to let me know what she thought of the situation. Then, she grabbed anything in the vicinity to try and cover it up, which is funny, because that’s something she’s really inept at when she actually poops in the box.
Their litter boxes are under the stairs in the basement, and apparently the previous occupants of my home used that area for their gift wrap storage.
When I finally went to scoop, I found a small pile of poop with a large gold bow on it.

Thank you, Stripe.

Absenteeism

I have not been blogging. There are perhaps three of you who read this, and so the fact I've not been blogging may have gone largely unnoticed in the world. Regardless, I feel the need to explain.

I have been distracted. The distraction is male, caucasian, six foot one, dark haired, blue/hazel eyes, handsome, has a heart of gold (which he'll modestly deny) and is everything I would have wanted had I ordered him from Amazon. Yeah - it's been pretty good stuff, and we all know that's normally what I'd be all about in my writing.

If you know me, you already know I'm extroverted. Even if you don't know me, most folks with a blog fall into the extrovert category on some level. But only some of you know my introverted side - which is as strong and dominant as the extroversion. Just take a look at my Meyers-Briggs scores, and you'll see I've no middle ground on this one. I'm either an open book, or I'm not.

We are apparently in 'Not' mode.

Despite the fact that I have been filled with thoughts, have been writing, have even started a few blogs posts, I have nothing to say here. Really, I don't. Maybe it's that there's still so much to process, so much unnamed yet. Maybe it's that I want to protect him from my extroversion. Maybe I just don't kiss and tell. Maybe I'm still struggling with the idea that this is a bit fairy-tale for me. I'm used to the Grimm brothers, or at least Aesop's fables. I'm not used to stories that hint at happy endings. I may even be mildly intimidated by such a concept.

Not that intimidation has ever stopped me. Intimidating situations attract me, actually. If I'm intimidated, there must be something to learn, and that is how I start most of my adventures in life. I like adventure.

And, this is an adventure, and a damn good one at that. No idea how it will turn out. Isn't that exciting? I find it exciting.

Whatever the reason I've not been able to write about this, I think I'm done trying to publish anything about it here. In time, I may find things suitable to post. For now, I intend to enjoy my distraction and, apparently, keep it all to myself. Sue me.

It may happen, then, that I'm still absent from this a while yet, but it's my goal to get back to blogging daily or near daily. I hope you'll stick around to read what comes in the next week or so. There is really a lot to mention, even if I'm taking the man off the table as a subject. There's Mr. Bi-polar and my 911 call last week, there's the car, there's MARVIN who refuses my calls on Tuesdays because he is busy, amazingly high heating bills, and thoughts on the 83rd problem in life, known to buddhists as the problem of not wanting any problems.

So. See you later this week.

Stephen Craig

I have tried to write about you and your death so many times in the year since you passed, and have been unable to. The words come out wrong. They don’t mean anything, they don’t say anything.

Stephen, it is so hard to miss you as badly as I do. It is so hard. There are so many things that I wish could be different. I wish you’d never been born with a bad heart, that you’d never had diabetes, that you’d never faced amputation of your legs versus death, that you’d have never chosen to die without letting us know.

It took me six months to stop saying that I’d give anything for you to still be alive. Once I realized what you’d have had to give up for that to have been possible, I found it easier to accept. For you to be alive today, now, you would have had to have your legs amputated, at the hip, and you never wanted to live like that, having seen grandad suffer that way. But it’s still hard. It was so unexpected for all of us Stephen. Dave, me, Melanie, your kids. None of knew what you were facing medically, and none of us knew you’d made the choice to die until you were gone.

And, on some levels, I have to thank you for hiding the truth, for flat out lying to Dave and I. You weren’t taking your insulin. You left everything here in Michigan when you left for the kids in Texas. Everything. Your testing equipment, your needles, your insulin. You had none of it in your truck, in your bags. But you told David you were testing and taking your insulin. You flat out lied. And I thank you for that. Because you were right - neither Dave nor I could have kept from asking you to have the amputation. We would have been selfish. And you would have yielded to us, out of your love for us. I could not live with the guilt of that today, and so I thank you for sparing me, for sparing David, and yourself, from what you had said so many times you could never live with. How many times did I hear you say that you’d die before you let that happen to you? So, I understand. You’d have done it for us, and that would have been wrong. For our little family of stubborn, willful, obstinate, independent SOB’s, that would have been wrong.

But you must understand that I hate it. I hate that I never said goodbye to you. I hate that when Ruth insisted on taking you to a hospital, and they’d stabilized you, that you said you were way too sick to die, and I BELIEVED YOU. Like a damn fool. Why didn’t I say goodbye then, just in case? Why didn’t I leave for Texas then to see you? Did I even remember to tell you I loved you? On the one hand, I know that you know that, but on the other hand, did you know that? Did you know how much I loved you? Respected your crotchety, grumpy, smug ass? Did you know? Do you know now?

Overall, your death was as close to having come at your own hands as I care to ever see anyone I love get. Suicide is such a selfish thing to do. But in this case, it was going to be either your selfishness, or ours, and I thank you that I don’t have to carry the weight of my own selfishness when I think of you. I carry instead the loss of one of the most important people, one of the most important men I have ever had in my life, and it hurts like hell. But if losing you and grieving is the cost of having loved you, I’d love you twice as hard in a ‘do-over’ knowing I’d hurt twice as hard now. Gladly.

You are worth every fucking tear I shed, Stephen. Every fucking one. Thank you for having loved me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank you for the trust that you, I and Dave shared. Thank you for everything you ever taught me. Thank you for being my brother. I will miss you, your wisdom, your smart-ass mouth and mind, for the rest of my life.

Rest in peace, Stephen Craig. I love you. I always have, and I always will.