To a Mousie

I live adjacent to a farm field. Each year about this time, the farmer harvests his crop. Some years, it’s corn, some years it’s soy, once in a while, it’s something more exotic – wheat, maybe. After the harvest, the field is littered with missed crop. Ears and kernels of corn scatter the field. Or soybean pods are scattered about willy nilly. Invariably, however, the field is picked clean by the next morning. It’s the mice. The strip the field clean, storing provisions for the hard winter ahead.

Once their winter dining is assured, they search about for a warm place to sleep. Someplace protected from the elements. Someplace with fluffy bedding materials, and an out-of-the-way location. Someplace where the sun will bake down, warming their days. Someplace like my attic.

The first autumn we lived in the house, we began to hear sounds coming from our vaulted ceiling. Tiny footsteps would scamper along the ceiling for a few moments, then the sound of tiny sliding feet would be heard. The mice had arrived, and turned out attic into a playground. The time had come to investigate.

The hatch to the attic was in the Master Bedroom closet. Brilliant, really. By placing it there, the architect ensured that anyone entering the attic would send a shower of blow-in fiberglass insulation onto our clothing. I draped the closet contents with old sheets and climbed up, adding this to the lengthening list of reasons I hate the architect of my home, whomever he or she may be. After prying open the attic hatch, I climbed into the darkness. My questing flashlight beam located a single lightbulb nailed to the rafter above me. I pulled the string.

A veritable mousie wonderland was revealed. The blown-in insulation had been crafted by mouse-engineers into a plethora of tunnels, their openings leering darkly at me from the yellow fluff. Here and there, scattered droppings lay. One thing was clear, I was on their turf. They hadn’t noticed me yet, but it was surely only a matter of time. I had a vision of the mice climbingturning in unison and rushing me, burying me in their furry little biting and scratching bodies. My heart beat fast as climibng back down the ladder, carefully (oh, ever so carefully) reseating the attic hatch.

Over the years since, packet upon packet of rodent poison has been applied to the attic, and the sounds of playing mice are no longer heard. Dad helped me install a drop down ladder in the bedroom so that the attic could be accessed without spilling fiberglass insulation all over our clothes. We built a platform to give us a bit of storage space, and we re-located the light to a more convenient spot. Everything was looking good - until this past weekend.

That’s when I noticed the smell. It was subtle at first, just a whiff. Had I stepped in something? Was the neighbor’s dog playing with roadkill? Did my shoes really smell that bad? No obvious source presented itself, and I dismissed it. The next day, it was worse, and I asked The Wife if she could smell it, then TheGirl. Both were unsure, thinking maybe they smelled something.
As the days passed, the odor intensified, until everyone could smell it. After two more days of the odor intensifying, the odor was undeniable. It was the smell of a carcass rotting in the wall of our bedroom closet. A mouse carcass. They'd found a way to get their revenge.

We determined that we'd have to track down the beast and cut it's wee corpse from the wall. Two days later, I still haven't done it. When the smell was at its strongest, I shuddered to think what it would be like once I cut open the tomb. I've been known to gag at the thought of spoiled milk, and this leaves that smell in the dust. But now, the smell seems to be fading. It's still there, but a fan in the closet during the day helps to disperse it, and a bit of febreeze is keeping our clothes fresh-smelling. I think this may be one of those situations where procrastination pays off. I don't have to bear the full brunt of the smell, and I don't have to handle the liquefying corpse. It's a win-win.

Uh oh...

I'm home right now, waiting a few more minutes before heading to my Dr. appointment. I've been a bit nervous about this weekend. TheWife is off to a reunion, and I'm home with the kids. TheGirl will be no problem, but TheBoy is suffering and cranky. He's got some sort of small sores in his mouth. Of course, the doc's office says he doesn't need to come in unless he's got a fever... which he doesn't, yet. Add to this that the new neighbors (let's call them the North Neighbors_ are having a BBQ to which we've been invited. For normal humans, this is a nice thing. For me, totally stressful to attend without my socialization- support net - also known as TheWife.
In any case, socializing with the neighbors may be the least of my problems this weekend. TheWife just called from the car as she was leaving for work. The neighbor's are having a Port-o-let delivered. Man, oh man. This looks like it's going to be some party! Fortunately, both of the kids can sleep through just about anything. And if it looks like fun, maybe I'll see what the range is on that baby monitor...

Springtime!

A few days ago, the witchhazel near the building where I work went into bloom. Spring is in the air... literally! It's one of the earliest bloomers, and it has a scent reminiscent of ... lilacs and old ladies? Normally, I'd hate the smell, but with my cabin fever burning at full tilt, I'll take any bit of spring I can get. So, a branch of witchhazel (cut sureptitiously from the seriously overgrown bush I pass on the way from my car) now adorns my desk.

Witchhazel has the damndest little flowers, too. Strange, tiny yellow or red streamers that curl up in cold weather and unfurl when it warms. And the seed pods are little grenades, launching the shiny black seeds up to [insert unconfirmed internet-derived distance here]! Pretty cool. If only the bushes didn't look so much like formless blobs, I might plant one in my yard.

Speaking of which. Autumn's experiment of planting zone 6 trees in my yard seems to have been a dismal failure. I distinctly remember asking myself "After all, how many days below -10F have there been since we moved in?" Four or five months later, here I sit with major winterkill and one poor little Willow Oak that may not even have a single living branch. Oh well, if you aren't killing plants, you aren't growing as a gardener, right?

Exultation!

OK, time for personal disclosure. In spite of my ninja-like internet search abilities* and general ease on the web, I have until this month.... never cracked my case. Yes, loyal readers, The Fishmonger has feared the interior of his computer. Until today. Yes, today I installed a replacement fan. Computer jocks who swap drives and whatever else in and out of their case will be unimpressed. But I am filled with (spongy) pride, for I have successfully seen to the needs of my CPU... or motherboard... or whatever. So lay off, eh? And raise a glass in celebration**!

* no really! Website owners are frequently unaware that I have searched on
google and found their site... unless... um they use sitemeter or something...
and bother to look.

** locally brewed beer preferred

Beard of Avon

After years of not making it down when the Somniloquist was in plays, The Wife and I decided to wait no longer. He's currently appearing in The Beard of Avon (not a typo), showing at Prairie Lakes Theater in Des Plaines. Not too bad a trip from home (around an hour), but our baby sitters (Mom and Dad Fishmonger) live 45 minutes to the NorthWest! So, we made a night of it. Dinner was not at The TikiTerrace as initially planned, for The Tiki Terrace does not seem to exist! I can only assume that they moved, and took their building with them, for there was no trace of a building at the address I had. Instead, we went to Chef of Siam, which is just down the road. It turned out to be a good choice. The tempura appetizer was excellent, and my Pad See Eiw was delish. Service was quick and attentive, and got us to the show with time to spare, even though I'd spent 15 minutes driving around looking for the tiki place.



At the theater, we were joined by TheSter, which was an unexpected surprise! But, the show, you're wondering... how was the show? The show was great, of course! An interesting and funny plot, amusing characterizations (especially The Somniloquist as Henry Wriothesley and Terry McEnroe as DeVere - quite a couple they made!), and a load of Shakespeare jokes (of which I probably only caught 1/10th) all conspired for an enjoyable evening. William Shakspere and Anne Hathaway (watch that generate the search hits!) were excellent together, as well. If you've got a weekend night free during the remaining run (January 12 through February 4, 2007), make the trip out to see it.
Photos Info Tickets $18

Our trip home from the play was... excruciatingly uneventful. As in, The Wife said "Gee, it seems like traffic is slowing down" (A rarity on the interstate at midnight), just before we passed the off-ramp. Well, traffic stopped as soon as we hit the top of the overpass. A moment later, a fire truck appeared behind us and parked across all lanes of traffic, closing the road. We were trapped there for over 45 minutes. Meanwhile, we could watch approaching traffic as it was routed around us on the frontage road and then past us onto the highway. It was infuriating and maddeningly boring. Fortunately, The Wife had a book to read and I had a newspaper. Well over a dozen emergency vehicles showed up while we waited, but we never did learn what had happened. Still, on the balance, a very nice evening, and as an additional plus, with The Boy away for the night, we were able to sleep in! Ahhh... sweet, sweet slumber.

sigh...

Yesterday, three lightbulbs blew in my house. And the computer gave me a message that the fan had failed. And TB was in a helluva mood, bitching and crying all evening. And TG brought home a worksheet with a ridiculous number of wrong answers to math questions that she actually knew how to do, if only she hadn't rushed. And only when the dinner casserole was ready to put into the oven at 5:30 did I realize that it needed to bake for 90 minutes. Ugh. What a night.

On the up side, Gramps is outta the hospital, apparently none the worse for wear. And I managed to pick up a really nice$400 Christmas tree for only $75 at an end-of-season sale at Milaegers. (This will replace the current tree, which was literally held together with baling wire this year). We'll call it a wash.