another mouse bites the dust

Ok, things in the haunted farmhouse have gotten out of hand. And I'm not just talking about the faulty wiring, but let's just say, I'm tired of living in an episode of Little House on the Prairie. No, what I'm really referring to is the mice. As I sit here, propped up in my bed, surfing the net...I mean, writing my final guest posts...I'm listening to what sounds like the opening scenes of West Side Story going on inside my walls.

"When you're a mouse, you're a mouse all the way, from your first piece of cheese, to your last dying day..."​

So maybe the music is all in my head, but the ​fancy footwork is definitely all mouse. And these are no Disney mice. They're hooligans. I swear, I hear a full-on rumble going on. I can practically see ​them whipping out their little rodent switchblades as they dance around each other squeaking out Stephen Sondheim lyrics.

(Long pause as I listen)

They're going at it again. This time I know ​I hear them squealing. But maybe not the lyrics from West Side Story. ​It might be more along the line​s of a scene from Willard. And Ben is leading the pack. I'm afraid to close my eyes. I may wake up to find them surrounding me, arms loaded with traps and sticky pads, ready to drag me off to the basement. They do that in New York City, you know. The rats there are so big, they've taken entire families out of their beds at night, never to be seen again. I read about that while standing in line at the grocery store.

I'm going to blame my hus...I mean, the IDP for this. It was his idea to set out traps. We even snagged a few of them. But those that got free have obviously sent for reinforcements. The cat caught one in the dining room last night, and made a show of feasting on him, out in the open, as a warning to the others. And now that cat is missing.

I smell a rodent uprising. This might be scarier than the pigs! Ok, forget the IDP, I blame George Orwell for putting these ideas in my head. If I hadn't read Animal Farm in middle school, I might not be having panic attacks about ducks, and pigs, and mice (oh my!) plotting my gruesome demise like an animated version of Tales from the Crypt. ​

Or maybe I just need to lay off the wine at bedtime. ​

Either way, I think it's time we called in a professional to take care of the mice. According to Bugs Bunny, we either need a lion, or an exterminator. ​Or a way bigger trap.

Until the next time...I'll be sleeping with one eye open!​

ghost in the attic

I have a ghost.

This is no secret, I've said it before. My ghost is the fairly non-confrontational type. She (we're pretty sure it's a she) likes to open and close doors, bounce invisible balls, and pad around the floors above us late at night. Mostly, she's quiet. I often forget she's even there.

Not tonight. Tonight, she was active. She was moving things around in the attic.

When I heard the boxes sliding around, I immediately assumed my kids were upstairs looking for something. Oh, I thought they'd gone out for the evening, but who else could be moving boxes around in the attic? So, I called out to them, wondering what they'd forgotten.

There was no answer.

So I looked outside and discovered their vehicle was missing. No kids at home. But the boxes moved around again. So I yelled to my husband to go up there and check things out. (Because, that's what he's here for, right? As a guy? Work with me.)

He got up and headed for the stairs before remembering the lights don't work over the stairs...or in the upstairs hallway. A coincidental happenstance that never fails to freak the family out. The wiring is old, but how convenient is it the lights don't work where the ghost hangs out? My thoughts, exactly. 

The husband decided not to check out the upstairs after all. And I guess I couldn't blame him, but it got me thinking. If my ghost is so interested in moving stuff around in my attic, why doesn't she just go down and organize my basement? That's a place that could use some serious organizing, and it's sorta scary down there. She's already dead, so what does she have to be afraid of, right?

I might have to get her to put away my Christmas decorations first...you know...work up (or down) to the basement gradually. Hey, it's just an idea.

Until the next time...I'll be steering clear of the upstairs until daylight.

downpours, dead mice and demented ducks

I have come to the undeniable conclusion that I have a very odd existance. Not odd in a bad way…like, “Gee, did you eat a lot of paint chips as a child?” Or, “Wow, I don’t know what you’re on, but I’d like some of that.” No, odd in a different way. A sort of fun way, once I have a bit of distance from the day to look back on it. Like today. What a freaking weird day today turned out to be.

It started out normal…mundane really. My daughter was feeling sick, so after everyone else in the house had gone to work, she came storming into my room, fuzzy blanket in tow, and announced that she was sick, and bored, and would be watching TV in my room. This required a trip to the living room to swap out the only good batteries from the other Dish remote so we could actually watch TV in my room. Then, instead of getting a few hours of much needed sleep, I found myself watching Hairspray with my sick daughter…and the dog. Because the dog can’t have anyone in my bed unless he’s stretched out between us, making sure I’m completely safe from any sort of accidental arm brushing or nudging. So he slept on his back, head nestled in the pillow, snoring so loudly we had to crank up the sound to hear the musical. Right…this was the normal, mundane part of my day, remember?

I realized sometime after lunch that I hadn’t heard a peep (or a crow) out of our resident fugitive, the cocky rooster, Clooney, and I was worried my husband had secretly taken him out back and done away with him. He didn’t, but this is something I prepare myself for each day, even though I secretly think he’s starting to like him now that he’s getting so much attention on the web. So, yeah, keep up the pleas for Clooney, it might actually be sinking in.

So, once I discovered the chickens were in hiding and not the freezer, I set off on the rest of my exceedingly boring day. I read. I swept the dog hair and teddy bear fluff from the floors. And I ordered pizza because I hate to cook. Boring.

Then the storm hit.

It was practically a typhoon. I don’t know where it came from, but suddenly I was watching out the window for a witch on a broom, or something. I know…wrong storm, but it was seriously whipping up debris out there. My husband came bounding through the backdoor as if he was shot out of a cannon…a water cannon…and we proceeded to watch things blow around the backyard by the light of the intermittent lightning flashes.

I was worried about the flock. The last thing I wanted to see was my stupid rooster…the one I’ve been trying to save for days, or even weeks…suddenly splat into the window like a bug on a windshield. I was worried the ducks would drown. I’d heard about turkeys drowning in the rain, but are ducks as stupid as turkeys? I had no idea. It was pitch black outside, and the sound of the rain hammering the house would surely drown out a duck’s plea for help, so I was frantic. Well…mildly concerned maybe.

Then I saw them.

The crazy juvenile ducks, all clearly suffering from some form of avian ADHD, were dancing around the baby pool as it was pounded by rain. I could only see them as the sky lit up from above, but it was like watching some sort of freakish cult, dancing circles around the baby pool as if they were planning to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Once I could tear my eyes away from the spectacle outside, I heard one of the girls yelling that the cat had snagged another mouse in the back hallway. I was secretly hoping they were dragging them in from the yard, as cats often do. I didn’t want to think they were doing their jobs and hunting mice inside the house, but there it was.

Proof.

I have freaking mice on top of everything else this house has to offer. The ghosts, the flies, the spiders, the horrible plumbing, the scary basement…not enough. No, I had to have mice too. Well, at least I have cats, right? And damn fine hunters too. They’ve bagged three of those suckers in the past week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. My third least favorite day of the week, by the way. And after the day I’ve had, I might have to upgrade it a few notches. At least temporarily.

Until the next time…I’ll be buying special treats for my kitties!

damn bugs

A word to the wise…never leave the windows open after dark. Not when you live in on a farm. Especially a farm in the mountains. I learned this the hard way.

I can go up against an army of flies all day long, but bring in a few rust-colored wood roaches and I find myself standing on the coffee table, shrieking like a little girl, urging my husband to commit mass murder of the insect variety.

I still haven’t recovered.

I’ll probably have nightmares…visions of Will Smith battling the intergallactic cockroach in Men in Black. I think I might have to sleep with the lights on. I’m considering freeing my chickens to roam the house in search of bugs. But that might just cross some sort of line.

Remember how excited I was to be moving into the historic farmhouse? How thrilled I was to explore the history…to recapture the former grandeur? Yeah, not so thrilled anymore. I had no idea the recapturing I would be doing would involve bug nets. Can we get those flies back instead? Maybe the frogs? If I remember correctly, frogs eat bugs…that might not be such an awful plague, right?

I’m coating my skin in Off! That should do the trick. Yep, I’ll be sleeping alone tonight for sure. Hey, not to worry…I’m getting used to it.

Until the next time…I’ll be calling in an exterminator.