Hope You're Not Eating Leftovers

News on the Southern Front-

The war is over.

He came limping out right before we left for Thanksgiving, circled a tiny spot in the carpet with a dazed expression, coughed a few tiny convulsive coughs before collapsing and closed his beady little eyes.

God love him, he went for the Oscar.

I felt triumphant and horrible at the same time. I certainly didn't want his poop in my counters and his disease-spreading self on my countertops, but...he was little. And fuzzy. And cute. Was a warm place to sleep and a bit of food to much to give, you heartless beyotch? Of course, this was awaiting us when we got home:

My husband found it in the bathroom. We were spared the death scene, at least.

Me: Eww!

Gary: Here's the broom. Lemme sweep it up.

Me: Wait! I have to get a picture of this for the blog.

Gary: Eww.

Me: There was another one. Gross.

Gary: Of course there was. If you see one, there's always more hiding.

Me: Don't tell me that! I could have still pretended I didn't know!

Gary: (shaking his head) I'm throwing this out.

Now I'm just hoping the family members will think it was natural causes.

The War Rages On

Don't let the cuteness fool you. I opened my cabinet- my previously CLEAN cabinet, and found them. Little presents to remind me of my mortal enemy.

Not just mouse droppings. GREEN mouse droppings. Which means one of two things:

He's gotten irradiated by the microwave and will soon be as big, and as demanding, as my dog;

Or he's eaten the Green Pellets of Death and they've passed harmlessly through his tiny, cursed intestinal tract.

Either way, cleaning bright green mouse poop was so not how I wanted to spend my day.

The Most Foul-Tempered Rodent You Ever Laid Eyes On

And he lives in my kitchen. There's nothing quite like hearing that little scurry across the foil on the brownie pan on the counter, the knocking behind the oven. This mouse is a portly klutz; a rodent Chris Farley.

Today I was washing dishes and I turn around and there he is, sitting there looking at me like, "Wow. What is that and why is it in my kitchen?" I'm not normally frightened by things but a small squeal escaped me, which in my present health sent me into a coughing fit. All I could do was splash dishwater at it. It sauntered- not ran, not scurried, not flew- but slowly meandered back behind the oven, probably because the soggy little blighter knew I was incapacitated and couldn't hurt him.

I've set out glue traps, which I find the next morning with footprints that mock me. We finally broke out the Green Pellets of Death, which have not as yet shown any effect. I think he's hooked on them and is waiting for his next fix. I have visions of becoming the mouse world equivalent of a back alley, with this rodent instructing his little junkies, "Just make some noise in the walls, and leave some poop under the sink. She'll put out the stuff."

I thought about getting a cat, but with my luck he'd just want a cut of the pellet profits.

Forget Ricola, I Want An Android Body

You know, when I was a kid being sick was almost fun. You got to stay home from school. You got to laze around in your jammies in the middle of the day, and sometimes Mom would wheel in the small TV we kept in the den and you could watch cartoons. Decadence! You got all the 'easy' foods you wanted, including the push-pops you just had to have because they helped your poor aching throat. Yeah, that was why. And you got 7-UP in the special glass with the bendy straw.

Except for the, you know, feeling bad thing, the only difficulty was choking down Triaminic. That stuff was brewed in Satan's own barrel. I refused to give it to my kids, preferring the tang of Robitussin.

Face it. It was vacation with maid service and tissues.

But now? I still get sick. Still get coughs and watery eyes and headaches and sore throats and snot. Can I lounge and suck on push-pops and drink 7-UP? In between caring for the other people in the house who have the same crap and spending as much time as I can working because for some reason I like money, sure.

I'm just feeling sorry for myself. The one day I finally could sleep on the couch and have the remote to myself, no marathons! My hubby gets the NCIS marathon, my daughter gets the America's Next Top Model marathon, my son even got the Cosby Show marathon. Me? NO MARATHONS. That has to be one of the signs of the apocolypse, right there. Cable always has a marathon. They'll show Grasses Of The World Growing In Real Time for 18 hours, but I can't even find more than two episodes of Law and Order? Yeesh.

It doesn't help that I look like recycled hell. I bark like a seal, and when I'm in the store people back away from me like they want to cry, "Unclean! Unclean!" I've used so much soap and sanitizer, my hands look like they've been in an industrial accident. And I find at my age, in spite of all those lovely Kegel exercises, coughing has an unfortunate side effect. I'm just waiting for the day I completely lose my pride and actually buy Depends instead of using panty liners.

Next time there's a good marathon, I'm calling in sick whether I am or not. And I'm breaking out the bendy straw, too.

Does Anyone Have A Ricola?

Right now I'm making that sound. You know the one. The one old men make in the barbershop after they proclaim that Rocky Marciano vas the greatest fighter in de vorld! UUUrrrrrhhhAAAACK.

So I'm taking a day or two to shower with those little vapor tablets that let you bask in the menthol-scented steam, huddle under a blanket with my hot tea with honey and lemon, and ignore my dogs. And watch Iron Man and The Hulk. And Get Smart. If you haven't seen it, you need to.

And I'm also taking a certain amount of unholy pleasure in the fact that Barack Obama will not be able to go take a leak by himself for four years. See ya!

In Which I Refuse To Talk About Elections And Instead Gush Over Weird But Hot Guys

I'm probably the only woman in the world who doesn't think Brad Pitt is all that. He looks better post-Troy, and he's aging well, but he's just too...pretty.

Oddly enough, my boat tends to get floated by guys like this:

Christopher Eccleston. He's known for being the Doctor Who in Leather, but I loved him in Elizabeth. Nothing he has should work, but it does.

I don't really watch Doctor Who that much anymore, I swear! But I adore David Tennant. With a serene, serious face, he's an absolute matinee idol movie star. But when he smiles his chin draws up, his eyes bug out, and his eyebrows attach to his hairline. So cute I could eat him with a spoon.

Nice guys do finish first. At least, this one does with me. Special Agent McGee from NCIS (Sean Murray) is so normal and so nice and so geeky he shouldn't be this yummy. But he's also smart, loyal, and honorable. A hero in my book.

But my plugs really get sparked by competence. Jean Reno was great in Ronin and The Professional, but I got all swoony over his super secret service soldier in Godzilla. He just flat got the job done, you know? He could save me from a mutated iguana ANYTIME.

What about you? Any non-traditionally gifted guys you'd want on your romance cover?

Lemme Guess

He's an 80's detective who had to save a murder witness from drowning when the mobsters broke into her house at night and chased her off a pier in her nightie and now he's trying to cop a feel, right?

Hey, it makes as much sense as swans living in the ocean.