M is for...

           It starts with a good idea. You take a meal to a friend who was in a terrible accident.  And, if you live in Joniopolis, here’s what happens:

          She tells me she had to see a doctor to take a cognitive test. They asked her to name 60 words in 60 seconds, that started with M.

          And I wondered, could I do this even without a bump on the head? I mean, that’s a lot of words and the clock is ticking. You’d better not pick megalomania, multilingualism, mischievousness, or microbiological, right? Because those would each cost you two seconds, easily. Now you’re down to 48 seconds and you’ve only said four words.

          Flash forward to 1 pm that night.  I cannot sleep a wink because I’m watching the clock to see how many M words I can come up with. I’m trying for single syllables, so I have mom, man, moo, mat, cat, bat, sat, fat--- wait--- I’ve started rhyming!

          I start over. Can you use homophones? Can you say might and mite and would they know that’s two different words?  Mane, mein, and main? How about mind and mined, or Mat and matte? You could take this whole test and only get half credit!

          Then I wondered if you could get extra points if they make a story. Morris Mouse made magical miracles, miffed Millicent Mole, maybe murdered monstrous Martha Moose, momentarily married mild Maggie Marmot, moved merrily (minus money), Missouri-bound.

          Hours. Hours I took to concoct every possible way to pass this test, until morning, which starts with M as well. And now I’m pretty sure I need my head examined. Mercy!

But I promise my books are not filled only with M-words. Find ‘em all here.

Worst Game in the Universe

          What were you doing at 2:30 in the morning last night? Sleeping? Gee, that must be nice.

          I WAS UP TRYING TO CATCH THE STUPID LIVE MOUSE OUR CAT BROUGHT IN.

          Yes, Simon still thinks he’s training us to catch mice, thus he brings in LIVE ones and LETS THEM GO.  In our bedroom. In the middle of the night. Look at this hunter's focus:

         Naturally the mouse ran under our bed. Then Simon ran under our bed. Then we heard Simon ricocheting off the bed frame for ten minutes. Then the mouse zoomed over to our love seat and Simon chose to lie down and forget all about the mouse. Probably giving us an “F” in mouse-catching, and putting it on our permanent record.

          I picture this mouse outside, waiting on the curb with a little suitcase, saying, “Oh, here’s my Uber,” and jumping into Simon’s mouth. Then he gets a free ride into a free house with free food.  Sure, there’s a workout program involving a cat, but really that’s just a fitness perk.

So if you’re planning to visit the Hiltons anytime soon, we’ll be happy to let you stay in our bedroom.

But I’d stay home and read my books until the coast is clear.

Not a Creature was Stirring?

I don’t get why I have to have a rodent-themed Christmas. Last time I told you our new tradition was having a surgery-themed Christmas. But the longer tradition involves rats and mice.

Simon, our ninja cat, keeps bringing in live mice and then letting them go. Our son, Brandon, says cats do this when they think you have no hunting skills. They treat you like you’re their kittens and they need to train you.

I doubt very much that cats think anything through as thoroughly as this. I mean, what’s a cat’s IQ—10?

          So now we have a mouse hiding in a drawer in the laundry room. I can picture a little mouse real estate agent telling him the place shows dark, and the mouse grinning and saying, “Where do I sign?”

Obviously he hasn’t read T’was the Night Before Christmas. We’re trying to capture him, but mice are quick and sneaky.

You’d think this wouldn’t be that difficult. When our son, Richie, was a little boy he asked, “Why do owls come out at night?” I told him it was because mice come out at night. He said, “Then why do mice come out at night?” And we’re back to IQ again.

          Years ago a rat collapsed and died under our tree, trying to get to the water in the tree stand. Good heavens, right? 

          Then one year I was painting our windows with Christmassy themes and added a tiny little mouse, asleep in a wreath with his little stocking hung nearby. I continued this each year, and one year painted him just a bit too large.  “A Christmas Rat!” the kids squealed, thrilled with this tradition that I blogged about here.

          And now Tiffany, our daughter-in-law, has NAMED the latest mouse Reggie. The one we’re trying to capture and relocate in the nearest wilds. But if he’s named then he becomes a pet!

          I just don’t know. Maybe my own IQ is the real problem here.

You can come over and help me on Mouse Watch. When it’s not your shift you can read one of my books!

Three Blind Mice?

          I get it; everyone loves St. Bob. But why does this focus group have to include our cat, Simon? We got that wingnut out of a box of free kittens and he turned out to be a Chartreux, a cat bred in France to be a champion mouser.

          However, nobody said, “By the way, he’ll be bringing those mice into your bedroom at night.”  Or, “I hope you can do math, because if you can divide three into two, that’s how often he’ll be doing this.”

          Yes, over the last two nights he has brought in THREE mice, and has wailed at the top of his lungs to let us know.  Also, he’s been drenched because he doesn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. He also brings in birds. And evidently dreams of them:

          But he will come in to present his gifts to Bob, his favorite human.  (I am just the Plus One who scrubs white carpeting with hydrogen peroxide to clean up after the murder.)

          “Just marry him and get it over with,” I muttered to Bob last night, after the third hideous episode.

          Richie, our eldest, says cats do this because they think we can’t hunt.  Really.  And what genius determined this? Did they interview cats to see how they think?  Did my tax dollars pay for a grant to talk to cats? Do hunters receive no little gifts of prey from their cats? I’ll bet you a gray Chartreux that cats do this just because they want to, and are not analyzing our weaponry skills or the meat we haul home.

          But if Richie’s right, and Simon knows we’re now vegan, we are in major trouble.

But here's the perfect thing to do when your cat wakes you up in the night: Read one of my books! And, dare I say, they make wonderful Christmas gifts.