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!

Just Another Joni Day

          By now you’ve all packed away your holiday decorations, and even adjusted to the new, barren appearance of your home minus the sparkle and merriment.  Right?  But why can’t I ever do this without a major mishap?

          This time it was when I washed the Christmas Rat off my kitchen window.  Every year we—okay, I—paint a wreath on there.  I chose it because I am not an artist and a circle seemed like an easy motif.  Then, one year, I decided to add a little mouse, and a tiny stocking hung on a sprig of pine, waiting for Santa to bring him a treat.

          Except one year I made the mouse a little too big and the kids squealed with delight, “It’s a Rat!  It’s a Christmas Rat!” and insisted on this tradition ever after.

          This year I chose the wrong day to paint my masterpiece—I mean my disasterpiece.  It was extremely cold, so I splashed on that paint as fast as Santa slips down those chimneys, and in five minutes headed back inside. But, in my haste, I forgot to add a bit of soap to the paint.  This meant that when January rolled around and it was time to wash the window, it wouldn’t budge.

          I sprayed a strong degreaser on it.  I scrubbed.  Nothing.  Finally I decided to use the nearby garden hose, and dialed the “jet” setting so it would be like a power washer.

          Except I forgot to back away.  Suddenly the surge of water ricocheted off the window and drenched me with green paint and degreaser. Head to toe.  I looked like the Hulk.  Only madder.

          My hair, my face, my clothes—all were covered with soapy green paint. Oh—and remember this is the dead of winter, so the hose water is almost freezing, but not quite.

          I screamed, of course, but then I discovered that my cell phone, which I had placed on a table outside, also got splashed and now it won’t work.

          Well, YouTubeMom to the rescue, right? I don’t make those videos for nothing, and I knew to bury the phone in dry rice.  But I also knew time was of the essence, so I drove across town to Sprint, where the guy blew a canister of air on it, and that did the trick.  (It did not ricochet onto him, or onto me, I might add.)

          And I’m pretty sure he went home that night and told everyone a green monster came into the store that day, with a phone she had probably dropped into a swampy lagoon.  Whatever. 

I also noticed that St. Bob had kindly removed the rest of the wreath from the window.  So I had been rescued twice.  Not bad for a day’s work.

You, too, can be a hero.  Just buy one of my books here, and I will be forever grateful.

          I