I FOUND A DEAD MOUSE.

Finally. Of course, the rest of them had the good sense to crawl off and die out of my sight and no they haven't stunk yet. But I know they are dead. The upstairs mouse bit the dust some time over the weekend. I found him last night. Of course, I had to do the icky mouse dance when I saw him and then the sad realization set in that because I am the only human in the house, I would have to dispose of him. I should have taken a hit off the whiskey that I keep in the house for medicinal purposes for courage. But to be honest, I forgot about it until just now.

Anyway--I go downstairs and put on rubber gloves and get the dustpan and broom out of the garage. Go back upstairs, grumbling obscenities under my breath the entire way, sweep the cretin up into the pan and hold it as far away from me as I can. Go back downstairs and throw it away in the big trashcan in the garage. ick. Then I emptied the kitchen trash can on top of him so I wouldn't have to look at it everytime I threw something out.

So today, my friends were giving me a bad time about how domestic I was becoming--not about the mouse, but other things. See--I baked a cake yesterday for someone's birthday. It was really good. I think I'm channeling my grandpa. He was a chef and the way he showed someone that he loved them was to feed them until they couldn't move. My grandma was like that and my dad is like that. I blame my dad being a southerner for that need to feed thing. The grandma and grandpa I'm talking about were strictly Yankees. But we ate well. And I'm not that domestic, or at least I don't want people to know I am. I used to work with a group of about 8 men. I would fix lunch every month or so, but would tell them I couldn't cook. One of them used to tell me--you need more practice. I knew he was teasing, but we had lunch every month for about 2 years. I'm a pretty good cook, but don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.