Disney can eat a bowl of dicks.

Mausageddon continues in our house, but has hit a small, ginger-haired snag.

Raised on a steady diet of cute, anthropomorphic rodents, Wee Ginger Beastie is not at all on board with the eradication of small, brown rodents. In fact, she will happily bring armfuls of Disney-produced propaganda and expound upon the helpfulness of mice.

"Cinderella?" They make dresses.
"The Rescuers?" Bernard and Bianca are the heroes.
"American Tail?" Fievel is so sweet!
"Angelina Ballerina!" Enough said.

Have you ever stopped to consider how much mouse-related nonsense there is out there, and how it might affect the opinions of children towards vermin? It's staggering.

My daughter has become the French fucking Resistance, secretively supporting the round-eared, long-tailed, crumb-snatching, pellet-shitting Maquis.

My feckless cats are basically the feline Vichy government.

I have to arrange for the firebomb of Berli -- I mean, my basement.

Cats are Useless Twats

Mausaggeddon officially opened with my trying to persuade our three cats to do what should come naturally -- i.e., hunt down mice. This was an unmitigated disaster.

Cat the first: Bitey! He can be a mean fucker, right? He'll engage Fierce Mandibles of Death as soon as he realizes there are mice! Right. I scooped him up off Ginger Beastie's bed where he was lazing in a sunbeam on her pillow with his concubine the Sock Monkey and hossed his fat-assed freight to the basement. I carried him from corner to corner, pointed out a few likely places for mice to lurk, and put him down. He blinked at me apathetically. I pointed emphatically; he sniffed my finger for any traces of butter. Then he flounced off like the tarty little git that he is, back to bed.

Cat the second: Meela. She's the youngest, most feral of the three. Plus, female cats are traditionally the mousers. Instincts will kick in, and we will be up to our ankles in mouse corpses first thing in the morning! Yeah...no. I opened the basement door and ushered her down the steps. She made it to the bottom step, flopped on her side and began to roll luxuriously in the sawdust. Then she hopped up, streaked up the stairs and tracked basement dirt and sawdust through the kitchen, on the table and up the stairs.

Aggravated, I called in the Big Gun: Cat the third, Bill Z. Bubba, Elder Statescat. Surely he would not stand for rodents in his domicile! I located him curled in a pile of feather comforter on my bed, and processed ceremoniously to the basement with His Majesty, our Great Tabby Hope, hoisted high. Upon placing him on the basement floor, he withered my with a look of supreme disdain, looked around the basement, twitched his whiskers disgustedly and stalked back up the stairs -- tail held high in the "talk to the browneye" position.

A total rout. Mice 3; Cats 0.

I tried cutting back on food to encourage them to hunt for fresh mouse meat, but the howling at all hours of the night was more than any of us could stand.

Oh, well. There are still conventional weapons, traps and flamethrowers in the mix. Except for the fact that my daughters are actively thwarting the process.

Motherfucking Mouse in my Muffin Tin

A lazy Saturday morning. I wander into the kitchen with vague notions of breakfast..."Blueberry muffins, maybe. That sounds good." Wee Ginge Beastie enthusiastically agreed, provided she could help make them. We started to assemble ingredients, and I opened the stove drawer to procure the muffin tin, only to find a fat, brown mouse squatting in it.

A fat, nasty, verminous, disease-bearing,  foul abomination of a rodent. In. My. Muffin tin! (No, Dino -- that is not a euphemism.)

I screamed. It jumped and scurried. I yanked the drawer all the way out, ran to the back door and launched it in to the back yard like I was going for the shot put record (narrowly missing CalvinsDad, who was fixing the hose). This commotion drew the Usual Suspects (three children and a dog) who all looked concerned. I explained that we had a mouse, and that I had freaked a bit.

SnarkGirl did not help when she elbowed her little sister and said, "You know what THAT means, Ginge? Our house is the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse!"

"COME INSIDE, IT'S FUN INSIDE!" Ginge bellowed at the top of her (tuneless) lungs, and proceeded to march around the dining room table, leading an imaginary parade. Both girls, raised on the Disney-esque idea that all critters are cute, friendly, tame beasties, were horrified at the thought that we would soon be engaged in an all-out assault on all things rodent.

Fuck. Me.

Nevertheless, plans four Mausageddon were laid. Husband and I consulted on traps, poison baits, flamethrowers and thermonuclear weaponry. He convinced me that conventional weapons ought to be a last resort. OctoBoy danced excitedly from foot to foot, eager to be on the hunt. He wanted to saddle up all three cats for battle.

A trip to the hardware store, and the war was joined.


Soon to be followed by part 2: "Cats are Useless Twats," and part 3: "Disney Can Lave My Nethers."

The definition of lunacy.

Suffice it to say that the "supermoon" must indeed have sway over the mentally ill; the SMother has surfaced again and is being a pain in my posterior.

It started with a communique from the Banana Slug -- her latest husband -- wanting to know where she was. As I have not communicated with her in three years, I allowed as to the fact that I had no fucking clue, and good riddance to bat-shit crazy rubbish, as far as I was concerned.

Apparently, BS came home to an empty-of-all-valuables house and a set of divorce papers on the table. She took everything and evaporated.

Ho, hum.

Then, the collection calls started. LOTS of collection calls. As SMother has stolen my SSN and used it before, I re-upped all the security on my credit reports and started checking my credit report weekly.

The flood of letters and cards started lest week, asking for forgiveness, money, etc. Oy.

A Swirly for Bill Z. Bubba.

Once upon a time, SnarkGirl was a wee brown-haired beastie -- though milder in temperament than Wee Ginge. As she was the First and Only she had the run of the house.

She was around two and a half when she administered her first swirly -- to a cat.

Not just any cat, but Bill Z. Bubba, Elder Statescat and notorious grump. Bill was my college cat; he predated grad school, marriage, home ownership, the dog and children. He spent his formative years being fed pizza and developed a taste for dark beers; he saw no use whatsoever in husband, canine or small children. In fact, his rather dyspeptic expression seemed to snarl, "Wasn't life better before all this nonsense? We didn't need them!"**

Bill would often take up station on the (closed) potty lid while I showered and dressed every morning. On this particular morning, the lid was left up, and so he precariously perched on the ring -- careful not to sully his stripey tail with toilet water while he watched the morning's doings.

Perhaps inspired by her recent bout of potty training, SnarkGirl decided that he needed to relieve himself, and only needed the proper instructions to do so. While I watched, she launched herself at him, hollering, "KITTY GO POTTY!"

And she pushed him in. With such force that the lid slammed down, effectively trapping him in the bowl. A fiendish, despairing  howl arose from the toilet, as he struggled to launch himself out -- without being able to gain purchase on the wet porcelain, or throw the lid open. The lid rattled and thumped ominously as I ushered the toddler out and grabbed a towel.

Holding the towel out like a goalie's net, I used a toe to open the lid. The wet cat rocketed out at light speed and I caught him. I wrapped him in the towel and briskly rubbed what felt like twenty pounds of pure shaking, flailing rage, and then launched him towards the hall. Still wailing and in a state of high piss-off, he evaporated with what sounded suspiciously like a sonic boom in his wake.

We didn't see him for the rest of the day. Frankly, given his demeanor towards SnarkGirl, I don't think he's ever forgiven her.

**N.B.: Bill Z. Bubba will be twenty -- a ripe, respectable age for a house cat -- in April. is attitude and opinions have not changed to date.

Old friends, new friends and an aching gut.

It has been one Hell of a week.

Last Saturday, I got to eat and trade stories with the fabled Ambulance Driver, DinoDoc and new friend TOTWTYTR. A good time was had by all, and I can't wait to do it again! In fact, I may persuade Calvin;s Dad to let me road-trip up to the next Boston-area blogger met, just to catch up again.

Sunday, I felt...icky. (No, not hung over, just, uncomfy in the tummy.) Monday, I was in a moderately serious amount of pain, with a lot of nausea and drama. I called Dino, she said to hie myself to the ED. Off I went, anticipating that my appendix and I would part ways. Nope...mesenteric adenitis. Which sucks. (Multiple blood draws and nasty nurses also suck, as does dilaudid. Oh, my yes.)

Despite feeling like hammered crap, it's MIDTERMS, AHOY! this week, which meant that, though discharged late Tuesday, I had to teach Wednesday and Thursday night. This was predictably a joy-filled experience. Argh.