In recent years there's been a push to revitalize the downtown area in my town, and it's taken a massive PR effort (along with business development, etc.) to shift the momentum and get residents thinking about patronizing local businesses in Dedham Square. Sometimes it's the strangest things that can sway a customer...
A couple of years ago I watched as my son pressed his nose against the glass of Gopen Optical during the Square's annual Holiday Stroll. The reason? Model trains set in a winter background chugging along in the window display. The kids squeezed shoulder to shoulder, and if you were quickly passing by, you might have thought it were a toy store.
The display had nothing to do with eyeglasses, but it had everything to do with building good community relations. I doubt that anyone went in that evening to purchase a new pair of glasses. (Maybe I'm wrong, but how often do people buy eyeglasses?) Still, it was a nice thing to do, and it stuck with me so much I knew exactly where I would go when I got a new prescription for lenses.
Not surprisingly, the service was friendly and prompt today. In an hour I had new lenses plus a tune-up of my sunglasses. And as a bonus, the train set is still in the window.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Monday, November 22, 2010
For Heaven's Sake
Where are all the useful parenting articles, like "How to Keep a Conversation about Community Helpers from Turning into a Lesson on Death"? I'm sure it would start off with sage advice like, "If your 5-year-old asks about dead relatives, just say they are in heaven and quickly change the subject." An article like that would have saved me a trip to the cemetery last week.
The dinner discussion started out on a light note, talking about our relatives who had "community helper" roles, a theme our son's kindergarten class had discussed that day. And then this happened:
Me: "Daddy's grandpa was a mailman."
Noah thought quietly before saying: "Where is he?"
Me: "He died a while ago."
Noah: "What does it mean to die?"
I kept the response as light as possible, making sure to emphasize that most people are really old when they die.
Noah thought quietly again before saying: "Good thing I'm only 5. Mommy, you're 34!"
Thanks kid.
The conversation re-surfaced at breakfast the next morning.
Noah: "When we die, people will just walk over our bodies here?"
Ewww.
Me: "No. You don't just leave people on the floor or the ground."
Noah: "Why not?"
I should note that I HAD NOT had a full cup of coffee at this point.
Me: "Well, people start to smell after they die."
What??? As if we'd leave people hanging around post-mortem if they were still shower-fresh. As I realized the absurdity of what I'd said, Noah came back with "So Daddy's grandpa kinda smells?"
Me: "No! One of two things happen when someone dies." I launched into a somewhat brief, child-friendly description of embalming, coffins, cemeteries, and burials. Luckily, caffeine kicked in and stopped me from even mentioning cremation. I asked him if he knew what a cemetery was. He said no, so I told him that we could go visit one to see what a nice place it is to remember people who have died.
On the way to school, I reminded him that we were stopping at the library that afternoon. "No," he said, "We're going to see dead people, remember?"
After school, he piped up from the back of the car. "Do they fold you so you fit?" I played dumb. "Fit?" "Yeah, in the box, after you die." "Oh no, they don't have to. It's like a big bed, just inside this really nice box."
Then he wanted to know if he would get a new mommy if I died. "Because I won't know how to do anything," he added. Oh, so someone is just worried about who's gonna pack his lunch and make his dinner. I told him that I would be old when I died, and I was thankful he couldn't see me look for wood to knock on.
The dinner discussion started out on a light note, talking about our relatives who had "community helper" roles, a theme our son's kindergarten class had discussed that day. And then this happened:
Me: "Daddy's grandpa was a mailman."
Noah thought quietly before saying: "Where is he?"
Me: "He died a while ago."
Noah: "What does it mean to die?"
I kept the response as light as possible, making sure to emphasize that most people are really old when they die.
Noah thought quietly again before saying: "Good thing I'm only 5. Mommy, you're 34!"
Thanks kid.
The conversation re-surfaced at breakfast the next morning.
Noah: "When we die, people will just walk over our bodies here?"
Ewww.
Me: "No. You don't just leave people on the floor or the ground."
Noah: "Why not?"
I should note that I HAD NOT had a full cup of coffee at this point.
Me: "Well, people start to smell after they die."
What??? As if we'd leave people hanging around post-mortem if they were still shower-fresh. As I realized the absurdity of what I'd said, Noah came back with "So Daddy's grandpa kinda smells?"
Me: "No! One of two things happen when someone dies." I launched into a somewhat brief, child-friendly description of embalming, coffins, cemeteries, and burials. Luckily, caffeine kicked in and stopped me from even mentioning cremation. I asked him if he knew what a cemetery was. He said no, so I told him that we could go visit one to see what a nice place it is to remember people who have died.
On the way to school, I reminded him that we were stopping at the library that afternoon. "No," he said, "We're going to see dead people, remember?"
After school, he piped up from the back of the car. "Do they fold you so you fit?" I played dumb. "Fit?" "Yeah, in the box, after you die." "Oh no, they don't have to. It's like a big bed, just inside this really nice box."
Then he wanted to know if he would get a new mommy if I died. "Because I won't know how to do anything," he added. Oh, so someone is just worried about who's gonna pack his lunch and make his dinner. I told him that I would be old when I died, and I was thankful he couldn't see me look for wood to knock on.
Monday, September 20, 2010
BYOK (Bring Your Own Kleenex)
It's natural for a little boy to pick out a book called "Train to Somewhere" at the library. The cover looked so harmless. A painting of two little girls, suitcases in hand, heading toward an old steamer train.
Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:
"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."
AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.
The introduction continued:
"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.
It concluded:
"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.
Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.
It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:
"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."
"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."
"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."
Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.
The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.
Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:
"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."
AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.
The introduction continued:
"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.
It concluded:
"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.
Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.
It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:
"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."
"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."
"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."
Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.
The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
License to Cry
Most parents (moms, at least) expect to cry on the first day of kindergarten. But it's those unexpected moments that sneak up and do you in. It started with the dentist hygienist who explained, quite matter-of-factly, "These are his adult teeth right here," as she pointed them out on an x-ray. Adult teeth? You mean this small, dependent creature will one day grow up? I cried blasphemy as I fought back tears. I thought first-timers and kids getting cavities filled were the only ones who got weepy at the dentist. Guess not.
The following week I suggested Noah play with his sand table, and while he happily did so, I got comfy in an adirondack chair, leafing through a magazine. "Ah, this isn't half-bad," I thought. Until I looked up and saw that my child had been replaced by a tiny giant who was practically bent in half to reach down into the Little Tikes sand table. Uh, guess he's not a little tike anymore. Kleenex, please.
I was OK today, at kindergarten drop-off. It startled me last year to see his cubby in a different location, and today was no different. He's at the same school, though, so there was too much familiarity to bring on the waterworks. Fortunately I know how to ruin a good thing with a library visit after school. On the way there, I said, "How'd you like to get your own library card today?" (Dork flashback: I still remember standing at the counter with my mother when I got mine.) Noah was excited at the prospect and added, "And maybe we can take out 'Duck'!" Oh. No. Not "Duck."
I unknowingly picked up "Duck" by Randy Cecil at the library over the winter and choked back tears while I read it. Out loud. To Noah. In public. Duck is a wooden carousel duck who longs to fly, "adopts" a lost duckling, and eventually realizes that she needs to give the duckling up to the real ducks so that he can fly with them. Parents about to send kids off to college should not go within 20 feet of this book. There should be a rating system for kids' books. Let's start with a giant "T" for tears, just to save us the embarrassment of having to pause awkwardly to catch our breaths when duckling, all grown up, comes back to give Duck a ride so she can see what it's like to fly. (I think Mr. Cecil might be hinting to his kids that they need to repay their debts to him, however.)
Alas, I had bigger issues than reading "Duck" without weeping. When the librarian handed his shiny, new card to him, a proud Noah exclaimed, "I feel like I have my own driver's license!" AAAAGH!!!!
The following week I suggested Noah play with his sand table, and while he happily did so, I got comfy in an adirondack chair, leafing through a magazine. "Ah, this isn't half-bad," I thought. Until I looked up and saw that my child had been replaced by a tiny giant who was practically bent in half to reach down into the Little Tikes sand table. Uh, guess he's not a little tike anymore. Kleenex, please.
I was OK today, at kindergarten drop-off. It startled me last year to see his cubby in a different location, and today was no different. He's at the same school, though, so there was too much familiarity to bring on the waterworks. Fortunately I know how to ruin a good thing with a library visit after school. On the way there, I said, "How'd you like to get your own library card today?" (Dork flashback: I still remember standing at the counter with my mother when I got mine.) Noah was excited at the prospect and added, "And maybe we can take out 'Duck'!" Oh. No. Not "Duck."
I unknowingly picked up "Duck" by Randy Cecil at the library over the winter and choked back tears while I read it. Out loud. To Noah. In public. Duck is a wooden carousel duck who longs to fly, "adopts" a lost duckling, and eventually realizes that she needs to give the duckling up to the real ducks so that he can fly with them. Parents about to send kids off to college should not go within 20 feet of this book. There should be a rating system for kids' books. Let's start with a giant "T" for tears, just to save us the embarrassment of having to pause awkwardly to catch our breaths when duckling, all grown up, comes back to give Duck a ride so she can see what it's like to fly. (I think Mr. Cecil might be hinting to his kids that they need to repay their debts to him, however.)
Alas, I had bigger issues than reading "Duck" without weeping. When the librarian handed his shiny, new card to him, a proud Noah exclaimed, "I feel like I have my own driver's license!" AAAAGH!!!!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Climate Uncontrolled: A Diary
Day 1: It’s really hot in the kitchen. The thermostat reads 80 degrees. The oven has only been at 325 for a half hour though. Hey don’t those fan blades on the central a/c unit usually spin when it’s on?
Day 2: Oh joy. Service guy can come today.
Day 2, later: Oh sorrow. Service guy says 18-year-old air conditioner has resigned. Without notice, I might add.
Day 3: Enjoying life with the windows open. Crickets chirping and cool breezes last night; warm sun and fresh air today.
Day 3, later: Discover that house quickly becomes sticky when windows are closed during rainstorm.
Day 5: Begin to get estimates for new unit but still enjoying open windows (and hopefully lower electric bill).
Day 7: We have used the deck for outdoor dining more in seven days than we have in eight years.
Day 8: Uncontrollable sweating after running on treadmill in basement. And after putting up new drapery rods in dining room. Spent rest of evening sitting very still.
Day 9: Back to loving the open windows.
Day 14: Humidity on the rise. Flee to pool in morning. Spend late afternoon in basement. Pant heavily while ascending stairs to main level.
Day 18: Man, it’s hot. Go for run. More profuse sweating.
Day 19: Cross several undone to-do’s off list. Replace with sitting-still time.
Day 20: Wake up realizing I dreamed about ordering gelato for lunch. Head to basement but can’t muster more than a walk on the treadmill. Look at stack of dumbbells. Look away from stack of dumbbells.
Day 20, an hour later: Grimace at cup of hot coffee while stuffing slices of refreshing, cold cucumber in mouth.
Day 20, another hour later: Guys arrive to install new a/c. They’re dressed in flowing white robes with wings and a strange, glowing circle hovers above their heads. One has a harp. The other, a toolkit.
Day 20, early afternoon: A stream of cold air grazes the back of my neck from overhead. I am giddy.
Day 20, does it matter anymore?: Shutting windows.
Day 2: Oh joy. Service guy can come today.
Day 2, later: Oh sorrow. Service guy says 18-year-old air conditioner has resigned. Without notice, I might add.
Day 3: Enjoying life with the windows open. Crickets chirping and cool breezes last night; warm sun and fresh air today.
Day 3, later: Discover that house quickly becomes sticky when windows are closed during rainstorm.
Day 5: Begin to get estimates for new unit but still enjoying open windows (and hopefully lower electric bill).
Day 7: We have used the deck for outdoor dining more in seven days than we have in eight years.
Day 8: Uncontrollable sweating after running on treadmill in basement. And after putting up new drapery rods in dining room. Spent rest of evening sitting very still.
Day 9: Back to loving the open windows.
Day 14: Humidity on the rise. Flee to pool in morning. Spend late afternoon in basement. Pant heavily while ascending stairs to main level.
Day 18: Man, it’s hot. Go for run. More profuse sweating.
Day 19: Cross several undone to-do’s off list. Replace with sitting-still time.
Day 20: Wake up realizing I dreamed about ordering gelato for lunch. Head to basement but can’t muster more than a walk on the treadmill. Look at stack of dumbbells. Look away from stack of dumbbells.
Day 20, an hour later: Grimace at cup of hot coffee while stuffing slices of refreshing, cold cucumber in mouth.
Day 20, another hour later: Guys arrive to install new a/c. They’re dressed in flowing white robes with wings and a strange, glowing circle hovers above their heads. One has a harp. The other, a toolkit.
Day 20, early afternoon: A stream of cold air grazes the back of my neck from overhead. I am giddy.
Day 20, does it matter anymore?: Shutting windows.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Death Benefits, for Members Only
In the market for a casket? Why not check out Costco.com? That’s right. I was glancing across the Costco.com category tabs to see if I could buy a gift card. My eyes floated over Toys & Games, Outdoor, Jewelry, Housewares, Funeral… what??? This I had to see.
The funeral page has links for caskets, urns (even pet urns), keepsakes, and sympathy flowers. Did you know you could buy a pet urn for $79.99? Whatever happened to burial by shoebox in the backyard?
Let’s get one thing straight. There’s nothing funny about death. But when Costco offers both standard shipping and expedited shipping for caskets, I can’t help but giggle. Expedited shipping gets the casket to you by 5 p.m. the next business day, just make sure to place the order by 2 p.m.
-- “Uh, doctor, how’s she doing?”
-- “She’s still holding on.”
-- “Well, do you think she’ll be dead by 2 p.m. ‘cause I gotta get moving if we want the Lady Gaudalupe casket by tomorrow afternoon?”
Of course, standard shipping is the better value. Prices go up as much as $400 for the same casket with expedited shipping, but standard shipping orders need to be placed by noon for three-day delivery. So if Aunt Clara dies at 12:02 p.m. on Thursday before a holiday weekend, she’s hanging around for about a week, just so you can save a few hundred bucks. They always get you on the shipping.
On its FAQ page for caskets, Costco’s first frequently asked question is “Why is Costco Wholesale selling caskets?” Who’s asking this question? Frequently? They’re selling caskets because it’s a great way for them to make money. Duh. Or, as a service to their members, as the page suggests.
Another FAQ: “Do I need to be at the funeral home to receive the casket?” Thankfully the answer is no. However, if the casket is going somewhere other than a funeral home, you do need to be there. So here’s my frequently asked question – where else do people send $2000 caskets???
Another FAQ: “Can you order a casket for preplanning purposes?” I think Costco is missing a business opportunity by only selling them online. Why not have some caskets to try out in the store? I mean, you wouldn’t buy a bed or a couch without trying it first. Why not pick out your own casket? You’re going to be in it for eternity, you may as well have a say in it. And hey, if the price is right, pick it up on the spot. At least you’ll have someplace to store those giant cases of paper towels, ketchup and chicken broth you just bought.
While I’m on the subject of warehouse clubs, I was at BJ’s last night, counting up my items to see if I qualified for the express lane. So let me get this straight, I could have a year’s supply of napkins but the fact that the six packages are bundled into one means it’s only one item? Love it.
The funeral page has links for caskets, urns (even pet urns), keepsakes, and sympathy flowers. Did you know you could buy a pet urn for $79.99? Whatever happened to burial by shoebox in the backyard?
Let’s get one thing straight. There’s nothing funny about death. But when Costco offers both standard shipping and expedited shipping for caskets, I can’t help but giggle. Expedited shipping gets the casket to you by 5 p.m. the next business day, just make sure to place the order by 2 p.m.
-- “Uh, doctor, how’s she doing?”
-- “She’s still holding on.”
-- “Well, do you think she’ll be dead by 2 p.m. ‘cause I gotta get moving if we want the Lady Gaudalupe casket by tomorrow afternoon?”
Of course, standard shipping is the better value. Prices go up as much as $400 for the same casket with expedited shipping, but standard shipping orders need to be placed by noon for three-day delivery. So if Aunt Clara dies at 12:02 p.m. on Thursday before a holiday weekend, she’s hanging around for about a week, just so you can save a few hundred bucks. They always get you on the shipping.
On its FAQ page for caskets, Costco’s first frequently asked question is “Why is Costco Wholesale selling caskets?” Who’s asking this question? Frequently? They’re selling caskets because it’s a great way for them to make money. Duh. Or, as a service to their members, as the page suggests.
Another FAQ: “Do I need to be at the funeral home to receive the casket?” Thankfully the answer is no. However, if the casket is going somewhere other than a funeral home, you do need to be there. So here’s my frequently asked question – where else do people send $2000 caskets???
Another FAQ: “Can you order a casket for preplanning purposes?” I think Costco is missing a business opportunity by only selling them online. Why not have some caskets to try out in the store? I mean, you wouldn’t buy a bed or a couch without trying it first. Why not pick out your own casket? You’re going to be in it for eternity, you may as well have a say in it. And hey, if the price is right, pick it up on the spot. At least you’ll have someplace to store those giant cases of paper towels, ketchup and chicken broth you just bought.
While I’m on the subject of warehouse clubs, I was at BJ’s last night, counting up my items to see if I qualified for the express lane. So let me get this straight, I could have a year’s supply of napkins but the fact that the six packages are bundled into one means it’s only one item? Love it.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I Am Not Afraid
I feel a kinship with the Toad character from the “Frog and Toad” series by Arnold Lobel. Toad makes a list of all the things he needs to do one day, and when the list blows away he is crippled without it. The sensible Frog suggests they chase it, but Toad protests that “running after the list” was not on the list. In another story Frog suggests he and Toad need willpower to keep from eating an entire batch of cookies. The clever Frog feeds the cookies to the birds while Toad tells him to keep his willpower, he’s going home to bake a cake. But in my favorite story of the moment, even Frog doesn’t display his usual character traits.
In “Dragons and Giants” Frog and Toad want to be like the brave people who fight dragons and giants in a book they have read. As they face their fears together – a rock avalanche and animals that want to eat them for lunch – they run away, yelling, “I am not afraid!” They run quickly to Toad’s house and hide under the covers and in the closet, “just feeling very brave together.” I too want to be brave. Did you know that this spring I carried a patio umbrella containing three live mice? You didn’t? Well neither did I. At least not at the time or you can bet your sweet cookies I wouldn’t have carried it.
We live in a woodsy area. I don’t even want to know what traverses our backyard at night. But I do know that after an unusually high number of acorns in the fall, a relatively mild winter, and a wet spring, the mouse population is bustling. Plus, the neighborhood cat that used to roam around mysteriously disappeared at the end of last summer. This spring we had mice in the central AC unit and out in the shed (nesting in the patio umbrella). Up until a few weeks ago, any activity in the house had been relegated to the basement, and we had never actually seen a mouse, just evidence of one. I have a system to avoid them when I wake up early to exercise. I turn on the basement lights but wait a few minutes before going down. I am not afraid, of course.
Things got ugly when we realized there was at least one running around the rest of the house. The pest company examined the bait stations and assured me that it was only one or two. In the meantime we had purchased a couple of glue traps which we left near the dryer. Just in case. Not that there was still a mouse running around. I am not afraid, at any rate.
After many days of nothing, I went to the laundry room to get something from the shelf. Wait, is that a…? Yes, it was. A small, dead mouse on the glue trap. I was so brave (because I didn’t scream). I took my son to school and returned to deal with the mouse. Come on Michelle, you can do this, it’s dead. I put on my latex gloves. You are so brave. I got a plastic bag. You are not afraid. I reached for it, and as I pulled the glue trap toward me, I learned that the mouse WAS NOT DEAD! I am not afraid! Those little legs starting kicking as he tried to run away from me, but his little mousy body was stuck to the trap. I am not afraid! OK, yes I am.
It’s a good thing my husband is so brave so I can concentrate on making lists and baking cakes.
In “Dragons and Giants” Frog and Toad want to be like the brave people who fight dragons and giants in a book they have read. As they face their fears together – a rock avalanche and animals that want to eat them for lunch – they run away, yelling, “I am not afraid!” They run quickly to Toad’s house and hide under the covers and in the closet, “just feeling very brave together.” I too want to be brave. Did you know that this spring I carried a patio umbrella containing three live mice? You didn’t? Well neither did I. At least not at the time or you can bet your sweet cookies I wouldn’t have carried it.
We live in a woodsy area. I don’t even want to know what traverses our backyard at night. But I do know that after an unusually high number of acorns in the fall, a relatively mild winter, and a wet spring, the mouse population is bustling. Plus, the neighborhood cat that used to roam around mysteriously disappeared at the end of last summer. This spring we had mice in the central AC unit and out in the shed (nesting in the patio umbrella). Up until a few weeks ago, any activity in the house had been relegated to the basement, and we had never actually seen a mouse, just evidence of one. I have a system to avoid them when I wake up early to exercise. I turn on the basement lights but wait a few minutes before going down. I am not afraid, of course.
Things got ugly when we realized there was at least one running around the rest of the house. The pest company examined the bait stations and assured me that it was only one or two. In the meantime we had purchased a couple of glue traps which we left near the dryer. Just in case. Not that there was still a mouse running around. I am not afraid, at any rate.
After many days of nothing, I went to the laundry room to get something from the shelf. Wait, is that a…? Yes, it was. A small, dead mouse on the glue trap. I was so brave (because I didn’t scream). I took my son to school and returned to deal with the mouse. Come on Michelle, you can do this, it’s dead. I put on my latex gloves. You are so brave. I got a plastic bag. You are not afraid. I reached for it, and as I pulled the glue trap toward me, I learned that the mouse WAS NOT DEAD! I am not afraid! Those little legs starting kicking as he tried to run away from me, but his little mousy body was stuck to the trap. I am not afraid! OK, yes I am.
It’s a good thing my husband is so brave so I can concentrate on making lists and baking cakes.
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