On Building a Better Mousetrap

In an update to my previous post . . .

It was not a box turtle.  In fact the only turtles I've seen in Belgium are those cute, but contaminated with salmonella ones at the pet store down the street.  Legal in Belgium and perhaps nowhere else on earth.  Get 'em while you can.

It was not an adorable hedgehog.  Thank God!  They are way too adorable, but if I see one with bleached hair . . .

Actually . . . apparently while I was busy choosing shoes to match by pajamas and raincoat, he/she/it/Elvis left the building :-|

Yep, tha's right.  I launched into that whole awesome snare scheme for nothing.  I wore tennis shoes with my pajamas, for Christ's sake!

Frankly, I couldn't believe it.  I still can't believe it which is why I shall never sleep again, shall wear shoes at all times, and will forever keep our kitchen trash can on the patio with an open bottle of bleach inside.

Seriously, we have seen a teeny, tiny mouse from time to time scurry across our patio and poop in our storage room so no doubt it finally figured out how to make himself at home.  As well as smart enough to know how long it takes me to pick out shoes.

This, of course begs the question . . . how did Elvis get in and out and more importantly, does he have colleagues?

A Creature Was Stirring

So this morning I went down to the kitchen and threw some things in the trash can.  Since the bag had only a few items in it, I wasn't too surprised when I heard some noise.  Figured it was simply the trash settling to the bottom of the bag.  

Then I heard it again.  I waited.  Heard it again.  So now I'm pretty sure the trash has had plenty of time to settle and something else has settled in our kitchen can.  Aaaaaaah!

It kinda sounded like a turtle trying to get out of a cardboard box, but I knew right away it wasn't that.  Duh.

Now what?

Option 1:

Gather up everything I might need for a day without a kitchen, back away and close the door.  I grabbed Winslow, my cell phone, a glass and a bottle of wine.  That should do it.

Then I had the dreadful thought that the stirrer might decide to exit the can for exploration purposes and who knows where it might go?  Open the door and go up the stairs?  

No, there had to be a better way.

Option 2:

Call Jim to come home from work.  Now for those of you who know me, you know I would never do that.  I don't even know his number.  Seriously, I haven't called Jim at work since 2007 and that was my second time to do that.

Option 3:
Somehow trap it and keep an eye on it for the next 7 hours until Jim comes home from work.  Now, I may do a lot of sittin' around, but even I couldn't imagine doing that.

Realizing I had no option but to take care of this myself, I thought and thought and thought because I surely didn't want to screw this up.

Only Option:

Kill it.  But what if it's a hedgehog?!  I could be fined for exterminating all that adorableness.  

Since it's not Noon yet and I still have on my pajamas :-| I figure I should probably put shoes on before I proceed.  So I back away and exit the kitchen, go upstairs and try to decide on which shoes would be appropriate with this particular outfit.  I go with tennis shoes.  I also decide to put my raincoat on because it has a pocket for my cell phone.  Not to call Jim, but to possibly take a photo.

Now, write this down for future reference . . . I soaked a big beach-size towel with water, slid the barstool near the trash can, stood on the barstool (with tennis shoes on - safety first) and threw the wet towel over it.  

Trapped! But now what?

Since I'm pretty sure bleach kills the AIDS virus, I figure it will at least stun the stirrer long enough to figure out my next move.  Take notes in the event you need this later . . . I poured a whole bottle of bleach over the wet towel and into the can.  And then I waited.  And listened.  Listened some more.

Nothing.  So I grab the tongs and slowly drag the bleach-reeking-towel-covered can out onto the patio . . .

feeling heinous, bereaved, guilty and relieved.

So . . . when Jim does get home, I'll update on what poor creature made the mistake of finding our trash can.  That is, if you want to know :-\

Haute Couture

High dressmaking.

"The only thing that separates us from the animals is our ability to accessorize."  

~Robert Harling, Steel Magnolias

I missed the Paris Fashion Week.  Again.  And in case you did too . . .

This is the new Chanel handbag - which appears to possibly double as a hula hoop?  Those shoes are pretty cute though.

This is Calvin Klein.  I think I could actually pull this off.  This model probably weighs less than duck, but you'd never know it.

This is Louis Vuitton.  Add boots and you've got Nancy Sinatra circa 1966 or maybe The Playing Cards from Alice in Wonderland?  Are you ready, boots?

If famous fashion designers are a bit over the top, here's some "street style" straight from Paris Fashionista that may give you some ideas.  I know they did for me.

Here is proof that getting dressed in the dark is actually chic.

I do love black and white and with this outfit, I could move effortlessly into saying Mass.

I think I could do this one because these shorts are actually my size.

I have to admit putting my trench coat UNDER my sweater vest never once occurred to me.

Super versatile.  To the office, then toss the belt and the heels and voila, you're ready for bed.

I actually have this outfit, but when I do this, I look homeless.  Why is that?

This is something you would actually see in Hasselt - biking in skirt and heels.  See why I'm so intimidated here?

If you're always wondering what to put on when you read Charlotte's Web.  Wonder no more.

You surely already have this outfit, you simply didn't know how to put it all together - the mint green pleated chiffon skirt your mother wouldn't think of wearing again, paired with a sweater from your 12 year old's closet.  Tie some rags around your wrist, slip on your fuschia bow pumps and you're off!  How easy is that?

The thing I like about this outfit is that if someone tries to lift your purse, they will have to strangle you first.  

Win win.

For those of you who are like me and have no idea who this is . . . I've been led to believe his name is Kanye West.  It's obvious he stepped out of his hospital room, slipped on a blazer and is headed straight for the basketball court.  Another super versatile getup.

I always say, you really can't go wrong with black.  I always say that.  

Good Intentions

You know the aphorism (a saying expressing a belief)

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions."

Well, in case you don't . . .

it is attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153).  Bernard was an abbot (head of a monastery) and Clairvaux is in France (a country in Europe :).

Bernard's claim to fame is starting the Cistercian order which basically means monks and nuns living self-sufficiently in seclusion growing crops and most importantly . . . brewing beer!

Studies on ethical behavior show that the best of intentions, especially in business and politics when the ideology of  "the end justifies the means", often backfires and causes unintended pain.  In other words, sometimes we idealists don't always know what's best for everyone.  Shocking.

Perhaps the author, Stephen Post got it right

"If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, 

it is partly because that is the road they generally start out on."

In keeping with "starting the year off right" with good intentions and all, I figured I should have at least a couple of resolutions.  Although I could always eat less and exercise more, I probably won't.  And fortunately I don't have to quit smoking or get organized.  

So . . . I'm back challenging another Flemish teacher to work her magic and rid me of my drawl while miraculously invoking that guttural hacking-up-a lung bark required for speaking Dutch and German.

I'm always optimistic that one day I will say something simple to the postal clerk and she will not furrow her brow and respond with "Wat zeg je?" as if I was speaking Klingon.  

To which I reply, "Well, I really only speak English".  To which she responds in perfect English and looks at me like "you should probably stick with English", which ends my Flemish practice session once again.

I'll keep you posted on any miracles that may or may not occur.

As far as good intentions, I think Mark Twain may have nailed it

"New Year's Day now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. 

Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual."

Show Dog

When Ross was 5 and Randi 11, we got a puppy from the pound.  He was born at the pound and the only one of his litter to survive a bout with parvo.  We called him Shakespeare.  He was our family dog.

We moved three times to three different towns, Randi got married, Ross was driving and Shakespeare was still the family dog.

Then, one day he suddenly got sick and despite the best veterinary care and even a night in the emergency dog ICU, he died.  We were devastated.

For completely selfish reasons and to protect myself from that eventual loss, I swore I'd never have another dog.

Now we have Winslow.  Did I say "swore" and "never"?

We've had him (Winslow) for nearly 6 years and he's lived most of that in Belgium.  He travels with us, sleeps with us, eats at the table, folds laundry and makes coffee.  Well, he doesn't always eat at the table.

I'm the resident groomer and Winslow's fur normally looks, as my mother would say, like the goats chewed it.  Jim always affectionately calls him a "show dog", but he also sometimes says I look like a "movie star", so there's that.

Not to embarrass Winslow any longer among the fashionably groomed honden of België, we took him to the salon.

This salon.
The Hondentrimsalon of Sittard, Netherlands

The "bona fide" groomer told us he is all into showing his Schnauzers at dog shows.  When we arrived for our set appointment, he said he wasn't sure Winslow was a "bona fide" Schnauzer. Well, I never!

Well, actually, I said, since he came from the pound, we could make no such assumption either.  I fear this could have been a direct result of my grooming technique.

My apologies, Winslow.

Winslow before.

Winslow after.

When we returned 3 hours later to pick up the hond (that's Dutch for dog), the groomer consented that Winslow may in fact be an authentic Schnauzer notwithstanding "he is an American with poor quality fur".   Yes, he really said that.  But he also said that Winslow now qualifies for a dog show!  I presume he would be in the American Schnauzer with Poor Quality Fur category?

So, although Winslow and I do sometimes practice trotting in a below-the-knee length skirt and rubber-soled loafers (I would be the one in the skirt and loafers), we don't plan to join Westminster Kennel Club or spend our weekends going to obedience classes, but Jim can continue to refer to him as a "show dog".  

I don't know where that leaves me and the "movie star" thing though.