I hate mice and I love my family.

I visited my parents this weekend. They gave me life. And then they gave me mousetraps.

Let me back up.

So, remember when I interrupted a HUGE mouse in my silverware drawer, and it climbed out of the drawer and up my leg and I screamed a million screams and then had to burn down my house?

Good times.

Well, My Guy set a trap and killed that Jabba the Hutt of mice. Killed it dead!

Except ... well, it was evidently more of a Jabbette the Hutt. And she wasn't huge ... she just had some baby weight. Which we discovered because a few days after My Guy slew her, the babies came out looking for food.

Ohhhh nooooo.

And those babies were dumb. Almost as dumb as our vicious dogs. Picture it: My Guy, me, Lil' Frankfurter and Big Doodle were all lazing about on the couch on a Saturday morning, as is our custom. And gasp! There was something moving behind the entertainment center! It was grey and small and rodent-like!

The husband and I had a long, philosophical conversation about what in the name of Han Solo we were supposed to do. We certainly couldn't get off the couch because there was a MOUSE in the same ROOM! And while we didn't want to extricate a mouse carcass out of a dog's maw, you would think the canines would have some primal instinct to capture said mouse.

But no. Our dogs sat on the couch and watched the mouse. Not once did it occur to them to get off the couch and protect their pack from this intruder. My dogs are defective.

Finally, after much deliberation, My Guy bravely got off the couch and led the dogs outside. He escorted me to safety in the other room, and set the mouse trap. Then, he put up the baby gate. Then ... he left. He left me alone in a house with defective dogs and a probably rabid baby mouse.

The gate was supposed to keep the dogs out of the room with the trap. But in my mind, the baby gate would also serve to keep the mouse out of the rest of the house. The baby mouse wouldn't be so crass as to go into other rooms uninvited, right?

Well, there wasn't a lot of time for exploration. Within an hour or 2, I heard the trap go off. And then I heard the screams. Because the full-sized trap didn't kill the baby right away. I cried, and I prayed. I prayed for this rodent I was trying to kill. It was confusing.

And that whole "we're on the couch and we see a baby mouse and the defective dogs do nothing and then we set a trap and kill a poor, defenseless baby mouse" thing played out again the next day. And yet again, no adults stepped in to address the situation. My Guy and I had to handle it all by ourselves. It was terrible.

So, for those keeping track, that was 1 dead mama mouse and 2 dead baby mice. Oh, and then there was the third dead baby mouse I found under a washcloth on the floor. First of all, I have no idea how that washcloth came to be on the floor of our family room. Secondly, it was covering the little mouse carcass like we were filming an episode of "Law & Order: Rodent Division" in our house. It was all very dramatic.

Truthfully, by the third dead baby mouse, my heart was hardened. I just wanted a rodent-free house. Was that really too much to ask?

In the ensuing days, we haven't found any more mice, alive or dead. But you're never totally out of the woods with these things. Which brings us to my visit with my parents.

Now, there have been times my folks have plied me with groceries and gas money and an extra winter hat, just because. I would maybe roll my eyes, but truthfully? There is nothing like being hard-core nurtured by your parents like that. During a particularly broke spot, I returned to my craptastic apartment with 2 full grocery bags - my mom had raided her own pantry for me. The thought of it still makes me teary-eyed. They let me and my brother make our own way, but they made sure we had a little something for the road.

And so, this weekend? As I was getting ready to leave, my sweet dad asked how I was set for mouse traps. They'd had some mice this fall, and he'd discovered some great traps that were only sold at the farm and home store. Well, he'd show them to me. Well, they only sell them at the farm and home. Well, here, just take these, and he'll get some more.

I'm a grown woman and grown women don't cry over mouse traps. But it's sure nice to have parents who give you what you didn't quite realize you need. That, and my dad put the traps back in their original packaging because that's how he rolls. Also, he'd wiped the dead mouse detritus off and it was fine. Because we might pass used mouse traps around the family, but we do it with class.

I watch it so you don't have to: Rock My RV with Bret Michaels.

Everyone's favorite reality teevee rocker is back!

No, Bret Michaels isn't starring in a mobile dating show called "Slut Bus," or a whodunit called "Who Gave Me The Herp?" Instead, it's "Rock My RV," wherein Bret transforms broken-ass recreational vehicles into probably uninsurable tricked-out behemoths.

Basically, it's "Pimp My Ride," but with RVs.

Evidently, slate.com calls it "The best reality makeover show yet." Umm ... OK?

Thus far, the show has taken on projects like transforming a 20-year-old RV into kind of a family pimp palace, and turning an old ambulance into a Bigfoot tracking vehicle.

You know that part of me that saw the same poolside waiter 4 years in a row and immediately became concerned about the guy's retirement plan? Yeah. That same part of me thinks that none of this dumpy RV rehabbing is economically responsible. But that aside ...

... Yeah, it's still a bad show.

I know. I know! I can't help it - I'm so annoyed by Bret acting like he comes up with these designs and then is actively working on the team who does all the implementation. He's like the smarmy kid in a group project who doesn't do anything but tells the teacher crap like, "I feel like we really pulled together as a team."

Bret helps with demo. They once showed him doing some spray painting. But other than that, he uses "I" and "we" a lot and slaps down design docs and says stuff like, "I want 4 pop-outs. Can we do it?"

Evidently, in Older RV Land, 4 pop-outs is impossible, due to, like, science and stuff. And the fabricator dude was like, "Ehhh ... I can't do 4, but I can probably do 2." And Bret was like, "I know you're great at what you do. Try to get 4 out of here."

So, he's That Guy. That Guy who also says, "I really wanna honor this vehicle, you know what I mean?"

Ugh.

Perhaps I am not the target demographic for this show. I hate camping. And I can't help but hold it against Bret when he pronounces "philanthropy" as "philantropy" or uses terms like "reimaginated."

Why wouldn't that stuff get edited out? Do the producers want Bret to look dumb? Because it's working.

At the end of every show, there's the big reveal. The RV is hidden behind a curtain, and Bret hollers, "Rock! My! R! V!" Then, 2 scantily clad women called "The Bretettes" drop the curtain, and the RV in question appears, surrounded by fire.

It's so cheesy, it's almost awesome. Almost. I just can't get around the ego at work here. Because Bret's ego is the only part of him working. Maybe I just have PTSD from too many group projects gone bad. And that PTSD is combining with my fear of camping, and this is just not the show for me.

Then, there was my husband's comment: "I'm really disappointed by the lack of sluts in this show."

Word.

Bret Michaels, Renaissance man.

I'm sure you've heard the news, but this is how I told my husband.

Me: Have you heard about Bret Michaels' new show?

My Guy: Is it called "Slut Bus?"

Me: Noooo! It's "Slut RV" or something. Actually, it has nothing to do with sluts. Bret travels around the country, tricking out broken-down RVs.

My Guy: No sluts?

Me: No. Trust me, I'm disappointed, too.

And ... scene!

In other Bret Michaels news, I finally gave Lil' Frankfurter his heart's desire. And by "heart's desire," I of course mean "The Bret Michaels dog toy I bought on clearance after Christmas because it was so hilarious and then I forgot about because I'm a bad mom."

Lil' Frank wears a parka.

Bret Michaels wears a bandana.

Together? They make magic.

As you might imagine, Lil' Frank immediately removed all of Bret's stuffing.

That's why our favorite rocker's face is looking a bit ... deflated.

Bret and Lil' Frank are now inseparable.

Can we all just agree that you haven't "made it" until there's a dog toy in your likeness?

Also, is it any wonder that this little wiener gets away with murder? Look at that face. Oh!

My marriage is built on lies. And teevee.

My Guy and I have been watching a lot of the Olympics. Or, as my brother used to call them, the Bolympics. The games of the gajillionth Bolympiad, if you will.

I was surprised to find that some of the competitors in women's gymnastics are my height, or even an inch taller. I'm 5'3" on a really good day ... and I even saw a gymnast who is 5'4"!

I mentioned this to My Guy, who was all, "What are you talking about?"

"How tall do you think I am?"

"Like, 5'5"?"

And then I had a heart attack from laughing. And then I got all somber. "You don't know me at all!"

So, I was feeling really alone, and, well, vulnerable. And then? Then I found out ... Bret Michaels is single.

Yes. Our favorite bandannaed rocker split from his fiancee / babymama. They are asking for privacy right now during this difficult time.

Now, I'm married. And I'm gonna stay married, even though this is obviously a very challenging time for me and My Guy, what with the height discrepancies and the reappearance of my old flame, Bret. We're gonna work through it, for the sake of the dogs.

But beyond that, does this mean we can look forward to yet another season of tramptastic fun on Rock of Love? Because My Guy and I have been known to bond over trashy teevee. And another Bret Michaels-based show could help us rebuild our marriage.

Now, I have a well-documented obsession with the Rock of Love skankfest. I'm sure I've personally contributed to the downfall of western civilization with my many thought-provoking posts on Bret's misguided quest for sex, err, I mean love. But Rock of Love?

If loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Buzzfeed does an excellent job of arguing for yet another season of Rock of Love. As I mentioned in my visionary proposal for Slut Rehab, we, as a culture, need to provide outlets for our hoochier members. And Rock of Love is it.

vh1? I hope you're reading. And since I was looking for volunteer opportunities, maybe I could do community service by helping the ladies cover their hoo-has and stuff.

Also? I'm sort of embarrassed by the number of posts I've written about Bret Michaels and his entire ecosystem of cheap Christmas trash. I'm hoping this means I'm an anthropologist and not, you know, a slut groupie.

A moment of appreciation.

In the immortal words of your hero and mine, Bret Michaels, "It's not if life is going to knock you down. It's when and how. And it's definitely how you roll with it."

Mmm. Every rose has its thorn, indeed.

But here's the thing, in this season of thanksgiving: I have been knocked down. And I have rolled with it. And now? Now, I look around and realize I'm reaping the rewards.

When all my friends were having babies, I was having a mental breakdown, leaving a bad relationship and moving into a shithole apartment. And it sucked. But it made me stronger.

And I had another crappy relationship. And it sucked. But it made me realize what I need, and how I deserve to be treated.

And now? Now, I am engaged to a kind, funny, smart, generous man who makes me laugh like a hyena. He is my best friend. I wouldn't fully appreciate this relationship if it weren't for its not-so-awesome predecessors.

And my former real estate woes? Karma, baby. We're buying our dream home on our dream street. And yes, it does contain my dream bathroom.Which will not stay this color for long. And yeah, we might clean it. But that is the original sink and the original tile. Huzzah!

I feel like my current theme songs are Christina Aguilera's "Fighter" and "I must have done something good" from The Sound of Music. And not just because of the bathroom. For all of it.

I'm not gloating. I'm just acknowledging. And giving thanks.

Did I mention? I can't wait for your show?

I'm watching vh1's 100 Top Songs of the 90s. This means several things.

1. I cannot turn away from vh1 countdown shows, no matter how many times I have seen them. Case in point: my recent viewing - not once, but twice - of vh1's Top 100 Artists of All Time. I believe you will join me in my utter disgust that Buddy Holly was omitted from this list. And Journey? Only number 96? Seriously?

2. I am ... a bit of a has-been. I graduated from high school and college in the 90s, and I'm just now coming to realize that holy crap, so much of our music sucked serious ass. And on what planet is a bodysuit and a flannel shirt considered proper "going out" wear? Oh, right - Planet 1995. I knew you well.

Actually, it's sort of like someone I used to know lived in the 90s. Certainly not me. This is also how I felt about that person I used to be who had an escape plan to lock herself in the bathroom and jump down the laundry shoot to escape an unpredictable boyfriend. It's so ridiculous - I don't know that person any more. Like I also don't know the person who, at 110 pounds, wore XXL sweatshirts with leggings and ankle boots.

*shiver*

3. Because vh1 is vh1, every single commercial break has alerted me to big, big news. Bret Michaels: Life as I Know It premieres Monday, Oct. 18! Set your DVRs now. But, actually, it's easy to remember, because Bret's show premieres the day after my big premiere as an ordained woman of the cloth at Poochie's wedding.

Yep. You're welcome for that handy mental crutch. It's like a traditional mnemonic, but better. It's all "every rose has its mnemonic" mnemonic.

So, Bret.
You're awesome.

And I can't wait for your show.

And I will totally be wearing my t-shirt.

And even though I'm super excited to be marrying My Guy? He understands about you. About us.

So much so that when I saw these engagement photos that were crashed by none other than The Boss, and I demanded that My Guy and I have the same Springsteentastic engagement photos?

My Guy sighed and said, "Well, I had Bret Michaels lined up for our engagement shoot, but I guess I'll cancel ..."

So, can't wait for your show, Bret.

Nameless, faceless corporate drone.

I feel like the world's worst blogger. Or maybe just the world's worst human.

I've been working like a crazy woman all week. As in, working late, coming home, then working some more. Waking up in the middle of the night, thinking about work, not being able to go back to sleep, and deciding I should just get up and work. Then, next thing I know, I've slept through my alarm and am late for - you guessed it - work.

Balance? Huh? Whaaa?

But I have managed to walk Dachshund Nation every day this week. Tuesday night, I managed to coerce them to go to bed at 9:30. So, little victories. But I haven't even had time to watch my DVRed Miss Universe Pageant, chock full o' national heritage costumes and hosted by Mr. Bret Michaels.

Now? Now, it's almost the weekend. And I promise to have something - anything - to write about then that will be at least marginally interesting.

You knew this post was coming.

I know I'm a little late to the party, but have you seen Bret Michaels: Life As I Know It?

It's a preview of the rocker's newest reality show, wherein he lets us all in on his home life with his babymama and two daughters.

Sound familiar? Gee, I wonder why. I had this little brainchild a few weeks ago, but I called it "Leave It To Bret."

Whatever. I ain't hatin'. Basically, I'm lovin' this show, which started production before Bret's recent rash of health issues. vh1 promises that the series will air this fall, and that they will replay the preview 267,983,468 times between now and then.

As much as I was enthralled by all the skanks on Rock of Love Bus, and as much as I really hope Bret will host Slut Rehab to reach out to the ladies displaced by the end of that television franchise? Well, I'm even more enthralled now with Bret. Not in a creepy stalker way. He just seems like genuine guy.

Need proof? Check out Bret chilling with his infamously gassy 4-year-old in one of those plastic kiddie castles.


"I spend a lot of time in the castle. Jorja learned how to swear while Daddy was building the magic castle ... "

It's my life dream that My Boyfriend Dave Grohl will one day have his own reality show. But until then? Well, I'm counting down the days until Bret's show is my own personal Weekly Television Event.

You know, like a miniseries from the 80s. But better.

Obviously delirious.

In the midst of the layoffs and subsequent restructuring, my posse at Corporate Behemoth has been focusing on what's really important.

Pants.

Men's pants. Or, what we're calling "Fashion Pants."

You know what I'm talking about. The types of pants that helped Bret Michaels become The Celebrity Apprentice.

Pants with flaps.

Pants that can only be successfully donned by a select few men. Men like Bret Michaels. Not men like those at Corporate Behemoth.

No hate to my coworkers. But Fashion Pants? They are a fickle denim mistress. And all you soft software types who are flexing your style muscles on casual Fridays with your six-year-old polo and your brand-new Fashion Pants?

Don't. Just don't.

My Guy, who is admittedly a professional computer nerd, has ruled on Fashion Pants. "No one who works in IT should wear Fashion Pants," he says. "In fact, Fashion Pants shouldn't come in any size over a 30-inch waist."

Then he got thoughtful. "I bet your brother could wear Fashion Pants."

Now, I once shopped for pants with Poochie and his legs are so long and his waist is so buff that he has to special order his pants. So, yeah, I bet he could get away with Fashion Pants.

Except that he has taste.

Photos courtesy of Macys.com.

Rainbow in the dark.

This weekend was my birthday. Yahoo!

My Guy treated me to a super fancypants dinner at a restaurant where the waiters have business cards. Who knew?

We saw a little road show by a little TV personality named Conan O'Brien.

My brother even remembered my birthday, even though he admitted that it took an e-mail from our mom and a face-to-face reminder from a family friend to make him remember. This is my brother who still hasn't given me the Snuggie he bought for my birthday last year, the Snuggie that he instead took on a multi-day bike trip to use in lieu of a sleeping bag. That brother.

And Alice made me this t-shirt, which I think I'm going to wear every day forever.

Yes. My birthday? She was very, very good to me.

However.

(Because there's always a however.)

Remember when I was all, "Boo-hoo! Sammy Davis Jr. and Jim Hensen both died on my birthday?"

Yep.

Now, my day is further tainted by the unfortunate passing of rock god Ronnie James Dio.

Dammit.

Now, I will always love me some Ronnie, mostly for a quote about him from one of those vh1 compilation shows. Wrestler Chris Jericho pointed out that 5'4" Ronnie had "the voice of a rock god coming from the body of Carla from Cheers."

Ha!

But here's the really scary thing. I have an occasional premonition for ... you know ... sensing when people are crossing over.

I knew the exact moment my grandpa passed ... 500 miles away. That was beautiful and very emotional but very peaceful and lovely, too.

And that was my only premonition for, like, 15 years. Then, a few Christmases ago, I had this crazy feeling about your favorite president and mine, Gerald R. Ford. And then he died, like, the next day.

And this weekend? Out of the frickin' blue, I turned to My Guy on Saturday night and said, "I wonder how Ronnie James Dio is doing."

And he died the next morning.

I scare myself.

But mostly, I'm thankful for all of the friends who seemed to come out of the woodwork to wish me a nice day. I felt so rich! And special kudos to my cousin, who feels my pain about the whole cool-people-died-on-my-birthday thing.

"OK, if it'll make you feel any better ... Burl Ives died on my birthday. Have a holly jolly birthday!"

Mea culpas and blogging with friends.

Alice called me at work today.

"I just got off the phone with Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I asked if he'd read your blog about Bret and wasn't it funny? And he had. But he was upset."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well, he thinks you totally phoned it in when you called him 'KG' on your blog."

"Really?"

"Yeah. He was like, 'You're Alice and that's cool, but it's like when she got to my name? It's like she didn't even TRY! And Jake's name is cool, but KG? Like, I'm not even worth the effort!"

"Oh, nooo ..."

"Yeah. Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm is really bummed. He wants to be called 'Rocco.'"

Now, in my defense, the first time I wrote about Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm, it was after a three-hour happy hour. He'd gotten me drunk ... how was I supposed to come up with a clever name after that?

And Rocco? Rocco is Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm's dog. The luckiest dog in the universe, as Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm saved him up from the pound and certain death and promptly took him to Coach, where they picked out a new leather collar more fitting for Rocco's new lifestyle.

So, basically? Our Mutual Friend Who Broke The News of Bret Michaels' Brain Aneurysm is awesome. And any non-awesome moniker simply Will. Not. Do. I will totally refer to him as Rocco and have actually gone back and changed all references to him to Rocco.

Rocco? I'm sorry.

And this has nothing to do with the fact that last week Rocco left me a voicemail that I will save forever and dip in bronze:

Hey Cha Cha. It's Rocco. My God, you are so funny. I swear to God, of all those bloggers that end up becoming famous because of their blogs and end up writing books and shit? They're just poseurs compared to you. That's what you should be doing. I feel like you need to just drop this Corporate Behemoth act ...

Sometimes? Sometimes, you just need to hear that. Thanks.

Making the world a better place, one skank at a time.

For the first time ever, I ran out and bought a People magazine the day it hit the newsstand.

Obviously.

So, Bret.

First of all, I am so, so happy that you are going to be OK. Alice and I were in the car with our friend Rocco when he was messing with his phone and all, "OMG, Bret Michaels had an aneurysm!" And we were all, "You're lying. That's the meanest joke ever. Shut up." Because you and I have a long history, what with Poison and your tasteful dating shows. And now, thanks to Celebrity Apprentice, Alice has announced that you are on Her List.

But Rocco wasn't playing a mean joke. He was telling the truth. And Alice and I rushed back to her house and searched for any news we could find. Sadly, E! News was our best source, and they weren't saying much. And we had to endure Ryan Seacrest. Which tells you how much we were worried about you.

So, now you're rehabbing it up and expected to make a full recovery. And you told People that your kids kept you alive because you didn't want them to face a future without a dad. And then my heart melted just a bit.

You also aluded to possibly getting married to the mom of your daughters and your current girlfriend.

Sigh.

Now, at first, I was all, "WHAT? You mean you didn't find true love on Rock of Love Bus with Taya, the Penthouse Pet / adult entertainer who obviously saw the show as a career move and whose real name is Laurie?

Color me shocked.
So, super awesome for you if this experience gives you a new lease on life and helps you figure out the life you really want to live. We should all be so lucky to have that kind of clarity and purpose.

However.

What does this mean for the future of your career in television? I'm guessing that if you're married, any show where you search for your ladylove is sort of, umm, out. I like the idea of a "Leave it to Bret"-style show where you showcase your family life. What is it like to have a non-Ozzy rocker dad? You could show us. However, if you're heebed out about having your kids on the teevee? Well, dude, I totally commend you.

So, all signs point to one true future for you: Slut Rehab with Bret Michaels.
Obviously.

Because if you don't have a dating show anymore, then there are going to be tons of unemployed skanks. Women who would have otherwise found a livelihood catfighting for your affections will have nowhere to turn, nowhere to go. And who knows sluts better than anyone?

That's you, Bret. It's your calling - nay, your duty - to help these skanks turn their lives around. Hopefully it won't take a brain aneurysm to straighten them out and get them out of their Frederick's of Hollywood tube dresses and into clothes that are more appropriate for, well, not being a whore. You can make it happen, and by putting it all on TV, you'll be doing outreach for the skanks that you can't help personally.

Think about it. Feel better. And call me. We can make this happen!
Images courtesy of people.com and vh1.com.

Back in the saddle.

Ugh.

I haven't written in five days and it feels like my brain has atrophied. I am no longer capable of stringing words together in any sort of meaningful, remotely amusing way. I should probably just hang it up.

Or at least make up a good tale about my whereabouts. I was in Rome! Starring in a movie! About pizza!

Or not.

The truth? I had a headache that lasted three days. And then the two days after that? I was busy not having a headache.

But that headache? That brain explosion that actually made me (gasp) take a sick day? I think it was directly tied to your favorite vh1 star and mine, Bret Michaels. I had sympathy pains for his brain aneurysm. Or, as My Guy put it, "You and Bret? You're so on the same wavelength. Your periods would totally be at the same time."

Hmm. What could I possibly add to this post to add more value than that comment?

Something to believe in.

I'm back.

I'm not on Poison's tour bus. I wasn't given the opportunity to follow Green Girl's kind advice and wear protection. I also didn't have the opportunity to ask Def Leppard if they remembered Andi's firm boobies, which she flashed at various roadies to get backstage back in the day.

Sorry, ladies.

However, I will say that the concert? Really super fun, despite the fact that the people sitting next to Guy With Two Dogs evidently hadn't bathed since, like, Rock of Ages-era Def Leppard. pre-our-drummer-lost-his-arm-in-a-car-accident-back-when-leg-warmers-were-still-cool Def Leppard.

But I'm getting off track.

The show? Outstanding. With both bands, I found myself being surprised, realizing, "Oh, yeah! I know this song!" And yeah, I knew every song, with the exception of the one song Def Leppard played off their new album. Because that's how I roll.

And My Rock of Love, Mr. Bret Michaels? Is a showman of the Neil Diamond / Barry Manilow School of Kick-Ass Awesomeness. He was high-energy and gave his audience what they wanted. And what they wanted was to be transported back to 1988.

I was a bit taken aback, though, when Bret started talking about his support of the armed forces. People jumped to their feet like God's own football team was in the house. It was like dedicating a song to members of the military gave Bret mystical powers, or carte blanche.

My dad is a veteran. I understand that we have to support the individuals, even if we aren't necessarily on board with the overall military action. But really? Bret managed to pimp his dating reality show while thanking fans for supporting the band and the military. I think he's just shrewd.

But yeah, if / when Rock of Love comes back for a fourth season, I'll watch. Because he is funny. And drunk strippers competing for the pseudo-affections of a weave-sporting rocker are funny. And I feel so very, very balanced and normal in comparison.