I married well, part 964.

When we were registering for wedding gifts, I knew that we wouldn't register for china or for a toaster. I have my grandma's china ... and her toaster.

When I had my very first apartment, Grandma gave me a toaster that she just had around. It was new in the box, and had obviously been a gift. She kept it on-hand just in case her "real" toaster crapped out - which it never did.

The real toaster was from the 50s and made the best toast ever. My uncle could never get it to work and threatened to throw it down the driveway and run over it with his car. Maybe he's the one who gave her the extra toaster. At any rate, she kept the real toaster safe from his clutches and used it for 50 years.

So, the toaster she gave me, the new-in-box model? Yeah. In 1996, that box contained coupons that expired in 1979. They were for, like, 5 cents off a loaf of bread.

I've had this toaster ever since. It's a General Electric model, shiny metal with black plastic ends. This brave little toaster makes excellent toast and is a total champ. Much like my clock radio, I want no other toaster. My heart belongs to this toaster alone.

Today, I got the toaster out to - what else? - make some toast. Except! My toasting pal had basically become biodegradable overnight.

The metal had popped out and was hanging onto the plastic at cattywampus angle. While my favorite appliance was still capable of toasting a mean piece of bread, it looked falling-down-drunk doing it. I hoped I wouldn't burn the house down just for a piece of toast.

I spent 20 minutes trying to manipulate the metal back into its proper configuration, all while not breaking what I figured must be very brittle plastic.

I was not successful. I left the toaster out, thinking it might just realign itself and we could go back to our formerly happy lives.

Then, I remembered that I am married. Huzzah!

My Guy spent about 20 seconds popping the toaster back together. I promised him many favors of a sexual nature in return.

He just shrugged. "I get that a lot."

Grandpas and coffee shops.

I'm working at a coffee shop this afternoon. The Internet is out at my house, and it's nice to take a break from the non-stop dog humping.

Side note: My sweet friend Mo asked if Lil' Frankfurter had a good Hump Day. The answer? Every day is hump day to Lil' Frank!

So, I'm at a coffee shop, where no one is currently humping anyone else ... at least within my line of sight. It's rather refreshing.

My heart is a little bit broken.

A grandpa came in with his teenage grandson. The grandpa was probably pushing 80; his grandson was maybe 18. They got a cookie and iced coffees, and sat briefly while they shared the cookie.

The grandson gave off a vibe not of embarrassment, but of ... hurried resignation.

When you're 18, you're in a hurry. And your parents aren't cool. Your grandparents are even more hopeless. You hang out with them out of obligation. It's what you do between the important stuff, like soccer practice and chilling with friends.

Friends, I would give my eye teeth to have coffee with my grandpa. I don't even like coffee. I'd drink it black, scalding hot on this heat-indexed day, to chat with my grandpa.

One thing you don't realize when you're 18 is that your grandparents get it. They were 18 once. They knew what it was like to have someplace more important to be. They are smarter than you can even fathom.

If you're lucky, they act like they don't see your impatience. They pretend they don't know you think you're doing them some huge favor. They love you anyway. And they know that this will pass.

If you're lucky, you pay attention to what they are trying to tell you, of how they show you what they've learned.

I'm embarrassed that I was once the hurried 18-year-old, that I didn't always pay attention. I'm ashamed at the sense that I wasted even a tiny opportunity.

My brother and I were so blessed to have grandparents who lived just minutes away, kind people who were involved in our lives. Good people who lived well - they loved their family. They were thankful for everything they had. They had fun. They served their community.

I guess we learned all of this not in big, flashy moments, but in the quiet everyday. We laughed at "The Golden Girls" and savored homegrown tomatoes.

And so, when we had moments of being 18, it was OK.

But I still wanted to shake the kid in the coffee shop. Pay attention. Don't miss this. It won't always be available, and then you'll really want it, and your heart will break.

My husband always gives me the heel of the bread, because he knows it's my favorite. My grandparents used to play cards to see who got the heel - they both loved it. And they loved each other - and us. I hope that I carry that with me.

Now showing: Stayin' Erect.

Try not to be jealous of my mad design skillz.

So, it's day 2 of Humpalooza. Lil' Frankfurter continues to assert his dominance over his labradoodle brother. Poor Big Doodle just tries to ignore him, but I can tell that he's getting more and more annoyed.

I, on the other hand, have started to completely tune out the mini-dachshund-on-labradoodle crime. Mostly because I have been on the phone a good part of the day and have had no choice.

I'd be on the phone, trying to interview some guy for a newsletter for Bob's Mattress Shack, and my potential interviewee clearly doesn't want to talk to me but told Bob that he would just to make ol' Bob go away. And so I'm on the phone, trying to coerce this guy into talking to me for 5 whole minutes, and right next to me, a 7-pound dachshund is mounting and humping an 88-pound beast of a dog.

And I'm all, "Bob asked that I call you to get your thoughts on marketing mattresses."

And Lil' Frank is all, "Thrust, thrust, thrust. Lookit me. I'm a man!"

And Big Doodle is all, "Maybe if I just pretend to be asleep, he'll roll off me and leave me in peace."

I started closing my eyes while on the phone.

I live in fear that tomorrow will bring more of the same - but maybe even worse. Like, Lil' Frank could show up all greased and in a loincloth, maybe in a headband with "I am the alpha" embroidered on it.

If he has matching wristbands on all 4 paws, that's it. I'm calling the vet.

Follow your dreams, kids. Follow 'em!

I have a 7-pound dachshund.

I also have an 88-pound labradoodle.

This is a picture of said doxie molesting said doodle.

This has been going on all day. All day.

Seriously. I pull Lil' Frank off Big Doodle, roll him on his back to show that I'm the alpha, then let him go once he looks appropriately contrite. Then, Frank hops back up on Big Doodle all over again.

At first, they were under a table and I thought they were cuddling. Then I discovered that it was a very special kind of cuddling. Big Doodle is so chill that he doesn't even care. That, and given Lil' Frank's size, the doodle probably thinks it's just a piece of paper, or maybe a fly.

I would feel sorry for Big Doodle, except that he keeps walking over, getting right in my face, and burping. Burping the juicy burps that only come when one has been dining in the yard.

Nothing to see here. Just some dudes, chillin'.

Phrases I've uttered multiple times today:

• Put your penis away!
• Get off your brother! Get off!
• You're bigger than him - you can make him get off you.
• I said, put your penis away!
• I can tell you ate poop from your poopy breath!

The truth is that young Frank just will not be deterred. Much like Starship, nothin's gonna stop him now.

Big Doodle feels the same way about eating poo. I guess I've raised strong-willed kids. Umm? Yay me?

Does creativity burn fat?

After ingesting approximately 97,351 calories over the July 4th holiday, I determined it was time to go to the gym.

Umm ... I hadn't been to the gym in ... uh ... 4 or 5 weeks. Maybe you've noticed that new layer of rippled stuff on my legs?

Sigh.

So, My Guy and I go to a really, really small gym. We know all the attendants, and so when I show up alone, someone will ask where my "workout buddy" is. The answer is that he's playing softball. Or disc golf. Or basketball. Or football. Or some uber-athletic sport that I've never even heard of.

When they ask him where his workout buddy is, he can honestly say, "Oh, she's sitting somewhere."

So, as we approached the gym today, I realized that someone might ask where I've been lo these 4 or 5 or 6 weeks. Not to be mean, but to be friendly.

The truth, that I've been sitting? Was just too much. So, I came up with some on-the-fly responses.

• I got a kidney transplant. - OK, not necessarily true, but a pretty solid reason not to be on a treadmill.
• I donated a kidney. - Even better! I couldn't be on a treadmill, AND I am above reproach. Not unlike Mother Teresa.
• I was in Africa ... - Which is really far from the gym.
• ... working with orphans ... - Because Mother Teresa would approve.
• ... orphans who were blind ... - And therefore couldn't see the new layer of cellulite on my quads.
• ... and I cured them of their blindness. - Because if you're gonna go, go all out.

Sadly, no one asked where I had been. So, I was free to watch HGTV and have a coronary on the treadmill, then go home to die.

If mice had a Facebook page, I wouldn't "Like" it.

Thank you for the kind suggestions about what to do with my little mouse-in-the-dog-food issue. Because I know the people are dying to find out what happened, I can tell you ... I followed Karen's advice and left the mouse in the closed dog-food container for my sweet husband.

Yes, I'm a feminist. But marriage is about collaboration.

I did not, however, follow Karen's advice to a T and flee to the safety of a margarita bar, where I would then call her for backup. This was, admittedly, a huge oversight on my part. However, because I stayed sober and on the scene, I was able to shut.it.down. when My Guy showed up and thought he would capture the mouse in a cereal bowl.

Yes, a bowl from which we eat food. A shallow-ish bowl.

I looked at him and looked at the bowl. And earning triple points with Jesus, I refrained from saying, "Are you fucking kidding me?" No. Instead, I said, "Hmm. What will you do with him after you catch him?" You know, completely skipping over the fact that it was a cereal bowl and wouldn't even contain the varmint.

I guess my sweet husband was looking to appear to take charge without actually taking any action. He shrugged and put the bowl away, and we agreed that the mouse could lounge in the dog-food container until we came up with a better plan.

Two days later, we dumped the remaining dog food and the mouse in the trash can. Trash day is tomorrow. Either the mouse has eaten himself to death, or he's about to go for the ride of his life.

I guess it's the path of least resistance. My hope is that it's the ultimate mouse death - dying doing something you love.

I couldn't bring myself to flush the critter, per Jenny's advice. Much like reader Cinny, I have seen first-hand the devastation of a sewer backup caused by mice. Oh, the humanity!

Sigh.

I do think we should all take a moment and appreciate CookingWithGas, who reports that she drove around in a car infested by mice. That should definitely qualify for some sort of Girl Scout badge - maybe for creating an art installation, or just generally being a badass.

Me? I'm OK with skipping the mice-related badges.

Why adulthood needs a how-to manual.

I was really tempting fate by titling my last post "One of the worst things to ever happen to me."  I knew it at the time, but figured that Fate knew I was being cheeky.

Alas, Fate did not. She takes that shit seriously. Now, I'm facing life-or-death decisions.

Today, I received a text from My Guy. He had forgotten to feed the labradoodle. No big whoop! I can feed Big Doodle, no problem.

So, I trudged out to the garage and went to scoop kibble into Big Doodle's bowl. Except! Except the kibble was moving.

There was a very fat mouse in the big ol' Rubbermaid container that holds the dog food. Now, the container was almost empty, but this mouse had clearly gorged himself for a while. He was bloated and miserable - simultaneously at heaven's buffet and suffering in indigestion hell.

This infestation might have had something to do with the fact that the lid for the container was on the floor, next to the Rubbermaid tub. While I'm no expert, I believe that lids tend to work best when actually placed on top of the container.

Ahem.

There's nothing that makes me lose my housewifely mind like vermin in my house. So, clearly, the mouse needs to die, lest he end up in my silverware drawer. However ... how? I want to be humane about it. I kind of don't think that placing a mousetrap in the dog food container is going to get the desired result. Plus, I don't actually want to put my hand near the mouse. Because he could, like, gnaw my arm off with his huge teeth.

I might be getting a poor little mouse with an eating disorder confused with a horror movie rabid rat.

So, right now, the mouse is in the Rubbermaid container with the lid on it. Uh ... now what?