Mouse Scourge, Part II: The Reckoning.

Don't even try to tell me I shouldn't write B movies. Check out that title - clearly, I have the gift.

So, I know you've been waiting with baited breath to hear how the whole there-was-a-mouse-in-the-kitchen-so-I-covered-everything-in-blood thing went down.

Well, I set the hardcore traps that my dad gave me. You know, the ones that you can only get at the farm and home store? Yeah. They are serious.

So, I set the two traps. Sadly, they didn't go off immediately. Instead, my rodent antagonist had decided to mess with me. I kept everything out of my kitchen drawers and then kind of forgot about it. I had to emotionally distance myself from the whole mouse/kitchen situation. It was just too much.

That night, I woke up because so help me Oprah, someone broke into our house. I could hear him (or her - no judging) sneaking around downstairs. I woke my exhausted, finally asleep husband and we both remained in bed, stiff with adrenaline coursing through our veins. I wondered when My Guy was going to grab his softball bat and if I shouldn't just go ahead and call 911.

After a minute of listening, My Guy said, "It's the mousetrap." Then, he rolled over and went back to sleep.

He abandoned me.

But, considering that I was then unable to sleep for the next three hours, I can say definitively that we were not burgled. And examining the trap the next day showed ... no mouse. Just tiny little claw marks in the trap's peanut butter.

Basically, the mouse had gotten a little bit trapped, made a whole lotta noise, and then escaped.

I set the trap again.

That night, no noises. Or maybe we were burgled but the dudes (or dudettes - no judging) were really quiet and with the house in such disarray, I didn't notice anything missing.

But turns out, there were no noises because the trap did its job. Inside my bread drawer was a dead mouse approximately the size of a Honda.

That was the good news. The bad news was that I was home alone.

I immediately shut the drawer with the dead mouse in it and started walking around my house, clapping purposefully. Like a pep squad girl who is a little bit off. I was clapping because hurray, we caught the mouse! And I was clapping because oh no, we caught the mouse and now we have to do something with it, and by "we" I mean "me" and I am completely freaked out.

See, the trouble with the really nice traps from the farm and home is that you can only get them at the farm and home. And there isn't a farm and home anywhere near me because I'm a fool and moved to the city, away from such places. These were hardcore traps, not the kind that you could just throw away without a second thought. There were traps of country folk. Folk who could kill a snake with a shovel and not think twice. (Hi, Melissa!)

I thought twice. I thought three and four times about what I was going to do about that dead mouse.

Then, I realized it was Saturday. My Guy was just out gallivanting around. He would be home within an hour. An hour wasn't enough time for there to be a noticeable increase in dead-mouse decay.

The carcass could wait. I could delegate. Because I am a leader and a strong woman and in no way would need to turn in my feminism membership card simply because I asked my life partner to complete a specific task in our home.

And so it was.

He made the Honda-sized mouse go away. I let scalding water run over the empty but certainly reusable trap. Order was restored.

In case you're wondering, no, I'm not going to become an exterminator.

In which I douse my home in blood.

Remember that time that a mouse leapt out of my silverware drawer and up my leg? Weren't those some good, good times?

Well, after a several-month hiatus ... guess who's back!

Oh, look. It's a mouse on vacation in my kitchen. How adorable. And tropical.

I didn't actually see the mouse this time. But I saw his handiwork. And by "handiwork," I mean "copious amounts of poo." Because so help me Oprah, that rodent from hell pooped all in my silverware drawer, my towel drawer, all amongst my aluminum foils and Ziplocs, in my bread drawer, and, of course, on both levels of my lazy susan.

Maybe he was experiencing some sort of gastrointestinal distress. Or maybe he was just a jerk.

Guess who spent an entire morning cleaning and Clorox-wiping the bejesus out of her kitchen?

I tried to be zen about it. I mean, I will never be one of those ladies with muck in the bottom of their drawers because the mouse never stays away long enough for any muck to accumulate. And isn't it kind of exercise to remove all the drawers from the cabinets and wipe down every surface within 50 feet?

Well, I was zen, and I was malicious. Because I fished out the mouse traps my dad gave me and set them up immediately. You know, just in case the mouse was brazen enough to come back while I was cleaning.

So, I wiped down every canned good and our store of extra condiments. I went through a good number of Clorox wipes. And then I realized that there was red stuff on the wipe in my hand. I must have gotten ketchup on myself somehow. I wiped stuff down some more.

And then, I realized it wasn't ketchup. It was blood. At some point, I had sliced open my fingertip, probably on the broken countertop that we've been meaning to replace for five years. The bleach probably numbed the pain, because upon further inspection, more than a few of the used wipes had blood on them. I had literally wiped blood all over my kitchen, its cabinets and drawers.

My eyes rolled into the back of my head as I considered doing another round of Clorox wiping to get rid of the blood.

And then? Then, I decided to let it be. Let the blood be a warning to any rodent vagrants wandering 'round these parts. We here do not take kindly to mice, and we are ready to spill blood - BLOOD! - to combat you. And rest assured, the blood will eventually be yours.

I also channeled kind of a Tommy Lee Jones / Sam Elliott / Josh Brolin hybrid badass cowboy while working this out in my mind. It just felt right.

So, I refrained from deblooding the kitchen. So far, the mouse hasn't come back. Coincidence? I'll let you decide.

And who did you date in 1995?

Today, I want to talk about college, friends, procuring formalwear under duress, and smoking.

Last weekend, some folks from my sorority pledge class had a little reunion. The last time we got together - perhaps 10 years ago - there was debauchery. And word is that somebody's husband puked at the late-night diner.

This time around? We met at 6 a.m. to do a 5K.

Now, lest you think I am not the girl you think I am, don't worry. I walked. Three other pals and I walked the course and felt embarrassed when the course monitors were all, "You can do eeeeet!" like Bela Karolyi.

But I digress.

We wandered around campus and did some day drinking and toured our sorority house and laughed and spoke in the shorthand that only longtime friends speak. It was good for my soul. There is just nothing better than people who knew you when.

Especially when they dig out their photo albums.

My pal Soup shared this lovely image.

Photo credit: Soup, circa March 1995.

Why yes, yes, that is me. That's me and my then-boyfriend, headed out to the 1995 Alpha Chi Winter Formal.

Behold the dress that I purchased with my friend Mo. It cost $109 at Dillards, and that was big, big money. But I felt like a million bucks, even though the beaded collar made my delicate ladyskin turn red and angry.

Similarly 90s-fab were my dyed-to-match shoes which are, sadly, out of the camera frame and lost to time. I distinctly remember I wanted the silk shantung shoes, but the lady at Payless said they wouldn't hold the dark dye, so I had to go for the shiny fake silk shoes. It was heartbreaking, but I still looked good.

Behold the wallpaper in the entryway of our beloved sorority house. It never occurred to me that it was anything but lovely, but in retrospect ... umm?

And finally, behold my then-boyfriend. He did not want to go to the 1995 Alpha Chi Winter Formal. No. Not at all. And that's why he didn't rent a tux until I shamed him into calling the tux rental place the afternoon of the formal.

Now, you might be asking, "Honey, why didn't you just let him wear a suit? It's fine." But this was 1995, and it was all tux, all the way. Plus, his next-best option was his least-dirty jeans.

He got on the phone with a very nice woman from the tux rental place who said she could cobble together a tux for him if she just knew his measurements. This led to me using the phone cord to measure his arms and waist while he was on the phone. When he provided said measurements, the woman laughed and said those were crazy measurements and she'd just wing it.

The fact that the tux fit at all was nothing short of a miracle. Thank you, tux rental place lady.

But it's not the tux that caught Soup's eye when she shared the photo. It was then-boyfriend's cupped hand.

He had a lit cigarette. In the foyer of the sorority house.

I did not remember this at all because I clearly blocked it out.

This was a time when having a lit cigarette inside the sorority house would get a girl sent down to the standards board. She could get fined or - even worse - forced to skip a date party or - gasp! - even formal.

I was clearly so exhausted from the tux-procurement that I had completely given up and couldn't begin to fight the lit cigarette.

Then-boyfriend broke my heart into a gajillion pieces about a month later. Crazily, he didn't end up disappearing into a hole. He's a good guy with kids and is very successful in his career. Like, national awards. He is a grown-up. Well, now, anyway.

Back in the day? I measured him for a tux using a phone cord and then he smoked inside my sorority house.

Welp. There you go. Young love. Or young woman trying to pretend her then-boyfriend isn't acting like a total tool.

I think I ended up paying for the tux, too.

In which I turn 41 and realize I've received the gift of contentment. For the most part.

I just had a birthday. I turned 41.

I know what you're thinking: Did I go to Vegas? Did My Guy whisk me off to Paris? Or perhaps we just had an intimate gathering for 500 of our closest friends.

This is a dramatic reenactment of the celebration.

While these are obviously great guesses, the truth is far more glamorous. Here's how my birthday went down.

1 week prior: I look through our Amazon orders in an attempt to reorder Lil' Frankfurter's specialty dog food. I spy an order ... my birthday gift order. My Guy has ordered me a power washer.

You might think this is right up there with the Christmas my dad bought my mom a toilet seat. But no. I love power washing and have long desired my own power washer. Just think of all the things I could clean!

So, I kind of ruined my own birthday surprise. And my husband bought me yard equipment (because he says I can't use the power washer inside the house - whatever). But I am delighted.

2 days prior: The power washer arrives. I try it out. It is all I ever hoped for. I realize this makes me either really sad or really secure in myself and happy with my life.

Birthday morning: My Guy lets the dogs out, and I find it strange that they don't come back to bed. I realize my sweet husband shut them downstairs. This evidently was not to Big Doodle's liking. I come downstairs to find that my 80-pound prince of a dog has peed not 1 but 2 oceans of pee to communicate his displeasure.

I spend 20 minutes and an entire roll of paper towels cleaning up the oceans and the splatter. Because when a tall dog pees, there is a splash issue.

I am somewhat crabby.

I check my email. I have received spam from Poise, urging me to upgrade my bladder protection. Poise pads - what every 41-year-old wants for her birthday!

Birthday day: I do laundry. I clean Big Doodle's stinky, infected ear. I finish up 3 work projects. I am still in my workout clothes - without having actually worked out - when My Guy gets home from work.

Birthday evening: I change my clothes. We go out for dinner. I order a guava mai tai. I order this $8 drink because it's my fucking birthday and I fucking deserve it.

This is adulthood. This is a birthday as an adult. I get a power washer (yay!) and an appeal for Poise pads (boo!) and I order a drink like a fucking lady (boom!).

The most upsetting thing is that I'm not that upset. This is actually just fine.

Book review: Bernadette Peters Hates Me.

If you're anything like me, you have real problems with Broadway legends hating your guts. And you just wish this was an experience that was represented in literature and, dare I say, the cultural zeitgeist.

I know. I know! Patti LuPone hasn't spoken to me in years. Or ever. But still.

Thankfully, there's a new book that addresses all of this and more. In Bernadette Peters Hates Me: True Tales From A Delusional Man, Keith Stewart shares his difficult journey as the target of Ms. Peters' disdain.

Actually, that's only one essay. But it's a doozy. And isn't the cover cool?

This slim volume is like a bar of rich dark chocolate. You just need a little bite at a time because it's so good. Now, you can totally gorge yourself and that's cool. But I found this was a book to be savored.

And maybe that makes it sound high brow. But ... nooooo. Keith covers such universal topics as:

• When your family gets in a rumble with another faction of the family at a funeral.
• Going to the post office in your underwear.
• That time granny hid her handbag in the washing machine, forgot about it, and then did a load of wash, which set off the loaded pistol in said pocketbook.
• When your family breaks a church window during a funeral and then can't stop laughing but COME ON, they were playing "Freebird" on a cassette boom box.

Also, there's an essay entitled, "Hot Yoga, or How to Self-Administer Your Own Stroke."

I want to be his best friend.

You can check out Keith's writing over at his blog, A Strong Man's Cup of Tea. But be sure to support this first-time author by picking up his book, too. Here, we give it 5 out of 5 slightly unhinged dachshunds.

What have you been reading lately?

Don protective headgear. Breakfast foods are falling from the sky.

Mercury is in retrograde, which is the excuse I'm using for the fact that I accidentally texted a client and asked if she wanted chips from Chipotle.

Oh, hell.

I guess of all the texts I send my husband, that was a pretty innocent one to accidentally send to a client. At least it wasn't "Why are there no BBQ potato chips in our house? EVERYTHING IS TERRIBLE." Or "Today was a good day. Didn't hafta use my AK." Or "Come hooooooooooome. Take me out for pizza before I eat allllllll the potato chiiiiiiiips."

Yes, those are actual texts I sent My Guy. Clearly, chips are a vital component of our union. And texting is an important mode of marital communication.

A few days ago, My Guy didn't text me. He emailed me because more weird stuff was going down, and he had super important things to say. And what he had to say was this:

So, I almost got into two wrecks this morning and a pancake randomly blew onto my windshield.

Say what?

Wrecks? OK, fine. People drive crazypants on the road that leads to My Guy's office. But a pancake?

I was filled with so many questions. Did someone throw it out of their car? Was it dropped by a bird? Who was missing their breakfast? Did you eat it?

My unflappable husband responded:

The pancake was so weird. The light just turned green and I was beginning to move and it just plopped down right in front of my face. I have no idea where it came from. A bird seems the most likely culprit. I forgot my wallet sized syrup so I didn't eat it.

The fact that he was unprepared and didn't have syrup on hand is obviously very upsetting. But where did the pancake come from? Was it a sign? Was My Guy actually adopted and his real last name is International House of Pancakes, and he's the long-lost heir to the IHOP fortune, and oh, by the way, he will now be Earl of Pancake? It had to be something like this because who has a flippin' PANCAKE fall from the SKY right onto their windshield - specifically the part of the windshield where they look?

I guess I asked too many questions because he didn't respond. Some thing about having "a real job." Whatever. But, of course, I cornered him about it when he got home.

Yes, he used his windshield wiper to brush the pancake off. No, it didn't smear. Yes, he wasted a perfectly good windshield pancake. No, he didn't think it was a sign. Yes, he was certain he wasn't adopted. No, he didn't think he was in line to be the next Earl of Pancake.

I was not deterred. Was he absolutely sure he wasn't going to be Earl of Pancake? Because I like fixing up old buildings, and, you know, instead of being responsible for some big manor house, he'd be responsible for the upkeep on all those old-school chalet-style IHOPs. We have one near us and I want to love it but it's always sticky and smoke-filled and makes me feel like I might have contracted Ebola.

Anyway, My Guy became - dare I say it - defiant. He will not be assuming any duties tied to the earldom of Pancake. Actually, his exact quote was, "I ain't refurbishing no damned IHOPs."

Well, then. I guess we aren't aristocrats after all, not with that attitude. But if the windshield pancake wasn't a sign of some life calling, then it must be a sign of END OF DAYS. Because c'mon - pancakes are raining from the sky.

Or, maybe it's yet another story about birds dropping random stuff on people, like when a hawk dropped a dead bird on Alice's dinner plate. Either way, everybody get a helmet. Because I'm pretty sure that even a pancake gathers pretty good velocity when dropped from a few hundred feet.

Further proof I'm turning into my mother.

It's the season of Mother's Day, so you know what I'm going to talk about: liquor.

My home state of Iowa only had state-owned liquor stores until 1987. They all had blue signs with white reflective lettering, like road signs. No fancy fonts or extra letters, just the business at hand: LIQUOR STORE.

I liked the LIQUOR STORE in my hometown because it had those magic doormats that make the door swing open when you step down. Is there anything more magical? No, no there is not. And yes, yes this means that my mom took me to the LIQUOR STORE as a kid. Because drinking wasn't a big deal, and so she raised kids that didn't run off and get drunkety drunk drunk at the first opportunity and drive off a bridge. Because we are chill.

Anyway, all the booze purchased at the state-owned LIQUOR STORE had special state stickers on it. Thus, liquor appropriated from the state was marked. And, in a way, dated.

Because now, my brother and I chide our parents for still having liquor in their home that has those state stickers on it. Meaning, it was purchased in or before 1987. Because Mom doesn't drink enough.

A perusal through Mom's liquor cabinet means moving some jigsaw puzzles out of the way to access the back of a basement cabinet. There, you'll find creme de menthe, peach schnapps, Southern Comfort, and a 4-pack of Bartles & Jaymes. The creme de menthe is for brownies. The peach schnapps and Southern Comfort are for the punch I accidentally got drunk on in 8th grade. And the Bartles & Jaymes is for when Mommy has HAD IT.

All of these items have the Iowa state LIQUOR STORE sticker on them. Meaning they are at least 29 years old.

This has been a source of good-natured ribbing. We'd poke fun at the alcoholic antiquities and Mom would just shrug her shoulders. "What if I need it?"

It was all fun and games until last weekend. My Guy and I were tasked with providing drinks for a Mexican dinner with friends. We settled on La Paloma, which promised to be a refreshing drink with a bit of a kick. Basically, lime, tequila, and Fresca. And who doesn't love Fresca?

As My Guy was getting ready to go on a Fresca run, I pulled the tequila out of our liquor cabinet. Because I keep house much like my mother, our liquor cabinet is the top shelf of our coat closet. Who needs hats and gloves when you have a good Scotch?

So, I grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo. It was about 2/3 full. And it had a sticker on it. A sticker from ... the state of Texas. I'd bought the tequila duty-free in Mexico and carried it back across the border, like a good bargain shopper. Which is all well and good except that I haven't been to Mexico since 2003.

Oh.

This could be bad.

I did a little research. Tequila doesn't really go bad, but it can get funky and less potent. I opened the bottle and took a research swig.

Ick.

Describing the tequila as "chunky" would not be inaccurate. It burned, but not as much as the realization that I am, in fact, becoming my mother. Dancing in inappropriate places? Check. Deciding you don't give a shit? Check. Storing liquor until it's practically a solid "just in case?" Checkety check check.

My Guy staged an intervention and poured the offending tequila down the drain. I had to look away.

I guess, like my mama, I don't drink enough. Perhaps this is something the 2 of us can work on together. Just not with La Paloma. My Guy liked it but I felt like it was going to put hair on my chest, which isn't a look I'm going for. Because I'm a lady of grace and dignity, dammit. Just like my mom.