Things I Believe Today

I believe that overall people are good and kind.

I believe that staring at a sleeping child can lower your blood pressure.

I believe in smiling at strangers and making eye contact.

I believe this is because I am from Kentucky and not New York.

I believe that having the perfect pillow can make all the difference in how you sleep.

I believe in wearing an undershirt beneath tee shirts.

I believe that the punch people serve at baby showers should be served every Tuesday as a little pick me up.

I believe that my legs are the driest things in the world right now.

I believe that people who like Elvis Costello look good in hats.

I believe in the power of prayer and good thoughts.

I believe that I will never have a haircut that fits my personality.

I believe that I am pretty.

I believe that I am sometimes hideous as well.

I believe that if I was only allowed to listen to one album for the rest of my life it would be Blast Tyrant by Clutch.

I believe this because the lyrics are nonsensical and I could spend hours trying to figure it out.

I believe that a man with a beard is sexy.

I believe that the news wants you to be scared.

I believe this because of the amount of Florida sinkhole stories.

I believe in being kind even when it is really hard to do so.

I believe that I fail at this every day.

I believe that I will eat way too much tomorrow.

I believe that black Friday shopping is crazy.

I believe this because I get nervous around people.

I believe that about ten people are going to read this.

I believe that I am grateful for those ten.

I believe everyone should own orange shoes.

 

When You Give a Mouse Napalm

There is a mouse in my house. I found the evidence, evidence that came in the form of extreme mouse dietary issues. I could immediately smell a dank mustiness that I associate with mice, and I immediately imagined a little gray mouse behind our microwave waiting to dash out and murder me with its tiny diseased hands. I waited for DSS to knock on the door and take the children into foster care. This was not the cute little mouse of Christmas ornament lore, no tiny Santa hat with a small block of cheese, this mouse was all fangs and Black Death. I could smell its ill intent.

I found the evidence next to one of the 12 unopened jars of barbeque sauce on the counter closest to the refrigerator. You may ask why I have 12 jars of barbeque sauce and my answer would simply be:  husband. For Trey every day is a barbeque and now that is how I picture the mouse. What if the mouse is a husband, cooking ribs for his friends on a Saturday? What if the mouse poop by the unopened sauce was a sure sign that there is a tiny gross mouse world where tiny gross mice husbands wear cargo shorts and Nike shoes, drink beer and smoke meats? I truly don’t care about this progenitor, I needed that mouse dead.

I cleaned my counters with every product in the house: Pine Sol, bathroom cleaner, Mean Green, Lysol, and vinegar spray. I have used them all until a nice cloud of chemicals rose from the counters like fog from a Stephen King novel. I was satisfied with my cleaning until I reached into a cabinet and knocked a PAM cooking spray lid over and from that lid it rained mouse poop upon my clean counters. It was at this point I developed a rage that could only be controlled by pharmaceuticals. No natural and friendly means of removing this mouse would do, only powerful poison. No catch and release traps for this murderous rage. I needed the kind of poison that made Dolly and her friends believe that Dabney Coleman had died in his office chair. We needed a poison so strong that I would be afraid for my children and animals.

I started with your basic d-Con, three wedge-shaped containers containing tiny blue pellets. According to the overly informative Wal-Mart employee, “You don’t look the type to rip down drywall (he was correct), but sometimes you find dried out mice. These poisons dry them out and make them mummies.” Well, that is exactly what I need! I don’t want to see the mouse or smell the mouse. I want it to die and wither away while I watch reruns of Veronica Mars. PETA is not an organization I will soon be joining. Sure, wanting this animal to dehydrate like mouse jerky is an asshole move, but know what is also an asshole move? This mouse plotting against me in its sleep, total asshole move.

Three mouse poison wedges didn’t seem enough. I needed something more. That more was a box of poison covered with skulls and crossbones. In fact, there are so many skulls and crossbones on the package it may have been designed by Hot Topic and sold to me by a girl with kohl eyeliner and a Dandy Warhols shirt. I picked up the new solid blue sections of poison with a paper towel and threw them behind furniture. I was like a morbid flower girl spreading cubes of death. I was Kilgore in “Apocalypse Now.”

Kilgore: Smell that? You smell that?

Lance: What?

Kilgore: Napalm, son. Nothing else in the world smells like that.

Kilgore: I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombed, for 12 hours.

We are a week out from my finding the mouse evidence. After two days I stopped finding the droppings which had become the same blue as the poison. I assume the mouse is dead, but that hasn’t stopped my paranoia. I glimpse something moving and I jump out of my skin. If my hair touches my face I know that I have been transported to the episode of Sex and the City where Carrie finds a mouse in her bed and calls Aleksandr Petrovsky to come and save her. Aleksandr, really? He was never a good fit for Carrie even if he did help with the mouse. A shoestring is now a tail and I become Augusten Burroughs murdering a mouse in his bathroom in Magical Thinking.

I cannot deal with rodents on top of the stress of everyday life. I am ill equipped for such thing. I once had someone drive 15 miles to remove what I thought was a dead mouse from my room. It was actually just dog hair reflecting from a Playboy magazine, but I was 100% sure it was a mouse playing dead and planning an attack. Again, I am ill equipped for such things.

Tonight when I clean the kitchen I will hear “Ride of the Valkyries” playing faintly and I won’t believe that I am over reacting at all. As much as I hate that little asshole mouse he also helped me write almost 900 words. So, shout out to that hopefully dead dehydrated mouse in his tiny cargo shorts and Nikes.

My Words Need Viagra

I am a NaNoWriMo failure. This month I was going to sit down and write a novel; the goal of the program is 50,000 words. I signed up and created an account. I choose a genre and created a short idea of what my book would be about. I was ready to go. The world, or at least close friends, would be forced to read my 50,000 words about anxiety and bad decisions. The book would be a somewhat autobiographical account of a woman nearing her 40th birthday.

I never wrote a single word. As of the writing of this blog post it is November 10. I suppose I could try to catch up, but I am really discouraged at this point. I have been playing a little blame game trying to make excuses for why I haven’t been writing, not just not writing the novel, but not writing in general. What if I have already run out of things to say? Maybe we have a limited number of words in us and I have used most of mine up.

Depression probably plays a part in my lack of writing. The holidays are coming in fast: Thanksgiving, Mom’s birthday, and Christmas lead to a general sense of “bah humbugness” in our house. Work has been busy lately and at the end of the day I feel like I have no more words to give. Saidee has been sick. School has been consuming with an online class I’m taking. All of these are excuses for why I haven’t been writing, but they aren’t good excuses I know that.

If I am not capable of writing 50,000 words in one month, I could surely keep the blog updated with a once a week post. But to be honest I am having a problem with that as well. On my phone I have a list of blogs I have started and not finished.

  1. NoblePark and the magnificent haunted house.
  2. That time a boyfriend accidently caught my pubic hair on fire.
  3. The illegal purse trade or that time Kara and I were pretty sure we had entered an underground sex trade organization.
  4. Am I a bad feminist because I tell my children to not drink at parties?
  5. That time I pierced my vulva.
  6. That time I think my dead Grandpa talked to me.

I have ideas; I am just currently lacking the ability to get them on the page. What if I am word impotent? What if I can’t get the words up anymore? What if my words are sitting in matching bathtubs and holding hands while looking at a scenic view? Do other people feel like this and worry?

This is a blog I write for me as an outlet and for my friends for their entertainment. How much pressure must it be to actually write for a living? In a perfect world one of the pitches I send to xojane.com (first person and real life experiences, hell yes, please) would be picked up and I would start writing freelance and be a beloved commentator. However, this is not a perfect world and I am attempting to write 750 words on how I have nothing to write about. This is a sure sign that I am trapped in a strange Seinfeld-like world where nothing is really something.

So to recap: I failed at NaNoWriMo. I haven’t had a good blog post in a while. I am in a slump. I let my clothes sour in the dryer (that was not part of the blog post, but they smell of sour hell and you should know). I will now put on my Lane Bryant big girl panties and attempt to get over myself.

Thank you for listening to this pity party.

Love, Heather

PS: I didn’t hit 750 words, better luck next time.

me eating something

Until I am able to give you a better post please enjoy this photo of me eating.