Busy, busy

It has been a wild and busy week here at the Daily Globe, complete with red solo cups, a few dance routines, some judge excitement, enough singing that you’d think we’re in a Broadway musical and a variety of moments that made me say, “What?” with a confused look on my face. And it was capped by a harrowing drive on snowcovered roads Friday.

Whew!

It can be pretty crazy in the newsroom at times, but there’s a lot of laughter and eye rolling to keep things interesting. Most of the time, I’d rather be busy than bored, so it’s all good. The giggles and hoots make it fun to work each day, and watching Aaron Hagen demonstrate zumba dance moves was well quite humorous. Should have grabbed a video camera for that one.

The first couple of weeks of 2012 have been hectic between work, obligations and home, not to mention a nasty bout of the flu.

Ugh, flu. Don’t you hate it when you know you have a million things to do, but getting off the couch is an impossible task? I spent a whole day either asleep or dizzy and nauseous while awake. I got as far as dragging my laptop over to the couch with the intent of getting some work done, but that used up all of my energy. I settled for lying on the couch staring dazedly at the television, and since I was feeling too yucky to get up and get the remote, I ended up watching several episodes of “Wife Swap.” What a weird show.

While not at work or attending meetings, I’ve been helping my husband Eric work on the upstairs rooms abandoned by our children as they fled the nest. I haven’t really done much other than sort out stuff they left behind. It is truly amazing how many things they “have to have” when they are kids, then leave behind without a qualm when they move out. They even refuse to take the stuff when they visit.

What are we supposed to do with first grade wrestling trophies, high school Knowledge Bowl medals, letterman jackets and enough artwork to wallpaper the whole house? Stuffed animals, kids books, empty pop cans, Hotwheel cars, funky hats, things I can’t really identify, old board games and about 50 VHS kid movies were sorted through. I cleaned out the old footlockers the kids have been using as toy boxes since, well, before two of them were born. I found about a trillion old happy meal toys and actually kept quite a few that were complete. I figure someday my granddaughter will be visiting and bored, and it will be like opening a treasure chest. I had to trash one of the footlockers because someone must have jumped on it a few times — the top was caved in — but one of them is now full of little toys.

Eric has been patching holes and taping and mudding and sanding, so we should be ready for painting in Nick’s old room over the weekend. Hopefully we’ll get to the playroom within a few days. Eric had to do a little patching after we discovered one wall had been used as a target for what looks like ninja throwing stars (What the heck were they thinking?). Matthew’s room needs to stay as is for awhile, but when we get to it, the only thing that really needs doing is painting. Maybe a little sanding, since it used to be Maggie’s room and she used puffy paint to draw a few fish on the walls when she was a teenager (without clearing that little escapade with her father, of course).

Eventually, we’ll have guest quarters up there. A guest bedroom, a kid bedroom and a play area for Layla and any other grandbabies that come along.

Once that is all done, maybe we can relax a little bit.

Yeah, right. That’ll happen.

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Where’s the ice?

 Several weeks ago, my husband Eric came back from a quick jaunt over to Lime Lake and was quite pleased.

“It’s a solid three inches thick,” he said with a smile. “Good and black. We’ll be fishing by next weekend.”

He was talking about the ice, and he was right. The following Saturday, which was December 11, we dragged the portable fish house out onto Bloody Lake and dropped lures down into the icy water, hoping to catch a few fish. The ice was a solid five inches.

We didn’t catch anything and the wind was howling to beat the band, but we didn’t care. We were ice fishing.

We were planning on heading back out the next day, but the wind had moved from howling to screaming, and then my daughter called to say she needed me to head toRochester so she could have her baby.

By Dec. 18, I was back in town. Eric and I headed out to Fox Lake for the day, and it was so beautiful out that we never even set up the portable. We just ran around the lake in our cold weather gear, happy as clams to be out on the ice, which was up to about eight inches thick.

I had gotten a new set Ice Armor, a new pair of winter boots, and was so ready to hang out with the hubby and fish. Since our granddaughter made her arrival a bit ahead of schedule, we had some time off at the end of the month and were going to dedicate it mostly to some serious (well, seriously fun, anyway) fishing, probably in the portable, but what the heck!

We were psyched about taking the permanent house out, too. We had made a few fixes over the summer, cleaned everything out, adjusted the height of the rattle reels and made a few other minor changes for comfort. We were so ready to rock and roll!

“It’s going to be a great winter,” Eric told me.

And then warm happened.

Our ice disappeared.

We got all sad.

Don’t get me wrong. I like nice weather as much as the next person. But sometimes your definition of nice isn’t the same as the next person’s. I don’t mind the absence of snow. It actually pleases me to see our city plow sitting in the fire station bay with nothing to do.

But Eric needs ice. He needs to fish in the winter, because otherwise he makes me a bit crazy. He thinks up projects, for goodness sake! Projects that I’m not always around to supervise or help guide him in the right decisions.

I’ll admit, it’s not just him that needs to go ice fishing. It’s me, too. I love it. I love sitting in the big house reading a book and watching Eric keep himself busy jigging lures or thinking up ways to tease me. I love clomping out to the portable to fish a bit more seriously, working the fancy electronic stuff. I love meeting other outdoors enthusiasts out on the frozen lakes, listening to their stories of mighty battles and the ones that got away.

Some couples go antique hunting together. Some ride motorcycles. Others jog or shop or watch TV. We fish.

It is supposed to get upward of 50 degrees on Thursday! Fine, once there’s a foot of ice on the lakes. But not right now!

A friend who owns a resort on Mille Lacs has been sharing photos on Facebook that show open water, some of it covered in white caps. We’ve seen photos on Hot Spot Outdoors of open water onLake of the Woods. I’ve heard reports of houses and trucks going through the ice.

Not good. Not good at all.

And the worst part is that when it is mid-February and 10 degrees below zero with a 30 below wind chill, I’ll be absolutely longing for a day of 50 degree weather.

Or maybe not. Hopefully by then I’ll be out in the fish house, all warm and toasty, catching fish and having a great time.

I don’t need snow. But when it comes to that temperature… drop, baby, drop!

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A look back at 2011

Well, 2011 has been quite a year for me. I decided to list a few of the more significant events.

Number 1, of course, was the birth of my granddaughter, Layla Jean. This just happened a few weeks ago, but little Layla has been anticipated since early summer. I think it’s a heck of a way to end the year, and a wonderful way to begin 2012 — as Granny J.

Watching my youngest child, Matthew, graduate from high school was bittersweet. It signified the end of an era for me and my husband. Having become parents at such a young age, it was rather mind-boggling for us to try to figure out what happens next. The obvious answer? More time fishing, of course.

Bringing that same child to college and driving away was another momentous occasion. I got home and my husband Eric was standing in the garage looking sad. We wanted to just sit around and be depressed, but the world wouldn’t let us do it. A neighbor stopped by, a friend stopped by, the city clerk stopped by… they wouldn’t let us just mope.

It wasn’t all about being sad, though. There was more than one moment when Eric and I would make a last-minute plan to do something and smile over the fact there were no other schedules to check, no one to stock the fridge for and no one to clear things with. On the other hand, there was no one to let the dog in and out if we escaped for awhile!

I’ve worked on some interesting articles this year, attended some heart wrenching trials and hearings, talked to some people who were fascinating and snapped a few photos that told stories of their own. I’ve read criminal complaints that have made me wince, chuckle or fight back tears. I’ve had a lot of laughs with some great co-workers. I’ve had a lot of help from some great sources — many of whom are more than just sources to me. They are people I think of as friends.

I’ve also learned a lot this year. In this job, I feel like I learn things on a regular basis. It is one of my favorite aspects of journalism, honestly. I don’t just learn about crime and legal stuff, either. I learned this year how some women reacted when diagnosed with breast cancer, how brass fittings are made, how hydroponic tomatoes are grown, the best way to hit a billiards ball, how to get the most out of gas mileage and how to smoke carp.

I’m not sure if any of this knowledge will come in handy later in life, but I’ve always thought it will give me a great advantage if I ever end up on a trivia game show.

I’m looking forward to 2012. Hopefully there will be some great fishing trips, a lot of time with my granddaughter, a few quiet walks with my husband and some quality time with my children and my dog Jeffrey. I’ll look forward to another bountiful garden and fresh, sparkling jars of salsa and tomato sauce, another wedding anniversary, time spent playing with toys and laughing with friends.

I normally am not a fan of resolutions, but I will resolve to try to write more blogs. Look for them every week or so in the Daily Globe or check it out more often online at www.laundry.areavoices.com.

Happy New Year, everyone.

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Granny-hood is a great thing

I know, I’m behind on my blogging, but I have a totally legit excuse — honest!

As many of you know, I have been eagerly anticipating the arrival of my granddaughter. My daughter Maggie — the one doctors told us would never be able to have children — had defied those medical decrees and was happily pregnant, with the baby due Dec. 21.

But toward the end of November, her blood pressure went a bit wonky. Yes, that is the technical industry term. Her numbers were spiking, her protein levels were jumping and she wasn’t always feeling at the top of her game. She had waited until after both brothers’ birthdays, and even graciously agreed (with a giggle) to give me a chance to go ice fishing Saturday, Dec. 10, but her pregnancy was getting a bit dangerous for both her and the baby.

Maggie called around noon on Sunday to say she was waiting for some test results, but had been told she could be expected to be induced later that week. So we made plans. Maggie had decided she wanted me in the delivery room when the baby was born, so making sure I was there in time took a bit of planning. After all,Rochesteris three hours away.

We decided I would probably leave Wednesday, depending on what her doctor had to say at an appointment earlier in the week. After chatting with her for quite a while, we both felt like we had our baby plans in order.

Yeah, right.

I stood in the garage filling Eric in on our new, improved plans, then called his mother and let her know.

Then Maggie called at 2 p.m.

“Mom, the test results came back and they don’t like the look of them, so they’re going to induce me,” she said.

“You mean, like Monday instead of Wednesday?” I asked.

“Um, no,” she replied. “Like, in two hours.”

Oh.

So I packed and I grabbed stuff and ignored my husband dancing around me asking “What can I do to help?” repeatedly, and I drove toRochester.

Layla Jean was born at 9:53 a.m. Monday morning. It was an incredible experience. I went from referring to her as the Jelly Bean to Layla Jean. And eventually settled on Layla Bean.

Becoming a grandmother is so different from becoming a mother. For one thing, you get to snicker a lot at your grandbaby’s parents. Not necessarily when they’re looking, of course. Just when it takes two of them to change a t-shirt the size of a napkin, or is a three minute process to transfer the baby from one set of arms to another — times like that are very snicker-worthy.

Another cool thing is that for some reason, I’ve attained wise status. I was suddenly bombarded with questions that I totally knew the answer to every time, and it felt great!

What to do when the baby gets the hiccups? I know that. What to do when the baby needs changing? I know that. What to do when the baby won’t stop crying? I know that, too. I’m a veritable fount of information when it comes to the care of little ones, according to Maggie and Luke.

Not exactly true, but why burst their bubbles, right?

What I don’t know is how my husband will react when his granddaughter is placed in his arms for the first time. But I’ll find out in a few days. I know Eric already bought Layla a fishing pole, but Maggie won’t let us take her fishing until after she’s too big to fit down the hole in the fish house. Because when you’re in a fish house, everything falls down the hole eventually.

So, that’s my excuse. I didn’t write a blog because I was inRochestergetting my Granny groove on. Check tomorrow’s People page for a look at my little Layla Bean. I’m sure you’ll agree she is the prettiest baby in the history of babies.

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Birthdays and birthdates and other stuff I didn’t remember

 I woke up Monday morning with something niggling at the back of my brain. As I wandered into the living room, shooed the dog off the couch (which he ignored) and glanced outside to check the weather, my mind was working on remembering whatever it was I was supposed to remember.

Oops!

I grabbed the cell phone I had left sitting on the end table, mentally chastising myself for forgetting to bring it into the bedroom. I’m on baby watch right now, since my daughter Maggie is due to give birth to my granddaughter sometime in the next two weeks. It’s been on my mind a lot, because she wants me there when the baby is born. So I’ve been driving around with a packed bag in my car, ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Maggie has a medical condition that has made this pregnancy a bit of an adventure, and the doctors weren’t sure she’d go full term.

I’ve purposely not made any serious plans or appointments, because the minute I do, she’ll go into labor. She’s contrary that way.

And I’ve been keeping my cell pone handy at all times. Which is why I panicked slightly when I realized I hadn’t brought it into the bedroom.

“Whew,” I thought when I saw the blank screen.

No missed calls, no text messages. I’m in the clear.

I headed toward the shower, but something was still niggling away. Hmmm… what else did I forget?

My thoughts leaned back toward this grandbaby I’m impatiently waiting for, and I started thinking about all the stuff Maggie and Luke have sitting in their house, waiting for baby’s arrival. I had recently gotten a high chair from the Slayton Swap Shop on Facebook, and I still can’t decide whether to bring it toRochester, where Maggie and Luke live, or keep it home for when it is Granny time.

A little later, I was driving down the road towardWorthington, still thinking about baby stuff. At this point, the kid has one of everything – except a birthday.

Suddenly the niggling in the back of my head became a roar.

“CALL YOUR SON!” it yelled.

Oh! Right! Nick’s birthday.

I didn’t forget — I just didn’t exactly remember right away.

My son Nick turned 21 on Monday. Happy birthday, kiddo. Hopefully I’ll see you this weekend, unless, of course, your sister goes into labor.

And just so that I can stay ahead of the game a little, I’d better give a birthday shout out to my son Matt, who will be 19 on Thursday. Happy birthday, Buddy.

I can’t believe my baby is 19 years old. My little guy Nick is 21. How is this possible? I was just getting up for midnight feedings a few days ago, right? Where did my little boys go? Time sure flies.

Unless you’re waiting for someone to go into labor. Then it just plods along.

It seems like all the kids are grown-ups now, which makes me wonder who is left to be kids.

I got involved in an email conversation with my sisters-in-law about upcoming Christmas plans, and watched a discussion evolve about how to do the drawings for names for our yearly gift exchange. We used to separate the drawings for kids and adults, but with my baby turning 19, all of my kids qualify as adults, as do most of my nieces. The youngest in our family is my nephew Luke, who is 11. But I have a great-niece who is only 3 years old.

So, how do we decide who is an adult and who is a kid for the drawing, my sister-in-law asked.

My youngest brother came up with the perfect solution.

“Cut them in half and see how many rings they have,” he wrote.

I’ll have to remember not to leave him lone with the grandbaby.

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Typical, helpful chaos

 My daughter Maggie called Thursday night to see how our Thanksgiving had gone. Eight months pregnant, she had decided to skip the 3-hour drive to Avoca this year and stick closer to home, spending the day with Luke’s family. Can’t say I blame her for that one.

“How did everything go? Did you guys have a nice dinner?” she asked.

“The usual chaos,” I replied.

She just chuckled, because she knows exactly what I mean.

I love the Thanksgiving chaos my family creates. It would make me crazy if I had to do it every day of the year, but there’s something about that day — everyone packed into the kitchen, many hands helping, the dog sticking close by in case something hits the floor and the door opening and closing as people bring in more stuff.

It was gratifying to see both of my young men pull their shoes on the moment they saw their grandparents pull into the driveway so they could rush out and help carry things in. No more having to remind them. It just gives a mom a warm, fuzzy feeling when you notice all those years of badgering manners into them actually worked.

Mostly.

At one point I was mixing up a batch of sesame seed dip to go with the beer bread squares I had made, and the rubber scraper slipped off the side of the bowl, splattering little blobs of dip at the feet of my youngest son Matthew and his college buddy Caleb.

“Way to go, Mom!” Matt teased, then backed away when I handed him a paper towel to wipe it up. “Oh no, you did it, you clean it up.”

Of course, as I was on my hands and knees cleaning up the mess and surrounded by four people ages 18 to 20, my neighbor Michelle walked in the door, closely followed by my co-worker Ana. As I struggled to my feet (why is up always so much harder than down?) Matt broke down and grabbed another paper towel.

“Geez, you missed half of it,” he grumbled as he wiped up the floor.

My husband Eric has graciously offered to peel the potatoes that morning, basically so he could get out of any chores once football started. I left the mashing chore to Ana, who is younger and has more endurance than I do. Nick was in charge of gravy, and Jess helped out pretty much everywhere.

We jammed nine people around a table built for six and ate until we were ready to burst.

Jess had brought two beautiful pies — banana cream and chocolate — so there was no shortage of dessert, just a shortage of space to put it after a big, wonderful, chaotic dinner that included a lot of laughter and food. Matt somehow ended up on dessert duty, trying to figure out who wanted what kind. I had made pumpkin pie, my mother had brought a chocolate cream cake to celebrate my sons’ birthdays a bit early, and Ana had brought a chocolate pastry cake.

While Matt dished out pie, my mom and Ana helped me put leftovers into containers (I had actually planned ahead and reorganized my storage containers a few days before). Nick and Jess bussed the table the whole time, and everyone helped in the loading of the dishwasher, so by the time I sat down to nibble at a piece of pie, the kitchen was pretty much clean. Nick had even wiped down the table.

I missed having Maggie and Luke there, but hopefully they’ll come next year with my grandbaby in tow.

All day there was a lot of bumping into each other, reaching around each other and teasing each other, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I love the helpful chaos.

Of course, by the time everyone left and it was down to me, the husband and the dog, we all breathed a sigh of relief and settled into our turkey comas without much of a fight.

For the chaos, the clutter, the helping hands and the quiet moments afterward, I give thanks.

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Oops, my age is showing

 Is it strange to find myself so pleased with a perfect score on the peripheral vision test at the eye clinic? Yep, I totally rocked it.

All you do, for the uninitiated, is look through a little thingy (I know, it’s a technical term) and push a button whenever you see a wiggly thing on the screen. Every time I take the test, I treat it as this awesome video game challenge.

I’m not much of a gamer, though I do like some Wii games. The video games of my youth started out as Pong and Breakaway. Eventually I graduated to Centipede and Pac-man. See, my age is showing.

A few months ago, my son introduced me to the joy of Angry Birds. He handed me his smart phone and showed me how the Angry Birds game works. About an hour later I heard:

“Mom? Can I have my phone back?”

Since my phone is only semi-intelligent, I can’t play Angry Birds on it. I had to find it online. It’s a bit addicting. I love the little muttering noises the birds make, and the smug giggles the pigs give out. According to Matt, the one who handed me his phone and got me started (does that make him my enabler?), the birds are angry because the pigs stole their eggs. I have no idea why the pigs wanted the birds’ eggs in the first place, but a fun physics game came out of it, so what the heck.

I saw a thing the other day that said the Angry Birds now have their own store, so people can buy Angry Bird merchandise. I have seen kids wearing t-shirts with the birdie faces.

It makes me wonder why there weren’t t-shirts for some of my favorite games as a kid. Well, I guess I don’t know what kind of shirt you print for Pong. And we didn’t get that until I was in junior high. Before that, I guess I would have needed a shirt for the other games I played with my brothers — Hide and Seek, Red Rover, Do Your Chores and Let’s See How Long It Takes to Make the Youngest Kid Cry. Of course, that last game was usually followed by a rousing round of He Did It when my mother came in the room. It’s amazing what you’ll do to fight boredom as a kid.

My husband had a stock answer for our children whenever they were unwise enough to mention they were bored.

“I had one toy to play with when I was a kid,” he’d bark. “It was called Outside.”

When I was a kid, my mother was a huge fan of board games. I still hate Candyland with a passion, and since my daughter forced me to play about 17 million games of it, I will buy it for my granddaughter when she’s born. Payback.

I still love the old Hasbro Don’t Spill the Beans and Don’t Break the Ice games. Good advice, also. Ants in the Pants is good fun. I gave that game to my co-worker buddy Beth for Christmas last year.

Now why didn’t they make Don’t Spill the Beans t-shirts? I would totally wear one.

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Good boy

 A few weeks ago, while I was oohing and aahing over tiny pink outfits at my daughter’s baby shower in Rochester, my husband Eric was home with no company other than that of our big old mutt Jeffrey.

Every parent knows that sometimes being home by yourself can be considered quite a luxury at first, but after a while it feels a bit lonely. Especially since he and I have been like ships passing in the night for the last couple weeks. Between work and work and more work, we haven’t had much of a chance to hang out. We figured that after sending our youngest kid off to vo-tech in the fall we’d spend so much time together that we’d get sick of each other, but it hasn’t quite turned out that way.

So, Eric had to go into work the Saturday of the baby shower, and I had left the night before. He got home in the early afternoon and decided to rake some leaves.

Leaf raking is something Eric takes quite seriously. We have quite a few big maple trees, and as our dear old neighbor Lawrence used to say, they make a lot of deposits. He rakes the yard a few times each fall, just in case that big old first snow is right around the corner. A blanket of snow is not supposed to be on a blanket of leaves in Eric’s world, because that would rip a hole in the time space continuum or something equally as dire.

When the kids were little, leaf raking was a bit of an adventure. We’d ask for their help, but it was generally a slow process. Short arms, long rakes and tempting piles of leaves do not make the chore a quick one. Eric always tried to keep the kids on task, but how can you not smile when three little kids are hog-piling on each other in a big pile of leaves? By the time they were done rolling around, the leaves were more like leaf crumbs, and it would have been easier to vacuum them up than rake them.

So, Eric was out raking a few weeks ago (that is where I was going with this, right?) and there wasn’t a kid hog-pile in sight, which made him a bit sad. He was having an “I miss my kids” moment when he heard a thundering gallop from behind and Jeffrey flung himself right into the middle of a pile of leaves, rolling around with glee and sending the tidy pile scattering.

Eric said he just laughed, and started working on another pile across the yard. Each time he got one pile finished, mighty mutt would come romping across the yard to jump in the middle, tossing leaves everywhere. Not many people know this, but Jeff likes to throw things, and can be amazingly accurate with a tennis ball or stuffed toy. Leaves don’t throw nearly as well, but that didn’t stop him.

Eric finished with the last pile and started cleaning up the first one that had been scattered and putting the leaves in a trailer to haul to the dump site. Jeffrey never launched himself into the last pile, instead choosing to step into the middle of it, do the three-times-around doggie spin and settle in for a nap. Wallowing in leaves is exhausting, apparently.

I remember seeing Jeffrey romp in the leaves with kids when he was younger, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him play in a pile by himself. It makes me wonder what went through his mind right before he bailed into the first mound of leaves. Maybe he sensed that his master (I use that term loosely) was a little sad and wanted to cheer him up. Maybe, even though he seems to have the memory of a goldfish, he suddenly had a flashback to rolling around with his kids and just jumped in, waiting for them to appear.

Or maybe he’s just a big old galumph of a dog with a tiny little brain and questionable thought processes, and he wanted to have some fun.

Either way, Eric found himself once again trying to rake up leaf crumbs and smiling while Jeff snoozed in a fresh pile of crispy fall foliage. Good boy, Jeffrey.

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Of mice and me

I’m not particularly afraid of snakes, am not too squeamish to help process deer, don’t mind getting my hands dirty when it comes to digging in the garden or helping with a vehicle engine and have been thrown up on and worse by sick or small children. But I am totally grossed out by removing a dead mouse from a snap trap.

Something about their little smooshed bodies really bothers me, and I have this irrational fear that the mouse is going to wiggle back to life while I’m trying to get it out of the trap. And then go for my jugular vein or something.

I’m not afraid of mice. I will admit, I don’t like the way they scurry or how they pop out of places unexpectedly. Seeing a mouse doesn’t bother me, but having one run up my arm gives me the heebie-jeebies. I know, because I have had it happen three times in the past 16 years.

So, a few weeks ago I was in a cooking mood, and was about to try a recipe I had gotten from a friend. I went to grab my mixer from underneath the kitchen sink and a mouse scurried through the cupboard, over my hand, up my arm a bit and across the kitchen. I shrieked, toppled over backward and landed on my butt on the floor.

Part of it was the surprise factor. I haven’t seen a mouse in the house for years, but the field behind our house had just been combined, and my husband Eric had just done some plumbing work under the sink which resulted in the hole around the pipe being a bit too large. It’s not a huge surprise to see a field mouse or two in the house after the corn goes out — it has happened before. So a few probably got into the basement and scurried up the pipe and into the cupboard under the sink. Not a huge tragedy.

But they are not, in no uncertain terms, supposed to run around on me.

I immediately called my husband, who was at work, and told him all about it. He had the audacity to not offer me the tiniest bit of sympathy after my harrowing ordeal! So I called my daughter and she was properly commiserating about the experience.

Eric brought home a couple of snap traps and set them up in the cupboard. I had taken my mixer out, and all that was in there was a bunch of old vases. Does anyone else have a collection of vases you have received over the years with various flower offerings? I do, and that is where I leave them.

So I set up the traps, and about an hour later, SNAP! I made Eric empty the trap, which he did giving me a baleful eye and muttering about my shortcomings. Because there is no such thing as mouse, I reset the trap. The next day, Eric told me on the phone he had removed another tiny corpse. Then he reminded me he wouldn’t be home that evening. He had to go to the cities for some work thing.

That evening, I heard something rattling around in all my vases, then came the SNAP! Oh oh. Now I have an issue. I thought about just leaving it there, pretending to be unaware and telling Eric later it must happened when I wasn’t around, but then decided I couldn’t be that much of a wimp. Time to cowboy up, put on my big girl panties and be a brave soldier in the war on mice. And to use a bit of ingenuity.

After doing the icky dance around the kitchen the first few times I tried to pick up the trap, I eventually grabbed it with a set of kitchen tongs and lowered it into a plastic grocery bag. Then I carried it into the garage, used a set of pliers to pick up the base of the trap while it was still in the bag and a needlenose to pull back the snappy part of the trap, then let the dead mouse (that I had carefully avoided looking at too closely) slide back into the bag. What a great use of tools! I was rather proud of myself. I even rebaited the trap and put it back under the sink.

I think we ended up with a grand total of five kills in a three-day period, and the traps haven’t gone off since.

After thinking about it a bit, I decided this is what separates humans from the “less intelligent” animals. Not the ability to use tools, but the fact that we actually care if there is a mouse in our living space.

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Time in Rochester

I spent the weekend in Rochester visiting my daughter Maggie and her Luke. Some good friends had a co-ed baby shower for them, and it was a lot of fun – especially the silly games. Between watching Luke’s mom drink out of a baby bottle and seeing people sniffing diapers, there was a whole lot of goofiness going on.

Each contestant of the first game was handed a baby bottle half full of beer. The goal was to be the first to drink it down. Through the nipple, of course. If a race track announcer had been there, it would have sounded something like this:

“Aaaand, they’re off! Nine contestants, toe to toe in the race of the day. They’re sucking for all they’re worth, amidst cries of “How do babies do this?’ and ‘Someone, please burp me!’ Wait - foul on the field as Whitney unscrews the nipple and chugs straight from the bottle! She is disqualified, but seems fine with the turn of events.Sandy is in the lead, down to just an ounce and some foam, although it looks as though someone should have put a bib on her before the starting gun went off. Luke and Curtis started out strong but enthusiasm seems to be waning, and none of the contestants are able to keep a straight face, except Sandy, who is diligent. And there goes the last ounce! Sandy slams the bottle to the ground in triumph as the others let out a collective groan. Sandyhas won the race!”

I have it on videotape, so someday I can show my granddaughter how enthusiastically Grandma Sandy participated. In that same line of thinking, I took a multitude of photos during the diaper game. Ten diapers, labeled with numbers, were set out on a table. Inside each was a melted chocolate bar, and participants had to open the diapers, sniff and even taste to figure out which kind of candy bar was in each diaper. Seeing that many people burying their noses and even taking bites out of the contents of a diaper was a sight I won’t forget soon.

A big thank you to Maggie’s buddies, who threw such a delightful event. Special kudos to Sue – what a wonderful job you did!

I got the chance to meet some great people, all of whom I know will be supportive and helpful to my little girl when she has her little girl. That makes a mom feel good. I won’t be able to be there all the time, but she has some wonderful people around her.

It just wouldn’t be right if I didn’t mention Luke’s buddy Chuck, who is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Something tells me one of my granddaughter’s first phrases will be “Uncle Chuck!”

The kids got some beautiful gifts for the baby – a plethora of pink and fuzzy outfits, bottle scrubbers, wipes and a virtual mountain of diapers. I brought Maggie something that made my heart quiver a bit to hand over – the hand-crocheted baptismal outfit my talented mother-in-law presented me with the day Maggie was born. It was hard to give it up, even though I know it’s how things should be.

Later that night, I had the pleasure of watching Luke on stage with the band Luke ‘n Bob Texas. They play country music, covering greats such as Merle Haggard and Hank Williams Jr. I’m normally more rock ‘n roll than country, but for Luke ‘n Bob Texas, I’ll make an exception every time. Watching the crowd dance and laugh and clap while those talented people were on stage was great. Especially since I had just met most of the band at the baby shower.

Luke has a great voice and is a wonderful frontman, and the whole band just looks they are having a good time playing and singing and making music together. If you’re ever in the Rochesterarea, look them up. I believe they have a Facebook page which usually has info about their upcoming gigs.

It does make me wonder what kind of musical talent my granddaughter will have. Maggie sings beautifully, so this kid will be surrounded by people who belt out a tune at a moments notice. It looks like it will be up to me to work on her classic rock education, although I believe Luke is working on a countrified version of “Crocodile Rock” in his spare time just to tease me.

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