Renovations

Renovation --

Meaning number one: "to restore to good condition; make new or as if new again; repair."

These are the types of renovations I'm attempting to do in my house ever since my divorce. Slowly and steadily I've been repainting all the rooms -- painting them colors I actually like, colors that are beautiful and not boring, colors that make me happy, colors that reflect the new me. I'd like to do a lot more than just repaint, but for now that's all I can afford.

I did also complete half of the bottom of my driveway with the help of my father. The other half still needs to be done, but getting half of it finished was a step in the right direction after seventeen years of remaining unfinished. My dad and my son also did a bunch of much needed dirt work around the foundation of the house to prevent rainwater from seeping (and sometimes surging) into the basement. This is what it had needed for years, but the ex preferred the method of just blaming me for water getting into the basement over actually attempting to do anything to stop it.

I've patched a few holes, and every hole I've patched has been a metaphorical reminder for me of the second meaning of renovation, which I'll get to soon.

Dad and my son also finally removed the extremely ugly and useless (since I never used it, not because it doesn't work) black wood-burning stove that my ex insisted we install when we built the house even though he never used it. It was just an ugly reminder of an ugly human being, and the day they carted it out of my kitchen was one of the happiest days of this summer for me so far. I still need to have the chimney removed and the hole in the roof patched, but that will come with time and money like all the other renovations I am still planning.

The point is that I'm actually working to improve my house. I certainly could have done some of these things while I was still married instead of just living with the problems; however, just as I'm doing now, every single renovation would have been paid for by me and undertaken by me (and my dad most likely) with absolutely no help whatsoever from the ex. In fact, I would then have had to listen to his grumbling and complaining about my choice of paint color for the walls or how bringing the truck onto the lawn to move dirt around ruined a patch of the grass, etc. I would have had to listen to this constant bitching from a person who wouldn't have lifted even a finger to help do any of the work and who certainly wouldn't have contributed even one dime to pay for any of the work. So, I just tolerated the problems as they began creeping up. Now, however, he is out of my house and out of my life, so I can do whatever I damn well please when it comes to renovating things around here -- of course, the lack of funds does put a damper on all that I'd like to do, but I'll just be like the tortoise and keep plodding along slowly and steadily until I have things the way I'd like them someday.



Meaning number two: "to reinvigorate; refresh; revive."

I'm renovating myself. Just like the home renovations, it's a slow, yet steady, process.

I told myself that 2014 would be the Year of Me. I want this year to be one of revival for myself. So far, it's been exactly that.

I'm writing more. This is something I never should have let myself stray away from. My first novel is being published on-line, and my column is running strong. I blog occasionally, but I know I need to do more. I'm starting to bill myself as a writer when people ask me what I do for a living. I used to just say, "I'm a teacher." Now I say, "I'm a writer and a teacher." By putting 'writer' first I usually get asked something like, "Oh, what do you write?" Then I tell them. I know I've gained a few new readers that way, and every new reader is a new reminder that I'm actually a writer. Teaching pays the bills (for now), but writing brings me joy.

I'm reading more, and I'm pretty sure I'll make my 50 book goal for the year. I'd love to surpass that, but I'll settle for 50 books in 2014.

I'm riding my motorcycle quite a bit. Joining the Legion Riders has brought me all sorts of opportunities for great rides, and I've met a bunch of new people who I can share my love of riding with. I don't want or like to ride alone, so this group allows me to ride more confidently because I feel safe with them, and it allows me to ride for a purpose beyond my own enjoyment.

I'm walking a lot. My dog and I have reached 60 miles in both May and June, and those miles have done our bodies good. In addition, walking is my meditation and my therapy. It clears my mind when I allow myself to feel down (as I still do from time to time), and it frees my writing Muse when she is feeling stubborn and keeping her ideas at bay. Walking has strengthened my core, which also helps me to hold up a very heavy motorcycle when I stop, and it has even toned my chubby ass in a first-time-ever-noticeable-to-me way.

I'm sleeping well. This, mostly, comes from being happily divorced, but the more I sleep well, the better I sleep. I used to suffer from a lot of insomnia, but that's virtually disappeared now.

I know I still have a long ways to go before I'll really be satisfied with myself, but I'm a totally different person than I was a mere two and a half years ago. The first and most important step was getting rid of the ex. Once he was out of my house, at least, my entire life began to change for the better. Like my house, I'm aging and things are simply falling apart, and the best I can do at times is just to slap a patch over something and call it good. However, like my house, there are areas in which I can totally renovate something and make it even better than it was when it was brand new. Those are the areas in which I plan to expend the most energy. Basically, the happier I am with me, the happier I can make those around me.

What's next for the house? Hopefully new carpeting and linoleum, new porch railing, finishing the driveway, getting rid of the chimney and patching the roof, and the list goes on and on.

What's next for me? Hopefully some traveling; lots more riding, writing, reading and walking; new friends; an actual publishing contract or two; and meaningful memory-making time with my kids. And the list goes on and on.

On being a new Legion Rider

In January I joined the American Legion Auxiliary. I did this so that I could become a Legion Rider. I am only eligible for the Auxiliary because my father served in the U.S. Air Force for 20 years. In my teens I actually planned to join the military ROTC program, but a sever stomach ulcer my senior year disqualified me from any further consideration of that plan -- nowadays, a stomach ulcer would not disqualify you from the military, but back then it did.

In an earlier post here I wrote about my Harley that I bought last summer as a gift to myself once my divorce was final. I'm a middle-aged single woman with a Harley, but I don't really have anybody to go riding with, and I'm not super keen to get out there and do a lot of riding on my own simply because I don't want to be alone if I had an accident or a complication with my bike or if the weather turned foul. I've long admired the Legion Riders here in my town, so I mentioned to my dad that I'd like to join them if it was possible through my connection with him. He told me that as his daughter I could join the Auxiliary, and then once I was a member of that I could also join the Legion Riders. He even took matters into his own hands and paid for my memberships as part of my Christmas present.

So, come January I attended my very first meeting. Since we were in the dead of a frigid winter with months of it ahead of us, clearly we didn't do any riding for a while. Then May came and the requests for riders to attend funerals and take part in the flag lines started pouring in -- the requests come all year actually, but they are more frequent when it's possible for the riders to actually ride their motorcycles to the funerals.

I was still stuck in school for most of May, so I wasn't free to help until last week when I finally went on my first ride as a Legion Rider to a funeral in a town 70 miles away. This was a momentous ride for me in two ways -- first, it was my very first experience with the Legion Riders, and second, it was my longest ride yet.

Fortunately, it was a gorgeous, sunny day. The few riders that set out from here with me stuck me right in the middle of the pack and took good care of me as we headed down the highway. We joined up in Norfolk with a large group of riders from there and surrounding towns, and then I really felt the exhilaration of riding in a long line of bikers that stretched out before me on the highway.

Once we got to the town and the church, we parked our bikes and we were each given a large flag on a long pole. We then stood with that flag in what is called a flag line that ran the length of the sidewalk in front of the church, and we held those flags proudly as the mourners entered the church for the funeral of the veteran.

While the funeral was in progress, we simply sat in the shade and talked quietly and drank some much needed water. It was gorgeously sunny, but it was also a warm one, and I still bear the sunburn to prove it (lesson learned: wear sunscreen on more than my face!). After the funeral, we made a different flag line for the people to pass through.

Then we rolled up the flags and put them in the flag truck which headed out to the cemetery ahead of us. We all got on our bikes and rode out to the burial grounds where we once again grabbed the flags and formed two sides of a square around the grave. The third side was comprised of the local Legion members who did the 21 gun salute and played "Taps" while the fourth side was made up of the mourners.

This particular funeral was quite unique in that the man's beloved horse bore his cremated remains to the graveside in a saddle bag, and then the urn was placed in a small hole in the ground by one of the veteran's family members. While we were at the cemetery, enough of a breeze blew through to really make the flags fly, and it was really moving to behold. I can only imagine that the deceased veteran would have been truly happy to see how everything played out on his behalf.

After we rolled up the flags again, we took off for home. We could have stayed and joined the luncheon at the church, but the few of us who had departed from here were tired and ready to return home. Maybe the next time I help out at a funeral that is closer to home I will stay to chat with the family. I do know that they were very appreciative of our presence, and I felt quite honored to take part in their send-off to a man they loved.

Being a Legion Rider means more than just serving at funerals, though, and I am still learning the ropes. There are a lot of activities planned for June including parades, poker runs, and even escorting the Vietnam Memorial Wall replica to a nearby town, so hopefully I will be able to do some of those activities and gain even more experience as a rider in a great organization.

Freedom is . . .

Freedom is . . .

painting the walls of my house any damn color I see fit
a rumbling Harley under my ass and the road stretched out before me
a long walk with my old dog accompanied by the sun and the breeze
summers without students and papers and inane in-services
a good book and hours (or days) in which to spend reading it
a restful night made such sans snores and constant cover-stealing
telling my nearest and dearest anything without judgment or backstabbing
a son and a daughter becoming what they want to be
a buffet before me and an empty plate to fill however I choose
drinking a beer on my porch and watching the day turn to night
a chat with my best friend no matter the distance, the time, or the topic
a paycheck to feed my family and buy me the books I love
driving cross country with the radio up and the windows down
a cat stretched out in the sunlight coming through the window
a song that makes me dance across my living room and back
writing whatever I want, whenever I want and wherever I want
a kiss that releases my heart from the prison it once inhabited
a bill totaling about 200,000 dollars and worth every single cent


Tammy Marshall
May 18, 2014

Looking for Love -- Second Edition

In a recent post, I discussed my online dating life since my separation and subsequent divorce after 22 years of marriage. I ended that post on a hopeful note believing that I'd actually met a man worthy of my renewed faith in love and the positive outlook I've decided to embrace.

Sadly, he proved himself to be completely unworthy of my love, my respect, my admiration and any other positive warm-fuzzy feeling I want to include in my life. Not to disparage him here because he sort of was a nice guy; however, one can't feel anything but contempt for a man who doesn't even have the balls to actually break up with a woman. He just faded out of my life, and when I demanded an explanation from him I received one via e-mail! It was a pathetic excuse for an explanation, but, hey, at least I got one, right? (insert scoffing and eye rolling)

So, I'm moving on once again. One half of myself says, "Stay away from men all together! They are nothing but trouble. At this age, they are either divorced with all the baggage that entails, never married which begs the question of 'why the hell not?,' or widowed and still pining for the wives taken from them too soon." The other half of me reminds the first half that the entire me deserves to experience real, true, honest-to-goodness love -- a love that is directed at me and not based on selfish needs, immature raging hormones or a misdirected sense of obligation.

Which half ultimately wins this battle remains to be seen.

I'm currently giving a new guy a shot, and so far, he seems like a pretty great guy. It's still very early, though, so I'm sure this post will have a third edition that will either contain an acknowledgement of my success with this one, or it will perhaps be written by the first half of my psyche who is convinced that men aren't worth the effort and that I should just give up on them.

I'm left with the thing I ended the other post with -- Hope. Since my divorce, my life has only improved every single day. That isn't an exaggeration, either. Every single day, and I mean every single one of them, is better than the day before. With each day, that horrible load I once carried upon my shoulders gets lighter and lighter as Time adds his healing touch to my life.

Thus, I'm left believing that no matter how this current relationship ends up, I will someday experience the love I've been denied all these years. If it doesn't come in the form of a committed relationship with a man, then maybe it will just come from within myself as I continue to build a life that fits me -- a life free of ridicule, negativity, selfishness, new debt, condemnation, disdain and so many other things I'm happy to be rid of.

So, whether with the love of my life or not, I know this -- I now love my life!

To beer, or not to beer.

You see here pictured my three favorite beers -- so far. I am a beer fan. I don't go much for other forms of alcohol, but I will drink a good Bloody Mary or a yummy Margarita when they are prepared right, or when I have the fixings to make them myself. However, when given a choice, I will usually opt for a beer, but not just any old beer. I prefer Mexican beers or those with a Mexican flare like the Bud Light Lime.

Many other women are wine drinkers, but I've always been a beer gal. I cringe, though, when I think back upon my formative beer drinking years and the crap beers I used to pour down my throat. Not anymore! I've become a bit of a beer snob, I admit, but I like what I like even when others don't. Not everyone likes beer flavored with lime or lemon and salt, but it is oh, so yummy! And not everyone likes a good tomato beer, and even I thought it was a crazy combination until I tried it -- delicious!

I think being a middle-aged professional, educated woman puts me generally in a non-beer drinking group according to society's expectations of someone like me, but I've never been one to really give a shit about what society thinks or expects of me, so allow me to raise a can or a bottle to my fellow beer drinkers out there. I will say, though, that when I have a beer (which is a few times a week), I do only drink one or maybe two at the most. I never get drunk, and I rarely get tipsy even. I am a responsible beer imbiber. Also, I generally have one while relaxing at home, so there is no driving involved.

Ironically, as I write this, I'm having a Bloody Mary -- only because I'm out of beer. :( When I do go out to buy beer I always run the risk of being seen by the wrong people -- my students -- who then rib me ceaselessly for days afterwards, but I don't let that stop me. I'll make a beer run tomorrow. For now, the next best thing will do. The beer run I'd really like to make, though, involves a trip to Mexico to get the beer shown here -- Sol con limon y sal. Sol beer with lemon and salt. The best beer I've ever had. I think it's most popular and mostly sold in the Yucatan where I had it. It's best I can't easily get my hands on it here, though, or I might regularly break my one or two beers only rule, and that wouldn't be good. Everything in moderation -- well, almost everything. Bottoms up!

Two Years Later . . .

Two years ago today I filed for a divorce after almost twenty-two years of marriage. Every single day since that day has been a wonderful gift of renewal.

Oh, there have been plenty of horrible and difficult days -- and there still are a few, but they are now blissfully few and far between -- especially between the day I filed and the day he actually moved out, which was twenty-one long days later (hmmmm, interesting -- I just this second realized that the number of days I had to endure his presence after filing was the exact same number of years I spent married to him -- and oddly enough, twenty-one was also the age I was when I married him, so clearly twenty-one is NOT my lucky number).

The divorce was a long time coming, and it was something that I should have done years and years ago, but we all know the clarity of hindsight, and I can't go back and fix that particular mistake. If it weren't for the two great kids I got out of the marriage, I'd say that the entire marriage was a bust and something I never should have done, but because of them, I'll never say it was a complete waste of twenty-one years of my life.

The two years since I filed, though, have by far been the best years I've spent since I was a little kid with no worries dragging me down. The worries and the stress of life are the things that suck the joy out of living, and when I was married to him, my every waking day was totally filled with worry and strife, so once I eliminated him from my day-to-day life, a lot of my joy-killing stress went right out the door with him.

Naturally, I still have stress and worries in my life, but now they come from the places they should naturally arise, like work and bills. Now, I come home to a stress-free house; back then, I avoided coming home because this is where my stress level became instantly compounded the moment he walked in the door.

In the past two years, I have received so many compliments (sometimes daily even) about how happy I seem and how I appear younger and how I look healthier. That's because I am all these things. Once he left, I could physically feel the load coming off my shoulders, and the constant knot of pain I'd carried around at the base of my neck between my shoulder blades disappeared within weeks and hasn't returned at all. I started losing weight without even trying simply because my life had joy in it again, and this wasn't because I had been a mindless snacker or a junk food junkie while I was married but rather that I was now eating the good stuff that people are supposed to eat and not striving (unsuccessfully at every attempt) to please an ungrateful man who would only eat red meat and potatoes meals full of fat and carbohydrates. I quickly lost fifteen pounds and have kept it off for the past two years, and I'm actively working to shed a few more, but I'm not obsessing over it.

Sometimes it is really hard for me to not be angry with the financial load I was left to carry as a result of the divorce -- all of it a result of his overspending on his horses -- and not to be bitter at the large chunk of my teacher's retirement money he was awarded -- all of it from my hard work after years spent in a classroom -- , so when I have those bad moments or days when I'm feeling depressed about the debt I am left to bear, I remind myself that at least now I am slowly but surely getting a handle on it. During the marriage, he just mindlessly spent and spent and got loan after loan and let things continue to spiral completely out of control, and he purposely left me out of the loop and hid those things from me, but he was more than happy to let them all fall on my shoulders in the divorce. He managed this because I'm the responsible one with the stable and steady career, and since he was "willing" to walk away and "let" me have everything, the court then stuck me with the check, so to speak. It will be years and years and years before I am free of this load, but I'm free of him, and that is worth more than money to me -- that, in fact, is worth everything.

Despite the crushing debt I was left to manage, I am striving very hard to help my son as much as possible with his college expenses. I also bought myself a Harley-Davidson even though financially speaking, I shouldn't have. However, mentally and emotionally speaking, it was something I needed to do partly because of the debt I'd been stranded with. I knew that the debt had me in its grip for the next twenty to thirty years and by then, I'd be either very old or very dead, and my dream of once again owning a motorcycle would be either physically out of my league by then or dead alongside of me. That's a depressing thought, and my life post-divorce is about not living a depressing life, so I got myself a bike to enjoy as much as possible for as long as possible. Time will tell if it was worth it, and if it proves not to be, then I'll sell the bike and remove that much from my debt pile at least.

I do have the house, and prior to the divorce, the mortgage was almost paid off. Since the divorce, I have paid it off, but sadly I now owe more on it from his horse debt than I ever owed on the mortgage -- and I, and I alone, paid off the mortgage; he never paid a single dime toward this house, not a single dime. I could sell the house, but at the moment, I wouldn't get enough for it to pay off what I owe, so I'd then have no home and no money to start over somewhere else. For the time being, I will stay here and pay down the debt, so that when I do sell the house, I can at least break even. That is a few years down the road which coincides well with my daughter completing high school first before I set off on a new path.

However, the fact that I can plan for a future elsewhere and doing something else is another benefit from getting divorced. While there are plenty of good things about living in a small town in Nebraska, there are also plenty of bad things about it, and I'm ready for a change -- a change of scenery, a change of weather, and a change of opportunities. I'll bide my time for three more years, but during that time, I'll make plans for the next chapter in my life, and I'll be thankful every single day that I have the opportunity now for a next chapter.

In these past two years, I've learned to love again. I've had three relationships with men. The first could easily be considered that rebound relationship that we all seem to need to get us back on our feet. It didn't last long, and he clearly wasn't the right sort of guy for me, but I appreciate the time we spent together because he showed me that there are plenty of men out there looking for a woman to treat well. The next man was someone I spent a whole year with, and he was very nice, but in the end, our differences split us up. Again, I have no hard feelings toward him, and I am grateful for all our days together as he was there for me during the really hard part of the divorce trial time period, and he was the rock I needed in my life at that time. Currently, I am with a man who complements me in ways that no other man ever has because he is very smart, as am I, so our conversations alone keep me spellbound. I feel that I will spend a very long time with this man, and although I'm not keen on marriage anymore, I wouldn't completely rule it out with a man like him. Again, time will tell, but for now, he adds to the joy I feel every single day.

When I look back at this day two years ago when I was sitting in a lawyer's office making the hardest, and yet the easiest decision of my life, I am astounded at how far I've come internally. My outlook on life has completely changed. I awake every day and say "thank you for another day without him in my life" because I know that no matter the problems I have to face that day, they don't compare to the ones I lived with every single day for over twenty years.

While I often regret ever getting married, there hasn't been nor will there ever be a day in which I regret getting divorced.

"You're Worthless, Cat!"

First, let's look at my cat. Here he is:


He looks like a bad ass, doesn't he? Well, . . . he's NOT! Turns out he's a big ole pushover, and I had to find out the hard way. Allow me to elucidate.

It all began about two weeks ago. It was a Monday in January, to be specific concerning the time frame for this story. I came home in a rush after a day of teaching to change quickly and prepare to go to another town to watch my grown son play basketball with his men's league team. I had enough time to throw in a load of laundry, and then I was going to toss it in the dryer quick before I left. When I started the dryer, I heard a horrible racket of what I took to be excess lint being blown through the vent hose. I cussed a bunch because I'm diligent about cleaning out the lint screen to avoid such a thing, but I'd been very busy lately, so I assumed I'd neglected it the last time -- thus, I was cussing at myself for creating a new problem with my previous neglect. I grabbed the vacuum cleaner, attached the hose and did my best to clean out the lint trap before starting the dryer anew. I then left for the basketball game.

Later that night, as I was just about to drift away on a cloud of much needed sleep, suddenly there arose a tremendous ruckus in my daughter's bedroom, which is adjacent to mine. The cat will often decide to do his aerobic exercises late at night, so I initially was simply annoyed at the noise he was making. Then my daughter started yelling, "Cat! Cat!" (When we get mad at him, we forget he has an actual name -- it's akin to using that dreaded middle name when scolding a child.)

Those yells quickly turned to cries of help directed to me that went something like this: "Mom! Mom! Blackjack (the cat's real name) has a mouse! Mom! Mooooooooommmmmmmm!"

By then, the ruckus had passed by my closed door, which I threw open while emitting more curses. I turned on the hallway light, but the cat was not to be seen. My daughter then informed me that she had turned on her lamp when the cat's noise had become too much, and she had seen him with something in his mouth, and that thing had squeaked! Then he had dropped the thing, which she immediately saw was a mouse, and that mouse had taken off down the hallway with the cat in hot pursuit.

At this moment, I was more annoyed than anything. I was really tired, yet I was certain that the cat would take care of the mouse -- despite this being his first ever encounter with one. I ambled down the hallway, turning on lights as I went. At first, I couldn't find either of them, and then I spotted them in the formal living room, and it was then that I knew I had a problem.

Basically, the mouse had the cat cornered, so to speak. The cat was under my grandmother's old rocking chair peering out at the mouse who was simply crouched on the carpet looking back at the cat, and I could have sworn that damn mouse was taunting the cat with a "come-n'get-me" little twitch of his tail. I sighed and tried to urge the cat to do what was supposed to be in his nature to do, but apparently you can't coach a stupid cat.

The mouse suddenly bolted. The cat leaped, and he caught the mouse up into his mouth. I was both happy about this and frustrated because I didn't really want to watch him kill a mouse or eat it or dismember it or any other nasty thing like that, but I also wanted him to take care of the mouse. I stepped into the kitchen for one brief moment to look for something to try to catch the mouse in, but when I turned back to check on the cat and the mouse, I only saw the cat.

No mouse. Anywhere. Just a dumb cat looking up at me with a puzzled expression.

I looked down at him and considered: Either that was the fastest disposal of a mouse in the history of cat-eat-mouse stories, or the cat had let the mouse go -- again. I assumed the latter, and I began a search of the premises while the stupid cat looked on in idle curiosity.

After about twenty minutes of searching, I gave up for the night. I was really beginning to think that the cat had swallowed the mouse whole in the few seconds my back was turned, but mostly I was too tired to continue searching. I put out some sticky mouse traps and went to bed. I thought that I'd surely catch the mouse in one of the many traps by morning.

I awoke the next day, a Tuesday, and checked the traps. No mouse. Then I began to wonder if the cat had injured the mouse enough that it had crawled off somewhere to hole up in my house to nurse its wounds or to die. I didn't have a lot of time to worry about it at the moment because I had to get to work. I truly believed that I'd find it in a trap after work because years ago (pre-cat) when a mouse had violated my house, that was exactly what had happened -- a full day away from home had brought the mouse out and into a trap. It was then that the events of the day before concerning the dryer came rushing back, and I knew exactly how the little bugger had come into my house -- the dryer vent.

It had happened that way years ago during a bad cold spell, and we'd been having one of the worst cold spells I can ever remember this past month. The mouse back then had climbed through the dryer vent slats outside, along the metal tubing and then chewed a hole through the hose behind the dryer. That explained the noise when I'd started the dryer the evening before. It wasn't lint I'd neglected to clean as I'd first imagined; it was the mouse's nest, and when I'd then run the dryer, the mouse had chewed his way out of the hose rather than go back the way he came and simply vacate my home. Sure enough, when my father came over to help me move the dryer to attend to the situation, we found a huge hole in the hose and the rest of the lint he'd used to make his nest.

Unfortunately, when I returned from work, still no mouse. I was then feeling more certain that he'd gone off and died somewhere in my home from the wounds inflicted by the cat, so I started looking under things, but I have a lot of possible places in my home where a small mouse could hide, so I gave up on that. I knew that if he really was dead somewhere, I'd smell him soon.

That night I had to drive to another town somewhat distant where my son is assistant basketball coach at a high school for the Parents' Night ceremonies there. I returned quite late, checked the traps, and shook my head in frustration when I saw that they were still empty.

I allowed the cat to sleep on my bed that night -- something I rarely do since I actually am allergic to him and he's actually my daughter's pet and not mine. He prefers to sleep on my bed, though, and I thought that if the mouse were still around, maybe he'd awaken me during the night, so I could take care of it once and for all. However, the night passed without any ruckus.

On Wednesday, I awoke and was surprised to not see the cat still curled up at the foot of my bed. I stumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light. There was the cat . . . sitting on my toilet.

He had the strangest look on his face, and I immediately knew that the mouse was somewhere nearby. I began searching for it, making a lot of ruckus myself in an attempt to flush it out if it were still alive. I opened the drawers and doors of the bathroom vanity, I picked up a towel that was lying on the floor and shook it vigorously, I looked behind the toilet, I opened the shower curtain from both directions and peered into the tub, and then I repeated the process. No mouse.

By then, I was running late. I climbed into the shower. I shampooed. I rinsed. I put conditioner in my hair. Then the washcloth I keep on the edge of the tub to wipe down the shower afterwards slid to the floor of the tub at my feet.

This has happened before, so I wasn't surprised when it did. I simply bent to pick it up before it got wet. That's when the mouse ran out from under the washcloth.

Fortunately, it ran away from my feet, but it couldn't scramble up the sloped and slippery sides of the tub, so as it proceeded to try to escape the shower it was now receiving, this is basically the thought processes I had in a time span of 2-3 seconds:  The mouse is in the shower with me. There is the mouse. I hate that fucking cat. What the hell do I do now? I'm naked and wet in the shower with a mouse!  At that point I screamed. Don't ask me why, but I did. I was well aware that the mouse was in my house, and I was well aware that he was now in the shower with me, yet I still screamed. Jeez. Sometimes I embarrass myself.

I turned off the water, hopped out, wrapped my robe around me, pulled the shower curtain out of the tub so he couldn't latch on and somehow get himself out of the tub, and then I went in search of that damn cat!

In fact, my search went something like this: "Where's the damn cat?!" I repeated this until I found him sitting innocently on the back of the couch looking at me like he couldn't possibly imagine what my problem was. I scooped him up, took him to my bathroom, set him on the toilet where he'd been sitting earlier and pointed at the mouse. He proceeded to watch as if he were viewing a lively tennis match from above.

In fury, I scooped him up again and yelled repeatedly, "You're worthless, cat! Worthless!" I then stormed into my daughter's room, turned on her light -- eliciting a momentary complaint from her since she was still in bed -- and shouted, "Where's that damn box?" I was referring to the shoe box which had contained the dress shoes I'd recently purchased for her to wear to speech meets and which I knew was still sitting in her room.

I grabbed the box and returned to the bathroom where the mouse was still attempting to free himself from my tub. I set the box sideways in the tub, and the mouse climbed right into it. It had a hinged lid, which I immediately slammed shut, and then I didn't know what to do with the mouse. I knew I was really running late for work by then, and I still needed to finish my shower. Despite the hassle the mouse had caused, I don't have it in me to cold-bloodedly kill a creature, but I really didn't know what to do.

The cat had already proved his worthlessness at disposing of rodents, so with box in hand and still clutching my robe shut, I strode to the front door, wrenched it open and then I threw the box with the mouse still inside out into the yard. It landed upside down on the sidewalk. I figured I'd check on it when I left the house.

I finished my shower, got ready quickly, and we all left the house. I walked down the sidewalk, approaching the shoe box. It was then I noticed that the mouse's release to freedom hadn't lasted. Since he'd been soaking wet from my shower when I tossed him and the box out my front door, he'd frozen to death immediately after crawling out of the small hole on the side of the box.

The cat couldn't kill him. I couldn't kill him. But Old Man Winter -- he certainly could.