Saturday, March 13, 2010

Words that aren't as dirty in peanut butter

Hello, my blogging friends...

I trust that the evening, and my last post found you well. And if not, feel free to let me know. I am sure I can fashion you into my next post somehow. That oughtta brighten your day.

My dear sainted husband is out ensuring the adequate renal function of our geriatric dog. Therefore, I have time to post, and to offer up my musings to the world.

Poor sod. The wind is blowing a la "Wizard of Oz", out there (guess that "in like a lion out like a lamb" stuff is true, because the wind is roaring out there. I thought I learned everything I needed to know in Kindergarten. Silly me, it extends way past Kindergarten and well into Grade One).

Apparently gusts of wind have a special effect on Irishmen. In response to the literal shaking of our patio, he says, "I think I'll take the dog for a stroll."

Uh huh. Well, that's on you, baby. I'll stay here, drink this cappucino you brought me and soak up all of this lovely electric heat. Perhaps this is why the septagenarian canine we've inherited has little use for me. I'm ornamental. I serve no purpose.

Man's best friend, indeed.

Anyway, my disdain for the relative incontinence of our newest family member notwithstanding, I do have something for you.

Oh, I know. I was excited, too. But since you don't have a husband cum manservant to bring you hot, steamy, cappucino - I will wait for you to make your own. And since I now know that my mother reads this blog, I will say that cum is an actual word, with intellectual applications aside from the one you use in that diary that we've talked about.

Oh, yes. We know you've said it. But it's okay. My mother probably has, too. And for those of you naysayers out there, here's a link....come on, click it. You know you want to:

Did you click it? I bet you did. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone. Thank you,!

A professor once told me that I often go off on tangents and say things that aren't really useful. (This of course is to say nothing of the fact that I believe that most things coming out of her mouth aren't all that useful, but...I'll have to save that for another day.) Useful or not, they are pretty funny, aren't they?  Sometimes I surprise myself with the relative humor in the things I write.

And, if you haven't noticed, I remain exceedingly modest.

I've caught my saintly manservant cum husband (oops, I did it again! Eat your heart out, Britney Spears...) reading my blog, sometimes stifling a titter, other times rolling in a full out belly laugh. At first I'd chalked this up to husbandly duties, right up there along side telling me that my Hefty bag/pashmina/costume-jewellry du moment combo causes heart shattering palpitations that are cause for medical concern.

Aw, thanks, honey. You look nice, too.

But then, he goes and does something that makes me question my manhood. My knight in shining armour....

We have visitors. Visitors who stereotypically eat cheese (but we've since found they prefer peanut butter from the Bulk Barn) with long whiskers and furry tails. It seems the regular epicurian orgasms appearing from my kitchen are of appeal to more than one class mammalia. Who knew? 

Yes, friends. We have a mouse. Though this is fairly common in highrise buildings housing thousands of people, it grosses the hell out of me. Makes me wish we had a barn cat to eat the dirty little things and not an indifferent geriatric pooch.  

You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but I guess you can't pick your rodents. Ah, city life.

Apparently this little bugger has staked out his homestead and told his other furry friends to up sticks, because it's just him. Obviously this little man has more cojones than brains, because he likes to wait until we're in bed, then eat straight out of the dog dish while squealing his delight at having pulled one over on his housemates.

Ever the Alpha male, our little Templeton's presence has aggravated my gentle "go-with-the-flow" partner in crime, Saint Husband. Last night, he decided that he'd had enough. Epicurian orgasms are not to be shared! He was taking action, not to be stopped or interfered with until our guest had been ousted.

Manly demonstrations of caveman-ly behaviour. God, it's hot in here....isn't it? Betty Friedan must be spinning in her grave.

Anyway....back to the Great Hunt.

"Ride of the Valkyries" comes to mind as the obvious soundtrack selection for this movie moment in our lives. Thank you, Wagner! I always knew that if ever I needed to tie classical music to a mouse-catching moment, this would be it. (Think, "Apocalypse Now". For those of you unfamiliar, here is a clip, featuring said composition: You're welcome.)

Sparing all the detail, in spite of its abundant humor, I will say this: the refrigerator was moved. Saint Husband's engagement ring is bent.

The mouse lives. Safe, to live another day, to pilfer yet another morsel of kibble from our ornery dog.

The Great Hunt saved for yet another day, I remain indebted to said sainted husband for the display of white-knighthood; and therefore required to soothe and stroke his wounded and beleaguered ego.

Off we go to purchase some more peanut butter.

Even the mice have to eat, right?