Pestilence on the Porch

There are a few things about being single that I don't like and this morning I was reminded of one of them. Pest control. Pest control is a man's job. In fact I daresay men, in consideration for the amount of poo filled diapers women clean up, are by default in charge of all vermin and pestilence eradication. It seems a fair trade.

For the past several weeks my cat has kept herself entertained at night by watching a spectacle on the back deck. I knew something was getting into my flowerpots and gnawing away at my hyacinth bulbs but whenever I turned the light on to see what Mali Meow was stalking through the glass, there was nothing to see. Isn't that the way of it, light shines in darkness and creepy things disappear.

Last night I was on the telephone in the living room and suddenly the sounds of a cat launching herself into the sliding glass door and batting her paws furiously came resounding from the kitchen. The noise was incredible! It caused the dogs to bark, the fur to fly and my conversation companion to ask "What in the world are you watching on television?" I stood in the door between the rooms to see what was going on.

No longer able to contain herself the fabulous Miss Somalia Celeste had lost her mind and decided glass was not going to stop her from getting at whatever it was she saw. She looked like something from a classic cartoon, legs going in every direction at once and suspended in mid air. Unable to get traction her swipes came swifter and harder until she hit the ground. At that point she got traction she hadn't planned on and hit the cabinet by the door. What an amazing sight to behold. Her head stayed in the same position, her laser focus on what she saw outside the door while her body went from south of her head to north of her head all in one quick second. It was all very funny until this morning.

The weather here in Kentucky has been unseasonably warm and this happens to coincide with my back and neck feeling up to doing some maintenance. I went out on the deck to begin cleaning things up and there in the flower pot full of water by the door were two dead mice. Normally my softhearted side would emerge and think, "Poor mice! They must have tread water for as long as they could!" In truth, I am bothered by the way the little rascals met their demise. Surely a quick snap of mouse trap would be better than a long time swimming in cold water. That wasn't my first thought though. I felt sorry for myself first. I couldn't leave their little bodies there and couldn't want to reach in and get them out. Alas, no man in my life to take care of vermin eradication. Sigh.

Sometimes you have to choose between some unpleasant options. I could ignore them and let their bodies ferment in the water risking my dogs coming to investigate and possibly eat them. Ugh! Or icky option number two, dispose of them before the dogs could be enticed. Grabbing an old grocery bag and a trowel I went on a body recovery mission.

It wasn't nearly as horrible as I thought it would be. It was much less gruesome than extricating a smashed rodent from the jaws of a trap. In fact, maybe I will keep the water in the pot for a while longer, just in case any of the dearly departed's relatives come to pay a visit. Nah! Well, maybe.

Super Church a song for the Emergent-sy

In the early 70s I was in a youth choir at my church. Our youth pastor was a musician and his way of connecting with us as a group was through the choir and music. Somehow there was an affiliation between him and The Continental Singers, New Hope and Jeremiah People. He was worked with Moishe Rosen of Jews for Jesus too, I think. Are any of these names familiar to you? Though I remember the church fondly I was a profoundly lost and troubled young woman during my years there. That and time have muddled the memories quite a bit. Today I was digging through some old paperwork and one of the books to the musical we did. It's Getting Late For the Great Planet Earth, a folk rock oratorio by Cam Floria. Yes, that's right. Cam Floria put Hal Lindsey to music. There's a lot to laugh about and some to groan about but as I was looking through the songs and remembering, I found this little ditty and I only wish I could sing it for you. Just remember that this is circa 1972 and even th...

It's all part of growing up

Today is my birthday. I am 51. I have officially lived longer than my mother. I have survived several major earthquakes, three fires, five floods, uterine cancer, having my infant body burned by percolating coffee and a childhood from hell. I have been stalked by a madman, been asked to be interviewed for the Australian version of 60 Minutes, received a bronze medal and helped foil a kidnap attempt of a celebrity. In my short 51 years, I have had an incredible life. I was asked by a former student what advice I would give a 30 year old that I have come to value now that I am in my 50s. The list of things that I value now that I didn't value then and vice versa is huge. Since my current topic is discipline, I would have to say that I wish I had cultivated discipline at an earlier age. Much earlier than my 30s. I wish I had learned the difference between need and want sooner. I have tried too hard to fulfill wants as if they were needs. The want vacuum just moves, it doesn...

Review Part Two of Voices of the True Woman Movement A Call to the Counter-Revolution

It is a glorious day in Kentucky. The humidity is gone. Mornings are crisp, evenings cool and it is toasty warm during the day. This morning I sat out on my front porch enjoying the birds, flowers and gentle breeze. I took with me an outstanding cup of Colombian coffee and my Voices of the True Woman Movement book. Before I started reading I took a moment to think about my stereotypical idea of the perfect Christian woman. In my mind she is perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, and demure. She speaks in dulcet tones and only when she has something encouraging to say. There is no doubt that her make-up is the perfect shade and she uses just enough to allow her to radiate a pleasing angelic glow. Her nails are manicured. Her feet are Barbie-like. She is Jackie O and June Cleaver combined with an encyclopedic knowledge of Scripture and a repertoire that includes a series of perfectly timed, perfectly targeted encouragement statements. She and I look nothing alike. As I inventor...

rambling rosemarie

Search This Blog