Today would have been my father's eightieth birthday. Given that I'm only ("only" snort, snort) thirty-four, that seems downright archaic, and surreal, to me. Anywho.
We've been having a bit of a mouse problem here at Casa da SouthPark. People that know me in real life, know that I don't say that lightly. Considering I am somewhat of a clean freak and I hate nature, mice make me want to scream and admitting we have a problem ... well, yuck. We're dirt bags. Who knew? It started the night TD was born and our dear sweet friend was watching LB. She put LB to bed and plunked down on the couch to veg with some bad t.v. Only once she plunked, Mickey appeared. Thanks for watching our kid. We're dirty. Anyway, a few days later, Boo found Mickey, bludgeoned him to death, and considered it a done deal. Unfortunately Mickey had friends, and now they want to torment us, or rather me. In the middle of the night. When I am half-asleep, defenseless and feeding TD. We've bought traps, but the fuckers laugh at our traps. So I'm thinking we need to rent a cat. I don't want to own a cat. I am a one cat human, and since Cat died, I'm done. But renting a cat, that seems like a good idea. And, if that doesn't work, well, I guess we'll move.