I had some dreams ... they were klowns in my koffee.

(With apologies to Carly Simon)

This is my journey through job transition from a toxic environment to a better life. Join me for a few thoughts and a few laughs along the way.
What are "klowns in my koffee"? They are the factors large and small that make you less than you are. A "klown" can be a grossly incompetent boss,
a short-sighted policy or a moronic coworker. They won't kill you, at least not immediately, but they abrade the soul
as you scrape past them to get through the day. Sometimes it's best to dump them out of the cup.


Day 221 - Mouse on House, House On Mouse

Daily Kup (How I Spent the Morning Glancing Over My Shoulder)
I woke up cheery and well-rested. The children got dressed easily and caused no bloodshed at breakfast. Everyone remembered to take lunches and backpacks and made it to the bus stop before the bus did.

I planned a quick bath and then an active morning of accomplishment. The heavenly warm water started to flow into the tub. I settled into the sudsy heat and dunked my head. Turning to grab the shampoo bottle, I saw something brown about four inches long with a tail run past me on the floor.

A few seconds later, from my vantage point attached to the popcorn ceiling above the shower curtain rod, I lit the bat -- er, cat -- signal for our resident Mouse Patrol. Squeakers and Albert Einstein rounded the corner after a few minutes, strolling leisurely. Squeakers looked sleepy and a little perturbed at being awakened. Albert had the same brainless but blissful look that he always has.

The occasional field mouse makes its way inside when the weather turns cold. This is the price to be paid for living on a large lot with wooded and natural areas. I'm OK with this as long as I never have to see them or encounter them. About once a year, T traps one in a wastebasket and tosses it over the fence in the backyard.

The cats wouldn't walk into the bathroom but stood by the door stretching their necks to peer inside. The mouse zipped across the floor and into the pile of pajamas that I'd tossed. Note to self: hooks on back of door.

These are the same cats that will look at my hand, watch me move it under a sheet to make a scratching sound to play with them, and still bother to attack the hand when they know darn well it isn't a mouse.

Confronted with a real mouse, Squeakers ran down the hallway and vomited profusely in two places.

Albert just sat there against the wall of the hallway outside the bathroom door and looked profoundly bored.

I levitated from the ceiling to the floor outside the door, scooped up the cat, and attempted to throw him into the bathroom. I swear he stretched all four legs out and stuck his claws into the doorframe. Not quickly enough, little furry man. In he went. "Earn your kibble."
And I slammed the door.

Turning down the hallway soaking wet, hair half-washed and no glasses, I stepped into the cat vomit.

The phone rang, ending my vigorous verbal outburst. I stumbled into the kitchen to grab the handset.

"Hi, Laurie. This is Dr. Betterman's dental office. One of her patients just canceled. Can you come in for your appointment right now?"

No, I don't think so.

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