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 268 - Ding, Dong, the Mouse is Dead

Daily Kup (My Life Peering Nervously Out the Patio Door)
Remember the mouse? The one that was prominently featured on Day 221 (http://klowns-in-my-koffee.blogspot.com/2010/11/day-221-mouse-on-house-house-on-mouse.html )when it decided to stroll by when I was taking a bath? Live and let live, as long as you live outside.

I went to the grocery store and stood transfixed over all the alternatives. Did I want to break his back immediately while risking anyone else who put their fingers, paws or noses in the way? Did I want to poison his internal organs while trying to keep the cats from doing the same to theirs? Did I want to stick him in a little tube so that I could later dispose of a sticky, squealing mouse?

After way too much thought, I selected the combined effects munition of mouse traps. It's a little plastic tunnel with glue on the bottom. Once Mickey is stuck to the floor of the tunnel, it snaps shuts with a little guillotine-like blade in an uncomfortable position. Anatomy of a bad day.

I put two of these plastic traps o'death in the kitchen and waited. And waited.

On evening I heard some running around in the kitchen and, upon investigation, found both cats huddling in fear high on top of the cupboards and both traps cheerfully empty. Plan A and Plan B were both no-starters.

I clung to the illusion that the mouse had shown up and then had simply vanished to some undisclosed location never to be seen again., sort of like Dick Cheney in the last three years of the Bush administration.

With mice out of mind, life went on. Then, midmorning, I was copied on the following text to my daughter:

Realizing the new playtoy Squeakers has is a four-legged live rodent, worth a gasp and slight panic, the removal of said plaything with the use of Tupperware, paper and an open door, worth a sigh of relief and a forehead wipe. The knowledge your mother won't see her favorite bathroom buddy again: Priceless.
It seems that my husband had wandered out in the morning to find the cat playing with its toy. After a few minutes in his 5:45 AM stupor, he realized that this toy was showing a bit more gumption than the standard stuffed one as it was occasionally trying to stagger away. He scooped it up in a plastic tub and threw it outside from the patio door.

Cat slap. Scooped up. Launched. Long fall. Frozen ground.

Sounds like the plot for the next episode of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.

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