mouse on my floor -

Ramblings Brought On By A Wee Pooping Mammal Named Sylvester

I’m relatively passive and generally do not set out to murder the spider, step on the ant, entrap and kill the mouse, but there are rules.

So, I have rules for the annihilation of, em, say a spider. There is a line on the wall and once crossed you are in my domain and as such are subject to my need to either let you be or squish you. Tis of no interest to me that the spider is, of course, oblivious to the rules. It’s not a democracy.

A friend of mine, D3, now he I do admire, in that as a child he actually had a pet spider that lived in his closet that he would actually feed. I don’t mean a tarantula or some spider he bought at a store. No, I mean a spider who showed up, from wherever they come from and took up residence in his closet. A spider that eventually got so big he became a little scared of it, as it became larger and large it became more imposing. Yet, he continued to feed the ugly f*@ker, regardless, and I admire that, well, fortitude I suppose. But a truer appreciation of life I have never met.

So, as much as I am passive by nature, I do still nurture a certain fear of spiders, besides my knowledge of their usefulness, and if they’d mind their own business and stay out of mine they’d be fine.

That all said, the mouse is a freeloader and no longer am I passively ignoring it. Nope. When you find brown rice on your kitchen counter the line has been crossed. In preparation, I went out this morning and bought SOS pads, and shoved them into the holes I have found the last couple days. I can acknowledge some success as I believe Irish heard his little screams at being cut off from such a rich larder and came in to inspect, crouching down and sniffing the little hole under the cupboard where I’d stuffed the damp SOS pad.

Today will be spent cleaning all the areas, again, of my kitchen, all surfaces, the floor, everywhere. Later I’m going to set up some traps, of what kind I’ve not determined, but I suppose that will depend on my mood and the price tag.

Apparently he has used the area under my sink as a loo, and as such I’ve stuck steel wool into all the crevices, and swamped the area in diluted bleach, swabbing and feeling a great sense of satisfaction, as the stench of it hits my nostrils, and I open the windows to air everything out.

The liberties these wee mammals take is astounding, and one learns that with them you can take no prisoners, one’s health must be considered. As such, ITS health is now jeopardized.

Oh well, survival of the fittest, and not like the little buggers are an endangered species, with ample opportunity to survive, in someone else’s cupboard if need be, but not mine.

Is sad though, to think of killing Sylvester; though he has given me little choice. His little poopy trackways through my abode are kaputt.

With my rose-coloured glasses firmly on, I do hope my deterrents will suffice and my traps will go vacant, and no more wee pooplets in my cutlery drawer.

Fine, I know, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt, will see.

On the subject of unwanted reproduction and the death of innocents, while I was cleaning I’ve been listening to CBC radio, which Grandma always did and I rarely do, and a program came up on the new Sex Ed curriculum introduced to Ontario Schools in 2015, which has had some debate on how far, which is to some too far, into categories that some parents, and teachers I suppose, are uncomfortable with. In some instances completely opposed to.

And such are the giggly steps taken towards a more open discussion on topics most of us shy away from, questions we don’t ask, silly names for things, and misunderstandings about ones body that lead to rape, babies, molestation, destructive, maybe violent, relationships later in life, and the things that any kid today can quite easily google, and get 10 different answers to, along with a host of other content. Starting I guess at the beginning, body part names, and working up through the grades, advancing the complexity and words, ideas and knowledge.

I was reminded while I was scrubbing away at the stove gook with one of the SOS pads, of a conversation, seems so long ago now. A friend of Mom’s, an old friend she’d known her whole entire life, is in tears telling me how important my GrandmaD was to her. How she taught her, and all Mom’s friends, about Sex Ed, and said things that no other parent in the late 50’s world, and certainly no school would, and answered all their questions, with honesty and truth.

So I got a little teary listening to the program. Eyes welled up listening to what they were saying, the dialogue, the open embarrassment but saying it anyway discussion.

And I remember that friend of my Mom’s saying to me; I had no idea what was happening to me when I first got my period, though I was dying or something. But your Grandma, we could all go to, always, for anything. She was a strong woman, your Grandma, in time of great darkness, she was a light.

So I’m listening to this show, and wondering how we are all so still afraid to discuss these so private things? How are these conversations still an IF for some? Boggles my mind.

I got more of THE TALK than my Mom did, and far more than her Mom, but my sisters kids know stuff I sure didn’t learn till much later in life. I imagine Mom was thankful the school took care of it all, leaving her to ask after school, since the parents had had a heads up on our little talke that day (Grade 6 I think) so, I heard you had a talk today on sex ed {ahem}, do you have any questions? she said, sitting there in that old gold kitchen, late 70’s.

To which I had none. And life went on its confusing way.

Yet that program, in its open dialogue, and studio guest with knowledge, and teachers calling in with their own in the trenches experiences, I can see the light. I’m thankful balanced minds, generally, prevail.

Knowledge is power.

one scilla -

Taking a stroll earlier, squatting down looking for signs in the cold dark earth for new life, out to get some fresher air, well, what did my blue eyes behold? The most wonderful thing. A Scilla. Probably brought with the ferns from The Homestead.

Now, if they would like to propagate, spreading out in a sweep from the side of the house, out into the front lawn, well I’m all for that, yes please, for the birds and more bees.

by Adelaide Holl, illustrations N.M. Bodecker’s

Hope. What an improbable thing after all these years to still feel, yet, I do. Still, I hope for the best, with the intention of taking out as little of my fellow beings along the way. Whether the mouse moves somewhere else, the scilla spreads, or none of that, and it’s all crap, I hope, just the same, leaving the world a better place than I found it, I hope.

One must live with the consequence of our choices.

Ok, you caught me, yes, I named him. After Sylvester The Mouse with the Musical Ear, a book from my childhood, since his next stop, if he chooses to return, is going to be a Meadow named Euston, and if he can find himself a new career with a travelling musician as Sylvester did, well good on’him. Bye Bye.

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