How to kill a pesky mouse before it kills you

mouse peeking out of a hole

I awoke from a deep sleep in the early hours to loud banging and screaming in my home.  I groggily rushed into the kitchen to find Son’s girlfriend rocking in the foetal position on the bench, giggling.  Husband and Son were bent over pulling stock out of the bottom of our pantry trying to find the mouse that just terrorised them.

The screaming I heard – that was the men when the mouse scurried from the pantry, skipped through their legs squeaking “Catch me if you can!”, turned around, and ran back – with its little erect tail giving them the proverbial “bird”.  Well, that’s how I like to picture it!

The hunt was on.  The battle had begun.

Round 1:  Set mouse trap with cheese

Son bought home a mousetrap. On his knees, bum in the air, with his face close to the trap and his tongue lolling out in concentration, he studiously set the trap with a juicy morsel of cheese; then went to bed.

He yelled with rage in the morning “You’ve got to be kidding me!”  He couldn’t believe that when he checked the mousetrap it was still set, but the cheese was gone; and there was no mouse in sight!

I couldn’t help but smile.  A tiny wittle mousey outsmarted him.

Winner:  Mouse

Round 2:  Set 4 mouse traps with cheese

He bought 4 mousetraps the next day, set them all with cheese then rubbed his hands with glee, a winners twinkle in his eye and an evil “mwah mwah mwah” laugh.  He was determined the mouse would be minced by morning.

Son was outfoxedmoused again.  Little Jerry was fattened up this night with his very own cheese platter before settling in for the night.

I started to respect the intelligence of this tiny field mouse immensely.  And yes, I liked him so much I named him Jerry.

Winner:  Mouse

Round 3:  Peanut Butter

Son:    “Mum, I’ve done my research.  Mice can’t resist peanut butter.”

Me:      “I don’t want you to get him, I like Jerry!”

Son:    “Don’t name him Mum, it will just make it harder for you when I kill him!”

He baited the traps with peanut butter.  Jerry obviously did like peanut butter as he cautiously removed them from the traps, leaving them to be discovered mouse-less the next day.

Winner:  Jerry

Round 4

nooski mouse trapSon bought the big guns out.  The MOTHER of all mouse traps.  THE NOOSKI.

I was disgusted that my Son had resorted to this way of sending poor little Jerry to heaven.  I hoped he had the intelligence of Albert Einstein so he would elude the dreaded Nooski and live another day.

Jerry went to heaven that night, with a full tummy of cheese and peanut butter and hopefully a smile on his face, knowing that he was loved by me.

RIP Jerry.  You gave us so much entertainment that week.  You were one smart mouse.

Ps:  We do have a cat. We found her asleep in the spare room guarding a little field mouse who was also curled up and fast asleep.  She just wanted a friend….

© 2015 CEW

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Why do they laugh at my cooking?

Shrek screamingI’m not ashamed to admit that I have the – occasional – cooking mishap.  I should just NOT cook food.  EVER.  End of story.

Son:     Mmmm.  Mum, you should taste Karen’s cup-cakes! Nom Nom Nom
Me:      God didn’t bless all Mum’s with the good cooking gene love. {I sound wise}
Son:     Oh… I know that!
Me:      What do you mean – you know that? {What the?}
Son:     Remember when we were little and you made us gingerbread men?
Me:      Yes.  {I slaved over the bleedin’ oven for hours making those.}
Son:     Well, every time you made them, we spat them over the back fence to the neighbour’s dog.
Me:      WHAT??  I thought you liked them so I kept making them.
Son:     We didn’t.  And we had to keep spitting them over the back fence!

Little shites.

Then there’s the saga of my infamous … Lemon Meringue Pie.

Square pastry in a round pie tinIf I really was wise, I would have given up at the beginning of my attempt when I tried putting square pastry into a round tin.  But clever me found a way!  See?

It went downhill from there though.  I made the yellow-lemony-filling bit but must have done something wrong.  The boys were hysterical after tasting it.  Where oh where have I gone wrong this time? I tasted it myself.  I tried to pretend it tasted nice but my face screwed up and one eye automatically squinted closed on its own like a stink-eye, the hair on the back of my neck quivered and my toes curled backwards. But wait!  I know this taste … but I can’t quite pick where I’ve tasted it before.  I pretend the lemony-filling tastes delicious to protect my pride.  Maybe I can convince my boys to give it a go.  “That’s actually REALLY delicious” I pronounce deceptively.  They laugh louder.

Me:       Who wants to lick the bowl?
Boys:   Bahahaha!

I have an epiphany … I recall where I’ve tasted this sour flavour before!  If you want to know what my lemon meringue pie tasted like, follow these instructions carefully {you can do this while you are reading this post, so stay seated}:
1.  Lift up your right hand
2.  Point your finger in the air
3.  Turn your hand so your finger is now pointing towards your head
4.  Push said finger deep into your ear canal up to the 1st knuckle
5.  Turn finger to the left and right and dig in deep, making sure you snag a warm and claggy globule of ear wax
6.  Wipe ear wax on your taste buds and enjoy!

Yep, that’s what my lemon meringue pie tasted like.

After a short investigation of my recipe and methods, I decided it must be my lemon tree!  I picked some lemons off the tree and went to the garden centre where I bought the damn tree.

I said to the customer service officer, handing her one of my lemons “Excuse me, what do you call this?”  She looked at me as if I was simple. “A lemon.”   “NO, it looks like a lemon, but it tastes like ear wax!”  She called over a few of the “experts”.  They got a knife, cut it in half, and inspected the alleged lemon.  They all said … “It’s a lemon”.

I demanded “It’s NOT a lemon. Taste it!”   To shut me up, the three of them cut a small wedge out and popped it into their mouths.  I wore an “I told you so face” as I watched all of their faces contort.  “What the hell is that?” one of them exclaimed.

“I’ll tell you what it is … it’s Shrek’s bloody ear wax!” I said.

We ripped the tree out of the ground and planted a new dwarf lemon tree the following week.

To read about my disastrous sausage casserole, go to The sausage casserole that was banned for life“.

© 2015 CEW

Originally posted on my old blog site

What happens when you wear the wrong undies?

Dogs with surprised expressions on their faces

I should never have left the house without first checking that I had my good undies on.  Mum always said “make sure you’ve got good underwear on as you never know what could happen”.  I’ve heard that many older mothers say this in case we “get hit by a bus”.  As usual, I ignored my Mum.

I excitedly left home for my job interview at a major Bank and didn’t give any thought to my underwear.  I only cared about what I looked like on the outside.  {First impressions, you know!}

My interview went fantastic!  So much so, that I was immediately sent to a clinic to have a medical check.  I’d never had a medical examination for a job before so I had no idea what to expect.  Maybe an eye test, hearing test and blood pressure check?

I entered the doctors room.  After introductions were made the doctor stood up and said in his very thick foreign accent “I’m going outzide.  I vant you to get all yor clothez ov.  But leaf your panties and brazzz on, den get on di bed and pull de sheet up to here”  and he pointed to his chin.  {Translation in my head – strip off down to my knickers and bra, jump on the bed and pull the sheet up to my chin.}  Got it!  As soon as he left I hurried to get my clothes off, as I didn’t want him to walk in when I was bending over to get my socks off and be greeted by a um … horrid… sight.  But as I pulled my slacks off I noticed my undies.  I stared towards my own crotch in horror, mouth agape.

OH. MY. GOSH! They were not nice girly panties I was wearing. Oh No!  I would have stabbed myself in the temple with an ice pick if I had one handy just to get myself out of this predicament.  A few months ago I had bought my boyfriend some cheeky undies for Christmas but they were a bit small for him.  So instead of taking them back to the shop, I just put them in my own drawer.  And wore them on occasions.  Because I didn’t think anyone would ever know!!

But I reeeeally wanted this job.  So I quickly stripped down to my undies and “brazzz” and jumped onto the bed, pulling the crisp white sheet up to my chin. “At least he couldn’t see my undies” I thought.

The doctor walked in and approached the bed.  He pulled down the skin under my eyes and checked the sockets, felt the glands on my neck, felt the glands under my arms, and then attempted to raise the sheet.  I gripped on tightly.  He gave a little tug.  The sheet was lifted and he paused as he noticed my underwear.  He had very dark skin and his eyes widened to enormous white orbs which popped forward as he read the inscription on the front of my undies.

I closed my eyes, blocking out my utter humiliation and embarrassment.  But in my mind I could picture my very un-ladylike underwear.

On the front of my undies, now exposed to this doctor’s view, was a picture of a big brown rock.  Ok, it was really a massive boulder, with two enormous eyes on it.  And the words ….

            “Here lurks the big Whopper!”

I desperately hoped that a description of my underwear didn’t make it into the doctor’s notes or to my perspective employer.  At least I passed the medical exam and got the job!

Note to self (and others):  You should always wear nice underwear when you leave your house …. “just in case”.

© 2015 CEW
Originally posted on my old blog site

I was tortured and survived – just!

Hairy lady faceThere is one thing I hate about my Maltese heritage.  Body hair!  I know that beards are in fashion; and a bearded lady even won Eurovision last year.  But really, I’m so over it.  I remember going to the doctors and I said “I’m worried, I think I’m turning into a man.  I’m … growing something.”  He look horrified, leaned forward in his chair and in a secretive whisper asked “What?”  I moved towards him, paused, and whispered back “A beard.”  He almost looked disappointed!

He bloomin’ well laughed out loud at me.  All he said was “Do you have European heritage?”  I said I did.  Maltese.  Apparently it’s the legacy that is handed down to us all, men and women alike.  Men can look like razorbacks (a hairy black pig that looks like it’s got a mohawk up its spine), and women can look like men.  I can relate to the term sasquatch now.  Because I’m starting to look like one.  Just call me “Mrs Bigfoot”.  Not because I’ve got big feet, but because of … well … Bigfoot!  Truly.  Once I refused to shave my legs for 2 months, and it looked like spiders legs were hanging over my socks.  And my chin can look like a mohair chin-strap.  As I said, I’m over it!!

So – I bought an epilator; to rip the lot out by the roots.

Maybe I should have thought about it more.  Because I went straight in for the kill.  I started with my armpits.  B.I.G. mistake!

Very hair legsI stood in front of the bathroom mirror, determined that the hairy pit was going to vanish and be replaced by a porcelain looking surface.  I turned the little hair remover on and watched the spinning tweezers whir into action, revving like a lean-mean-hair-stripping-machine.  I raised one arm.  I slowly moved the “e” towards the quivering mohair mat, then pushed straight into in.  I screamed and my body started jerking around the bathroom like I had been electrocuted.  I stopped, threw the machine onto the vanity and felt a cold goose bumpy feeling creep from the back of my heels to the top of my head.  My eyes started to roll back into my skull and my vision start to blur, noise sounding distant, and I’m sure I was about to lose consciousness.  I staggered to the edge of the bath and sat down.

When I’d recovered from the first attempt; I continued.  I was going to finish the job.  After a moment I picked up the implement of torture and managed to finish the one armpit.  It took 6 attempts, 30 minutes and pained squeals like an animal being slaughtered.

I’d never felt anything like it.  I was NEVER able to epilate my arm pits again.

After a few weeks I tried it on my face.  To be honest, ripping the moustache out was just as painful!  One moustache removal and I had tears running off my face.  Oh, I wasn’t crying … that’s just how much it made my eyes water.

I saw my sons having an arm wrestle and they were arguing about who was the strongest.  I said women were because we had to endure an epilator.  To prove it; I got them both to put their arms out to see which one could endure a 1 inch removal of hair with an epilator.  They both screamed louder than I did!

So I say to any man that thinks he is tough.  You wanna prove it … try an epilator!

© 2015 CEW
Originally posted on my old blog site

Hairy legs image courtesy of Ryan McGuire  http://www.gratisography.com/#0

What the hell is that on the floor?

Long brown balancing rock formationMaybe we had altitude dementia? Or maybe not. But at 3.00 am at 36,000 feet on a long flight back to Australia, my sister and I went absolutely stir crazy. Huddled under our little blankets giggling our noggins off, we woke our Dad sitting in front of us, as well as other passengers in our vicinity. We couldn’t help it. Have you ever tried to stifle hysterics? It only makes you laugh harder. That was us.

My sister needed to go to the toilet, and if you’ve ever used an aeroplane toilet and you are female, it’s not fun. If you are a male, I suggest you try this so you know what I’m talking about …

  • Grab a cactus in a pot and put it on the roof of your car on a gravel road, and have your mate ready to accelerate behind the wheel. (Not that a toilet seat is a cactus, but the pain of sitting in someone else’s urine puddle comes mighty close for a woman!)
  • Climb onto the roof of the car.
  • Now pull down your pants – no part of your clothing can touch the floor or it becomes soaked in a complete stranger’s filthy DNA. So you need to balance the clothing between your knees and ankles.
  • Now squat backwards and hover your nether-region just above the cactus, trying not to let your dangly bits touch the prickles.
  • Now … yell out to your mate to hit the accelerator on that bumpy road.
  • Then stay in that position for 30 seconds!

Now you know what it’s like for a woman going to the toilet in an aeroplane. Anyway, back to my story …

So my sister goes to the toilet and the “occupant” forgot to lock the door. She walks in to see a poor Indian lady “hovering” in the above position. She looks at my sister with sheer terror on her face as Sister quickly reverses and shuts the door. She scurries to the next toilet.

Now it’s my sister’s turn to be in the “hovering” position. Whilst suspended in that state she notices a vile stench permeating the cubicle. She can feel bile bubbling in her innards, but manages to hold it in. “What is that smell? It’s not coming from me”, she thinks. She looks around the tiny room and her eyes focus on an object on the floor. She focuses on the “log”. It’s a big brown turd! Just resting there. On its lonesome. She can’t help it and she starts laughing uncontrollably. She pictures this …

A poor soul high above the midnight clouds. Hovering over the same toilet in the same cubicle. And just when their “object” was about to leave their body, turbulence strikes! And the “object” starts swinging like a pendulum. Left. Right. Left. And all of a sudden it’s hanging by a point mid-swing, and then it’s released! It flings off and somersaults over the top of the stainless-steel bowl and lands on the floor. Intact.

My Sister runs back to our seat with her hand over her mouth. By the time she tells me her story, we are both out of control. We have gone mad. We are over-tired!

It was the funniest way to end our 4 weeks abroad.

© CEW 2015

The massive spider that scared us to death

Close up of big hairy spiderIt was a pitch-black night when my boyfriend and I spotted the massive hairy spider walking up our windscreen.  It stopped.  Our eyes focused on the big dark silhouette at the same time, yet neither of us spoke.  I kept driving, eyes darting from it to the road.  Boyfriend remained silent.   I didn’t think to put the windscreen wipers on to flick it off.  I didn’t know if it was on the inside or the outside of the car.  So I waited until it started to walk again, then I would be able to tell by its leg movements if it was “in” or “out”.

It started a slow ascent further up the windscreen.  OMG!!!!  It was on the inside of the car!  I heard a high pitched woman’s scream – then realised it was my boyfriend. I was driving and didn’t know what to do – I just knew I had to get out of the car.  I swerved off the road and managed to stop my car before it nosed into a ditch.  I left the engine running and headlights on, threw open the door and ran down the lonely road.  My boyfriend ran past me.  His bravery was … noted.

Hands flapping in anxiety and jogging on the spot I said to him frantically “Go and kill it!”  He clutched my arm “I c c c c can’t” he stammered in terror.  “Did you see the size of that th th thing?”  I’m not into violence, but I felt like slapping him upside of the head with a dead fish.  “What will we do?”  I asked.

We anxiously clutched each other.  In the distance we saw the headlights of an approaching vehicle.  Would anyone stop for two people in the night?  I thought not.  I told him to go hide himself in the ditch and I would pretend I was a lone stranded woman.  Maybe a “brave” white-knight would come to my rescue.  But my brave soul wouldn’t let go of my arm.  So we stood there.  Waiting.  Together.

We were lucky that my car looked abandoned and the two people clutching each other in the rays of the headlights looked terrified.  The approaching car stopped.  Two young men got out and asked if we were ok.  “Spider” I said, pointing.  They burst out laughing, showed no fear and went to inspect the mammoth hairy beastie.  It was a mongrel of a thing, at least the size of a dinner plate!  {Ok, not really, but you know how big a huntsman can get right?  No…well they are also known as “giant crab spiders” so just image a spider the size of a crab!}

I thought they would take the spider out of the car and spare its life.  But instead, one of them took off his shoe and smacked the spider.  Dead.  I watched as a big burst of puss-like substance oozed down the window.  The carcass suspended on the glass for a moment then dropped to the dashboard where it remained.

Oh, “What happened to the boyfriend?” you may ask.  Well, I married him.  And he has since learned to kill spiders.

© 2015 CEW
Reposted from my old blog site

Image courtesy of: stockvault--spider-web138344

 

The sausage casserole that was BANNED for life

Cartoon chef holding a casserole

“It’s just a sausage casserole. I swear it!”

Warning:  This post contains a seemingly x-rated image – but it’s really a sausage casserole!


I froze.  My new young husband was choking, red faced and making the noise our cat makes when hacking up a hairball.  But this was no hairball, this was my sausage casserole!  I unfroze and leapt towards him, thwacking him on the back between the shoulder blades with the heel of my hand.  Thwack,  Thwack.  He stilled for a moment.  “Is the casserole nice honey?” I asked hesitantly, trying to smile, which resembled more a grimace.  We all know that God didn’t bless me with the cooking gift.

He raised his fingers and started pulling a long clear looking thing out of his mouth which must have been flapping down the back of his throat.  He kept pulling, and pulling.  It was kinda long.  He held it up in front of me.  Oh, it definitely didn’t look good.  He glared at the long transparent object dangling from his fingers with a look of sheer horror.  He turned to me, the limp “thing” swinging from side to side as he raised it up even higher.  My eyes followed it.  Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  “What.   Is.  This?”  he asked. “Well, I know it doesn’t look like it should be in there…” I stuttered.    “Why is there a … condom … in my dinner?” he asked.

Oh my dear goodness gracious me!  It did sort of look like one of those.  I had a flash-back to the recipe.  Oopsie! I realised I should NOT have skipped the step where is said to partly boil the sausages  which would cause the skins to loosen and they should be peeled off before adding to the casserole dish.

“It’s a sausage skin!” I proudly announced.  If I looked confident maybe he would think it was part of the recipe.  But no.  I was banned from EVER cooking a sausage casserole again.

20 years later

It was time I jumped back on the sausage casserole band wagon.  We had two strapping sons now with big appetites and I was a lot more confident in my cooking, despite my kinship with kitchen disasters.  To get around my life-long ban from cooking sausage casseroles I would be “clever” and cook a – CHIPOLATA CASSEROLE!  {If it was really a sausage, it would be called a sausage, now wouldn’t it?}

The aroma from the slow-cooker which had been on for 8 hours was absolutely mouth-watering.  I knew my men would be impressed with my culinary skills this night.  I had cooked enough to feed our family for two nights.  Clever me!

A work colleague popped into my home for a meeting and we sat at the bench top.  Even he couldn’t resist the tempting sausage-scent and asked if he could peek under the lid.  Like a couple of naughty children we lifted the lid – and I’m not sure which one of us was the most embarrassed!  I shut the lid quickly and felt my face heat up and my glasses fogged.  He burst out laughing and said if he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes he would never have believed what he’d just seen.  I swore to him it was just my secret Chipolata Casserole!

Later that evening it was time to dish up my feast.

x-rated looking sausage casseroleMy husband and our boys, aged 20 and 18, were crowding the bench like hungry cave men, bellies grumbling.  I paused with my hand on the lid, hoping it looked better than the last time I peeked.  I ever so slowly lifted the lid.

Three men jumped backwards with pained expressions on their faces.

I lifted the ladle and they backed away even further, all muttering at the same time that they were not hungry any more.  They all refused to eat my Chipolata Casserole!  I don’t know why, it was mighty delicious.  It fed me for days.  They are traumatised for life.
©2015 CEW

Reposted from my old blog site