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

I lied in a job interview

Romantic vampire at beautys neckHave you even been interviewed for a position that you really, REALLY want? And they ask you a question that you know you CAN’T honestly answer or you may be judged – and not get the job? I have.

I was called in for a 2nd interview and this time it was with the CEO of a global company. We discussed my experience and we seemed to be getting along pretty well. I quite liked him and thought we would work great together. He then asked me …

“What do you like to do on weekends? Do you play any sports?”

Was the man blind? I looked down at my “robust” physique then stared him straight in the eye, trying to get the “cocked eyebrow” look but failed dismally, and said “Do I look like I play sports?” I’m not sure he knew what to say to that, so taking pity on him I said “I love to read.” {My body was made for reading more than sports.} I could almost see the relief on his face as he said “What sort of books do you read?”

OH. SHIVERS. I stayed silent for a moment, knowing I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth. What was I supposed to say? “Oh, I like vampire books where the wicked vampire sucks erotically on the poor damsel in distress’ throat, they fall in love, and live happy ever after … after he has his wicked way with her … on numerous occasions – of course.”

I replied slowly … “murder mysteries.” I imagine my voice slowed down and went high pitched at the end; so my response sounded more like a question … “mmmurder mysssteries???” He said “What are you reading at the moment?”   Oh crap, I couldn’t think of one single murder mystery – because I’d never read one in my life! I blabbed something about having a break from murder mysteries and remembered I’d downloaded a book months ago about the plight of the jews after the war, and I’d read the first chapter, so I mentioned this book.

I couldn’t believe what I’d done. I know that in itself it was probably not a huge deal, but at the end of the day, I evaded the truth. And I’m the sort of person that agonises over honesty, character and integrity.

I got the job but felt awful that I couldn’t answer that question and skirted the truth. I needed to make amends, so I did this …

I downloaded my first murder mystery … then I read it! I negated the lie, didn’t I?

Phew, close call.

Ok, ok.   So I will tell him the truth soon!! I promise.

© 2015 CEW

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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

Why being you is better than being me

Potters hands making clay potHave you ever wished you were like someone else?  Prettier, skinnier, stronger, or even wished you had talents and gifts like them?  I have.  I’ve wished I was quieter and more gentle-natured and I’ve wished I was more like my sister.  She has all those qualities I aspire to.

I heard this story that is simple, profound, and I have never forgotten it.

Two clay water jugs belonged to a family who lived in a little hut in an arid land.  The jugs were nothing alike.  One was beautiful – and perfect.  The other was well used, cracked, and continually leaked.  But each day, the water-bearer picked up her two clay water jugs and trekked a long way to the water hole.

She filled her two jugs to the brim and slowly made her way back to her hut and her waiting family.  And as usual, by the time she got back, the damaged clay jug was empty and put on the shelf until the following day.  It sadly watched as the beautiful clay jug was placed on the table and the water it held was enjoyed by a loving family.

The daily routine was always the same.  The little cracked jug watched and wishing it was like the beautiful perfect jug, and couldn’t understand why it had to endure the same sad routine every day.  Why wasn’t it thrown away?  It felt useless.  It had no purpose.  It just wished, with all it’s might, it was the other jug.

It couldn’t take it anymore!  So it asked the water-bearer “Why do you take me to the water hole every day, when I am broken, I leak and can’t hold any water?  Every day when we come home I am empty.  I am useless.”

The water-bearer lovingly picked up her broken jug, hugging it closely as she walked to the hut opening.  She faced the jug towards the path that led all the way to the water hole.  One side of the path was lined with the most amazing and beautiful flowers, and other people in the village were looking at the flowers and smelling them.  These flowers were the most beautiful things in the village.  She said “Do you see those beautiful flowers that line the path?  Every day when I walk back from the water hole, it is you who waters those flowers.  It is because of you that we have the most beautiful flowers in all the land.  Your job isn’t to bring water to the family table, it is to bring life to our village.  You are special in a different way.  That’s your unique purpose, and you are beautifully and wonderfully made.

I apologise that I can’t recall where I heard this story, so I can’t give credit where it is due.  But I believe that if you are reading this post, you may need to hear it – to give you hope and inspiration.  Whether it’s Karma, or the Universe, or God (or whoever you believe in) speaking to you, this one’s for you – to remind you that you are uniquely and wonderfully made, and have a purpose.

This is why being you is better than being me.  

©  2015 CEW

If God loves GLBTs, who are we to judge?

Happy people dancing under a rainbow around Tree of LifeI’m a happily married Christian heterosexual woman, and I’m publicly coming out of the closet.  Not to declare I am gay, but to declare that I am NOT opposed to same-sex-marriage (ssm).  I am even going one step further to say “God Loves GLBT’s”.  And by that, I don’t mean God loves “gourmet lettuce bacon and tomato sandwiches”.  I mean …

GOD LOVES GAY, LESBIAN, BISEXUAL AND TRANSGENDER PEOPLE!  And I declare it loudly, proudly and publicly.

I would never win a theological argument on the issue, because the theologians would bamboozle me and confuse me with their intellect; and I would end up looking like a stuttering twit.  So I am going to put my views forward in a simple way.  My way.  The way I think God reflects his love for all people.

In the olden days I may have been burned at the stake for my views, and maybe even now I will upset some of my Christian friends or readers.  But that’s OK too.  It’s our chance to practice grace towards one another.

I’ve been a Christian for 10 years now, and my Church has done a lot of teaching on the love and grace of Jesus Christ.  They’ve taught that there is not one single Christian in our Church (or anywhere else for that matter) who is not a sinner, and still a sinner.  Most of us are private sinners, and because others don’t see it, we tend to get away with it.  So I thank my Church and Pastors for never coming across as being high and mighty and righteous.  Thank you for being “real”.  I also apologise in advance if my views are not “right”, but I know you will love me despite that.  Because that’s what the real “followers of Christ” do.  That’s what you have taught us.  Anyway … back to my post ….

I’ve seen some dreadful vision coming out of the USA since ssm was legalised.  One particular picture of a grown man bending down and shouting into the face of a 6 year old girl incensed me.  Maybe the girl shouldn’t have been supporting ssm in a crowd of supporters, as surely she’s too young, but the man was old enough to be able to contain himself and treat her, a child, with respect.  Would God condone any man treating a child this way?  Not the Christian God that I follow, that’s for sure.

I have seen many placards being held high by Christians over the years saying “God hates fags!”  Wrong again.  Not sure about the god they say they follow, but I know it’s not the Christian God.  He actually sent his son to die for “all” people, so their sins are forgiven, and all means every single GLBT person on the planet and all sins (yes, even the “judgement” shown by these Christians).

When I thought about writing this post {sitting at McDonalds having a coffee on my way to Church} a picture came to my mind so strongly from the Bible.  It’s the image of Mary (the adulterer) on her knees being stoned by a self-righteous crowd.  Then the feet of Jesus come into her view.  And his hand reaches down to her.  He loves her.  He then says “let those without sin cast the first stone”.

The “stoners” in the crowd – I see as the Christians in today’s world.  The self righteous ones that hide their sins but condemn others for theirs.  And Mary, to me, she represents every beautiful GLBT person, individually and collectively, that Jesus reaches out to and loves, despite anything they may have done that others don’t believe in.

To today’s condemning Christians:  Read this story in your Bible.  God doesn’t hate any sinner.  He loves them.  He loves the GLBT community.  He didn’t scream in Mary’s face, like the man facing off against a 6 year old in the USA, nor condemn her.  He reached out towards her with grace and love.  And she became one of his staunchest followers.

Also to today’s condemning Christians:  You are a sinner too, as am I.  It’s just that your “sins” are done in private.  And because your fellow Christians that you sit next to at Church on Sunday don’t know about your secret “sins” of greed, lust, sex before marriage, cheating on your tax return, etc., etc., etc., that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.  It just means you hide yours and are not publicly judged and condemned for them, the way you do to the GLBT community.  God is against greed, lust, worshipping of other gods, lying, adultery and judgement; but it IS legal under man’s law.  I don’t see you opposing these things that God opposes.  The GLBT community has their so called “sin” on display for all to see, and you treat them as if they have a target on their hearts that is yours to shoot at.  Please don’t.  God didn’t intend this to be your ministry area.  He called you to love them … despite that they are GLBT.  Then, there’s God’s definition of Marriage, and man’s which we in Australia call “The Marriage Act”.  Most countries have their own marriage act, that’s why some cultures allow a man to have two wives etc.  You may choose to follow God’s law for marriage, which I do, but the man made marriage act is legal and doesn’t transcend God’s laws.  Choose which laws you follow, and allow others to choose theirs.

To those that want to stone me for my views:  That’s ok.  I know we all have different views and it’s okay for yours to be different to mine.  But we are all called to love others as Christ does.  That’s why I will show grace to you.  Well, I will try, anyway.  God knows I’m not perfect either.

To the GLBT community:    G O D     L O V E S     Y O U.   It’s as simple as that.

Originally posted on my old blog site
© CEW 2015


Is 50 too old to get my first tattoo?

Highly tattood lady in red bikini cartoonI want a tattoo! Not because I’m having a mid-life crisis and I’ve just turned 50, but because I’m arty and creative and … well … I just want one.

I wanted to get one in my 30s, but because of my work tattoos were deemed “inappropriate”. But times have changed. My bosses would have had a fit if I came to work “inked”. The boss I have now would be okay with it. {To him, how I work is more important than how I look. Thats why he gave the 49 year old plump woman a job over the younger hotties. ‘Nuff said!}

So I’m thinking of getting my 1st tattoo to mark – literally – my half century. My 20 year old son is ecstatic because he is tattooed and insists on coming with me. My 23 year old son not so much because he is quite conservative and thinks I will “chicken out”. And my husband will probably have an apoplectic seizure. He is “El Capitano” of the conservatives.

The morning he woke up and pointed out the massive boil on my nostril, only to have his eyes re-focus and realise it was a silver stud that I got when he was out the previous night nearly did the poor man in. I just smiled that morning and gave him my cocky face. That was 18 years ago. Now this tattoo is going to make an appearance within the next few months but he doesn’t think I will actually go through with it either.

“There is something lovely about turning the big 5 0. I’m not concerned about what people think any more. I’m {sigh} content.”

So I’m thinking of getting a beautiful old round clock face tattooed on my upper arm, close to the shoulder. Instead of having two hands on it, I will have four. Two times will be displayed depicting the moments that both of my sons were born. The inner working of the clock will be showing and the outside of the clock will have my two sons names engraved on it. Just a thought at this time, but I want my first tattoo to mean something special and timeless {excuse the pun} to me.

I must admit I am a little scared. Will I regret it? Maybe. But you only live once. Is 50 too old to get my first tattoo? Am I having a mid-lift crisis? No idea.

Tattooist appointment soon! Or, maybe I will get a dragon, or a sword with a big jewel in it, or a decorative cross, or ………
© 2015 CEW

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