For Your Culinary Consideration

As Christmas approaches, many of you are planning your menus. Some will be refined cuisine, some will be feasts of abundance. Allow me to offer a culinary recommendation.

Growing up, every family gathering involved some amount of time devoted to falling asleep on the floor. After the dishes were cleared, one by one people would drop. Within an hour my grandparents’ living room was strewn with bodies, chests rising and falling slowly. Some aggressive snoring from an uncle who shall remain nameless.

As an adult, I strive to continue this tradition. My goal is never satisfaction. It’s incapacitation. Which Is why I present to you a new recipe for this year: the Loaded Porktato.

A note about my recipes. I write them in a way that focuses on the most important information. I keep it real, if you will. You won’t find many words like cup, teaspoon, or three to five minutes at 350 degrees. That’s intended. I don’t want you to measure ingredients. I want you to FEEL them. Let your instincts be your guide. You can’t go wrong.

(Also, fun fact: every time I type “porktato,” my word processor corrects it to “prostate.” Just in case I missed an auto-correction somewhere.)

The Loaded Porktato

STEP 1: Make your favorite recipe for barbecue pulled pork.

Make a crock pot of it. Make A LOT. The goal of this meal is to have all parties lying on the ground in a pool of meat sweat.

Obviously, if you are of a non-pork persuasion, you can easily substitute barbecue beef.

If you are vegetarian, you can skip this step.

If you are vegan, you should probably bail out now.

STEP 2: Make a baked potato. 

Have you made a baked potato before? Okay, cool. Just do that again. 

Have you never made a baked potato? Okay, no sweat. Close your eyes and pull up a childhood memory of eating a baked potato. Got it? Good. How was it cooked by your mother or father or grandmother or great-uncle or next-door babysitter? Okay, now just do that.

Not have a previous memory of eating or cooking a baked potato? Don’t worry. It involves 1) a potato, 2) tin foil, and 3) puncture wounds. You can take it from there.

Remember, don’t stress about this step. The potato is only a conduit for the rest of the fixings.

STEP 3: Split potato in half.

Spread a pat of butter on each half, as little or as much as you’d like. You probably won’t be able to taste it. Then why add it, you ask? Because this is Porktato Time. Things like calories and saturated fats must be turned a blind eye. Leave your margarine or I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not substitutes for your kale casseroles.

STEP 4: Pile a scoop of pulled pork on top of the split potato. 

Pile on another scoop.

Set your plate down on the counter and take five steps back. Can you still see the potato? If so, plop another scoop on top.

Repeat. Remember, it doesn’t transform into a porktato until the potato is no longer visible to the human eye.

STEP 5: Sauce check. 

Investigate the sauce distribution of your porktato. Does it seem dry? If so, pour more sauce on. You want your porktato to be moist. (I apologize, there’s no other way to say it.) Sauce acts as a lubricant, which is critical as you will eventually be sliding this down your gullet.

STEP 6: Slop on some sour cream.

NOT GREEK YOGURT.

I know some people say: "Greek yogurt tastes just like sour cream." These people are ne’er-do-wells. They bear false witness. Don’t trust them to watch your offspring. Don’t trust them to pick up your mail while you're out of town. And certainly don’t trust them with your culinary choices. Greek yogurt does not taste like sour cream. It tastes like sour cream that has been poured into an abandoned gym sock at the local YMCA locker room, left to curdle and steep for two weeks.

STEP 7: Add shredded cheese. Any kind will do.

STEP 8: Sprinkle a fistful of bacon bits on top.

Why? Because 'Merica, that's why. Did our country’s forefathers reach the Mississippi River, look at each other, and say, “good enough.” No. They pushed on, ignoring all appeals to stop, including fundamental human decency. If you stop at shredded cheese, you might as well pack up and go home. Instead, grab those bits of bacon, slam them on top of your porktato, and shout “MANIFEST DESTINY!”

STEP 9: Add fried onions.

You know, the kind your Aunt Ruth uses to top of her green bean casserole. This step is optional, depending on the structural integrity of your plate. But it does add a satisfying crunch to the proceedings.

STEP 10: Check your waistband. 

You are going to need some give. Does your current outfit seem too restrictive? Change immediately. Sweat pants are a good choice. Jeans are insane.

STEP 11: Don’t forget to stretch.

Side bends, torso turns, something. Do you stretch before running a marathon? Okay, well, this is going to be the equivalent of 26.2 miles for your colon. Give yourself a fighting chance.

STEP 12: Select your consumption location.

I recommend plate on coffee table, ass on floor. You’re going to end up down there anyway.

STEP 13: Wait for everyone else to finish building their loaded porktato. 

Have some manners. You're not an animal.

STEP 14: If you’re so inclined, say a prayer ...

...take a deep breath ... and stomp out any intellectualization of what you are about to eat. You are past the point of rationalizing this decision.

STEP 15: Godspeed.

Remember, the floor is always there to catch you.

Congratulations. You’ve made — nay, survived — your first loaded porktato. Welcome to the club.

Run Around Sue

The morning air hovers, crisp and misty. Through the fog, it’s just me and the garbage trucks, plodding along the side of the road. It’s disturbing how similar our forward progress is: slow, labored, with regular pauses. It stops to tip a week’s worth of human-made refuse into a compactor. I stop to stretch a sore hip flexor. Both maneuvers are less than graceful.

This is perfect. Me and Smelly McSanitation. Seriously.

This summer, I started running.

Correction: I started jogging, with frequent breaks for side stitches. Two months later, I could honestly call what I was doing “running.” And don’t worry. I will not wax poetic  about stride length or heel strike or split time. I mean, I could totally write a post about each one. But I will fight that instinct. You're welcome

This post isn't about running. It's about one particular aspect of running I am still learning to cope with.

The run-by.

For me, running is a gloriously solitary experience. While some people enjoy running in packs, I’ve always been the lone wolf variety. I can run at whatever time, on whatever day, for however long, at whatever pace. When it comes to exercise, I embrace the psychology of the Only Child.

So I’m jogging along, making good time … and then I see it. A bobbing blob, blurry in the middle distance. Same side of the road as me. Creeping closer. No side streets or culs-de-sac offering the sweet, sweet relief of a different direction. That’s it. My fate is sealed.

I am going to have to run by this person.

I get it. I know what you’re thinking: uh, yeah. Run by the person. What’s the big deal? Well, let me start by congratulating you, well-adjusted reader, on your balanced mental capacities and imperviousness to spiraling negative thought cycles. I assume your internal dialogue during this type of run-by would go a little something like this:

… Oh hey, there’s someone coming this direction. I will modify my spatial awareness accordingly and run closer to the curb, thus allowing the person approaching a clearer path.

…..

I will now return to my standard curb-distance spacing — HEY. How did The Black Eyed Peas get on this playlist? I TOLD DEBORAH TO GET HER OWN ITUNES ACCOUNT.

And scene.

By comparison, let me share with you a little glimpse into my head space when I face down a run-by:

So this run is going well I haven’t fallen yet always a good sign in fact I think I can probably pick up my pace let me increase my BPM rate on my music and try to maintain — WAIT.

….

What’s that?

….

A sign? No, it’s moving around too much. Dang it, I really need to remember to schedule that eye doctor appointment — WAIT.

It’s a person.

Okay, stay calm. Don’t freak out — DON’T. Freak out.

You can’t see a face yet, it’s still just a blob. A humanoid blob, yes. But a blob nonetheless. Maybe it’s facing away from you and running in the same direction. That must be, if it’s on the same side of the road as you. Focus: does it appear to be growing smaller … or bigger. 

Smaller, right? I’m sure it’s smaller.

…..

Bigger. SHIT.

Deep breaths. It’s going to be fine. You’re running along, it’s running along — ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE STREET, WHICH MEANS THAT OUR WHOLE INTERACTION COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF THIS LAW-BREAKING HOODLUM FOLLOWED BASIC RUNNING ETIQUETTE — okay, this is not the time to focus on street safety protocols. You’ll be fine. 

You just need to decide.

Are you going to acknowledge it … or ignore it?

If you go with the Ignore Option, you need to identify your Distraction Maneuver. Change song? Itch your nose? Spot something mesmerizing across the street? Become suddenly fascinated by the pavement?

Or, if you go with the Acknowledgment Option, you need to determine your Engagement Threshold. Polite head nod? Wave of the hand? Smile? Also, vocalization or no vocalization? Say hello? Or perhaps a cheerful good morning? Yeah, that will show that, despite your stilted stride you are the type of person who is optimistic. You embrace the physical torture that is running. That would be nice. It will probably be really impressed and think that you run all the time. Which you do — why do you view yourself as some type of running imposter? You’ve been running five miles easy for three months, You can call yourself a runner at this point — okay, that is neither here nor there. So, if you engage with vocalization, let’s go with an upbeat “Good morning!”

WAIT — it’s six o’clock at night. Good morning sounds insane. Nice catch. That would have been humiliating.

How about a nice “good evening” … but that may be too formal. Good day? No, that sounds like you’re dismissing this person with disdain, i.e. I SAID GOOD DAY. A “nice evening, isn’t it” might work.

Oh wait, you haven’t assessed the approaching target yet. Idiot. Does it look like the type to ignore or to acknowledge? Late middle-age male, running at a relatively slow pace. That typically indicates acknowledgment including vocalization. BUT the target is huffing and puffing. Essential intake of breath may make verbal acknowledgment impossible. This might be an ignore situation. Plus, he has earbuds in, so he probably won’t hear you. Okay, it’s settled. Initiate Ignore Protocol. 

HOLD ON … it — er, he, only has one earbud in. The other one is hanging down like a limp noodle. He must have left it out to hear better. Maybe acknowledgment with verbalization is the better strategy…


Impact in 30 feet … 20 feet … MAKE A DECISION!!!! WE NEED A PLAN!!!

EMPLOY VERBAL INTERACTION. IMPROVE RUNNING FORM. DEEP INTAKE OF OXYGEN. AND FIRE.

“Hi! Nice day, am I right?”

Target does not engage. Run-by crisis averted. Minor collateral damage to Social Interaction Confidence supplies.

I mean, really. Who doesn’t acknowledge someone? He clearly saw me. Ridiculous. This is why we are going to hell as a society. Now where was I? Oh yes, increasing my BPM rate. Helloo 172…

Exerting this amount of energy every time you approach another person is exhausting. In fact, the only time I'm out of breath during a run is during a run-by. I start sweating — okay, my sweating increases — and my stomach churns. All of the physical manifestations of pain and stress I used to have during the entire run are now reserved only for run-bys.

The worst — the WORST — is when I am running on a loop track. I am a creature of repetition. I will listen to the same song six times in a row on my commute. I watch You’ve Got Mail every time I go on a cleaning spree. There’s comfort in the familiar, and running is no different. A few miles from my house is a park with a short running path that circles a set of soccer fields. I include it in my route a lot because it helps me zone out. When I run on a loop, I set my brain to “repeat” and wind up running a mile further than if I were on some new, unknown route.

As with everything, the upside of a loop track leads exactly to its downside: running by the same people again and again. The running path at the park is relatively new. It hasn’t yet established a one-direction culture, so people run or walk in both directions. It's chaos. No matter which way I run, I’m going to have repeated runs-by with the same people. For someone like me, who panics and is seemingly incapable of establishing consistency with my interactions with other humanoids, this spells disaster. The reason I always panic is that I immediately regret the decision I made for our last interaction.

Run-By #1:
If I say hello, I am annoyed about being burdened with the expectation of a greeting  every time we cross paths. If I don’t say hello, I spend the next lap worrying about whether the person thinks I’m unfriendly. And hates me.

Run-By #2:
This leads me to say hello during our second interaction. THIS IS THE WORST DECISION EVER. The first interaction establishes the rules of our relationship. We’ve set our territory, we’ve created boundaries. And now, during the second interaction, I throw our entire world into chaos by breaking all previously established precedence.

Run-By #3:
WHO KNOWS WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN ON LAP THREE.

The worst are walkers with dogs. First, they’re walking. This means that the angst-ridden approach is dragged out over an even longer amount of time. I clearly do not need more time to analyze an impending interaction. Second, they’re walking, so they aren’t out of breath and are expecting a chatty greeting. Third, they have a dog. An adorable, happy faced, plopping pawed dog. I do not want to talk to the human. I DO want to talk to the dog. But saying hello to a dog without acknowledging the human attached to the other end of the leash seems like a faux pas.

Or should I say ... FAUX PAW. (Credit to friend and coworker Sarah Howard on that one. I'm so ashamed I missed it. Follow her at @HowardSJ.)

Come to think of it, I wonder if some dogs experience panic when they spy me trudging toward them. Maybe that’s why I sometimes coo at a fluffy canine, only to be barked and lunged at, driving me off the path and into the grass. I always berate these dogs in my head afterward. Truth in advertising, buddy. If you didn’t want any attention, then why were you flopping those ears around so adorably? Turns out, these dogs might not be vicious butt sniffers. Maybe they’re anxious. They saw me coming, tried to decide between ignore and acknowledge, panicked, and went WAY overboard on their vocalization protocol.

I can relate.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Shriek

Let me begin with this. 

I love animals. Growing up, I "dogsat" for neighbors going out of town, free of charge. In grade school I bought horse calendars and dolphin planners at the school store. I desperately wanted a puppy when I was a kid and employed every tactic -- pleading, annoyance, guilt, emotional manipulation -- at my disposal to make that happen. It didn't, even when I negotiated down from dog to guinea pig, but the effort still stands. In the sixth grade, I wrote an essay that won an award from the local chapter of the National Humane Society. I believe my credentials are clear.

Keep that in mind as I tell this tail -- er, tale.

Evening.

I am sitting on my couch, watching Netflix and knitting. A perfectly normal night in. Then, halfway through a purl row, out of the corner of my eye I see something in my kitchen move. Looking up, I notice a sponge fall over by my sink. No big deal. Then,  I see the sponge start to move from side to side. Then I see it dart across the counter top, past the sink, and scurry behind a stack of dishes.

I do not own magical sponges. Especially sponges with tails.

Also, my eyesight is relatively poor.

When I hear news stories about people surviving extreme situations people -- trapped in a mine, held hostage in a robbery, flying a plane when an engine goes out -- I sometimes try to imagine how I would have reacted. I always picture myself being internally nervous but externally level-headed and action-oriented. Just handle the situation. Keep things in perspective. Focus on what to do. That's my mantra in these scenarios.

Now, I have specific evidence about how I would actually react. If you already figured out the mystery of the last night's sponge activity, then you can probably guess my reaction. Which is to SHRIEK AND TWITCH AND JUMP ONTO THE COUCH BECAUSE THERE IS A MOUSE IN MY KITCHEN.

I will never again think of cartoon elephants jumping on tiny stools when a rodent skitters by as silly and over-the-top. I totally get you, Dumbo.

After about ten seconds of shrieking / twitching / jumping, I bolt for my bedroom. I grab the biggest, heaviest shoe I could find, take a deep breath, and sidestep my way back into the kitchen. Looking back, I have no idea what my plan was. What? Was I going to hurl this shoe at the mouse with my rocket of an arm? I can barely pitch a softball to home plate. There's no way I'm going to bonk this mouse from ten feet away. And there's NO way I'm going any closer than ten feet. I dart to the garage, grab a broom, and resume my defensive position in the kitchen, leaving the door to the garage open. Great. Now I'm brandishing a sneaker and a broom. Because I am an adult. And I own this house so I can't move. This is what adults do. They figure out rodent problems. I have a sneaker. I have a broom. This plan is totally going to work.

My plan, you ask? Well, of course I don't want to touch the mouse. Not a particularly pressing problem, since I had long ago lost track of where it actually was. But, even though I can't see it in the kitchen ... I can FEEL its presence. Its beady eyed, scaly tailed presence. Plus I see little pellets of mouse poop scattered across my counter tops. Classy, Fievel. Real classy.

I start by trying to scare the mouse into the middle of the kitchen. I figure, as soon as I know where it is, I can herd it toward the open door so it would run out and into the darkness of the night. I deduce the best strategy to scare it is to slam the broom against cabinet doors, yelp, then jump back.

No go. This mouse can't be intimidated.

After a few failed attempts to rattle the mouse out of his hiding place I start alternating between slamming my broom into things and pleading for reason. 

*SLAM*

"PleasePleasePLEASE.come.out.don't.you.understand.I'll.totally.let.you.go.out.the.door.come.on.where.are.you--"

*SLAM*

"Oh.God.COME.ON.the.door's.right.there.just.go.to.your.left."

*SLAM*

"WHEREAREYOUPLEASELEAVEFORTHELOVEOFALLTHINGSHOLYJUSTGOAWAY."

*SLAM*

*THAT'SITIAMCALLINGMYMOM."

Because that's what adults who aren't really adults and have tried to handle an adult situation and are out of ideas ... do.

My mom talks me off the ledge.

"Honey, what's wrong?"

"Okay so I was knitting tonight and I saw my sponge move across the counter top only it turned out that it wasn't a sponge it was a mouse and THERE'S A MOUSE IN MY KITCHEN AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND I WANT TO MOVE AND I DON'T HAVE ANY DOORS SO I CAN'T CLOSE ANYTHING AND I ONLY HAVE A BROOM AND A SHOE AND WHAT AM I GOING TO DO."

"Alright, take a deep breath. It's just a little mouse, it isn't going to hurt you. You probably -- oh, it's just Suzanne, she has a mouse in her kitchen .... no she can't see it ... she said something about a broom ... yeah, I'll tell her Lowe's might have some -- okay, tomorrow morning you should go get some mousetraps -- honey, BREATHE, calm down -- and then you'll put a little piece of cheese on each one and set them where you saw them in your kitchen and it should catch it in a day or two."

"Where should I go to get them?"

"You can go to Lowe's, they should have them--"

"Lowe's isn't open this late I NEED TO GET ONE TONIGHT I CAN'T SLEEP HERE WHAT IF IT RUNS OUT AND IS IN MY BEDROOM--"

"Okay, honey, calm down. You could probably go to Meijer, they should have some and they are open all night, but I don't want you driving if you are so upset--"

"Oh, I'm getting these traps tonight. Okay, I have to go find my other sneaker and go to the store."

"Okay, honey, and tonight just stuff a towel at the bottom of your bedroom door and it won't get in. Let me know how it goes."

"...okay ... thanks ... sniffle sniffle ... I love you."

"I love you to, hun. It'll be fine."

"WAIT.... what do I do once it's stuck in the trap?"

"Just put it in your trash can in your garage."

"... but how?"

"I would just get a bag and turn it inside out and then you don't even have to touch it with your skin-- "

"OKAY. THINGS ARE GETTING TOO REAL. GOTTA GO."

You know, a typical, completely mature, adult conversation regarding a common homeowner responsibility.

Still shaking a bit, I get into my car and start driving to my local 24-hour superstore. My hands are still trembling a bit, so I turn on the radio to distract myself. That's when I hear exactly what I need at this particularly panicky moment: 

Des'ree.

The song is, "Gotta Be."

You gotta be bad         

       You gotta be bold

You gotta be wiser                                            

       You gotta be hard

You gotta be tough                     

            You gotta be stronger

                             You gotta be cool

You gotta be tough                     

                                                       You gotta stick together

All I know all I know love will save the day.”

Des'ree's pep talk is perfect. By the second verse I am literally saying, out loud, in my car, to myself, "That's right, Suzanne. You got this. You GOT this."

I walk into Meijer and go directly to a sales associate wearing a red polo and stocking shelves. This is not the time to wander the aisles and play cool. This is def-com 4.

"Excuse me, where could I found mouse traps?" I aim for nonchalance. I hit strident and a little nauseated.

"Having one of those nights, huh?"

"YES." My facade immediately crumbles. I have to stop myself from crying and throwing myself into him for a hug. Remember what Des'ree said. Gotta be cool and tough, not an emotional wreck and physically assaulting.

He walks me a few aisles down and points to some boxes.

"These are glue traps, so the mouse just gets stuck to the paper."

Here's a personal rule: if you steal my food and poop on my counter tops, I have the right to use your gluttony against you to kill you. I'm not saying that, if a friend comes over, steals some salami and drops a deuce on my laminate, I will immediately stab said friend. What I AM saying is that I may lace the salami with arsenic and let nature take its course.

I'm not here to hold this pest's little creepy paws and walk it outside into a meadow. This son of a bitch had its chance to leave. I tried to negotiate. It refused. Now there's only one option. The nuclear option.

"Oh, I don't want humane traps. I want one that kills it."

“Oh yeah, no problem! Then just use these." He points to a stack of basic traps two shelves up. "These work really well at killing them and they're only 99 cents. Just put your bait right here and set them around. They should catch whatever you have."

These traps have some vintage appeal. They look exactly like the traps in cartoons: wooden base, spring-loaded guillotine ready to trigger. Basic. No fuss. Pragmatic.

But then, once the mouse is dead ... I have a dead mouse in my kitchen. I think back to my mother's comment about getting a bag and turning it inside out...

These are not what I'm looking for either.

"Um, no. What are these over here?" I point to some larger boxes.

"Oh, those are kill traps, too. They work well and they have that nice cover so you don't have to touch the mouse. They're a lot more expensive, though."

I check the sticker. $5.99. Six bucks versus one buck. Only five more dollars to completely avoid having to visually face the death I just caused? 

Worth. It.

"That's okay, I'll splurge."

"Oh yeah. The good thing is, they're reusable, you know. You just open them up and throw out the dead mouse and you can fill them with a new trap."

I decide it isn't worth explaining to him that there will be no "open up and throw out" of the mouse carcass in my scenario. Once the deed is done, this whole Cadillac of traps is going in the trash. I would throw out the entire kitchen if I could.

I thank this knight in a shining name tag and polo shirt for his assistance, grab a couple traps, and head towards the check out line.

Wait.

Bait.

The instructions on the trap say that you can use cheese or peanut butter to lure the rodent to its death. I have both ... but it will be a cold day in hell when I give this monster even a nibble of my Brie or Jif. Instead, I head to the grocery aisle and buy the smallest, cheapest brand of peanut butter I can find. (Peter Pan, if you're looking for bait recommendations.)

Traps? Check. Bait? Check.

I get in the car and search through my iPod for music to listen to on the drive home.

Des'ree? Check.

I put my pop song pep talk on loop and sign along the entire way home. I psych myself up. I pull into the garage, get out of the car, and grab my arsenal of supplies.

Let's do this.

I march into my house, traps in hand ... and immediately shift to tip-toeing as soon as I get to the kitchen. 

No mouse in sight. Great. Be like that.

I squish a dab of what I now refer to as my "mouse bait" peanut butter on each trap, set the trigger, and place them around my kitchen close to little piles of poop. I back out of my kitchen -- you never turn your back on an enemy -- and moonwalk my way to my bedroom, stuffing multiple towels under the door as a last line of defense.

Let me tell you, it is a great night of sleep. A GREAT night.

The next morning.

Dawn.

After procrastinating in my bedroom for as long as I can, I arm myself with a broom and creep out to the kitchen. Both traps still sit on the counter. Both traps empty. Thank goodness. Discarding of a little dead rodent was not something I want to do to kick off the day. But wait … if the traps are empty … that means ....

I bolt for the door.

The upside to these type of experiences is that, while in the moment they are terrifying, the next day they make answering the age-old coworker question, “how was your weekend?" much easier. I arrive at work around eight ... thirty. By nine, everyone in my office suite has heard about my mouse-adventure. Most reply with a mix of horror and a description of their own worst rodent experience. This doesn't help things.

When something worries you and yet you can't do anything about it, people always give you the same advice. Don't worry about it. Stop thinking about it. Put it out of your mind. The whole serenity prayer theory. Here's the problem I have with that approach: constantly forgetting an unresolved problem means that you are destined to constantly remember it. I've always found that jolt of recall way, way worse in the long run. So, the entire day I would be working on a project or sitting in a meeting when, out of nowhere, BAM. MOUSE IN THE HOUSE.

The start of the day drags on. At one point I consider calling my neighbor, telling him that I think I left my water running in the kitchen sink and would he mind going over to my house to check. I figure when he called back to confirm no water emergency he would also mention if he saw a dead mouse splayed out on the counter. Then I realize I don't ever talk to my neighbors. Dammit.

After lunch, I am again relaying my mousecapade to another colleague. She says she also used the same type of trap when she had mice in her house. (Mice? As in … PLURAL?) 

“When I had mice in my house, I used those too."

"You know, even though they're more expensive they seem totally worth it. I was totally fine with paying a few extra dollars so I won’t have to see it once it's dead."

"Well, you'll probably still see something."

"...."

"And you may need to clean up a little blood."

"..."

At this point, reality hits me. Even when the trap goes off, the ordeal isn't over. I was so worried about catching this thing that I hadn't even thought about what I would need to do once it's caught.

I'm a feminist. I believe women are equal to men. I am incredibly appreciative of the work of people for so many years to make progress towards gender equality.

That being said, I would gladly give up my right to vote, my property and 30% of my pay to have a man deal with this. There were some upsides to being a housewife in the 1950's. Don Draper might have drunk like a fish and cheated with every secretary he brushed up against, but he would throw away any dead mouse carcasses once he staggered home.

I consider calling my neighbor, lying to him that I "think I left the water running in my kitchen sink" and asking if he would go over and check. I figure if he spots a dead mouse on the counter top, he'll bring it up. Then I remember that I've never met my neighbors. Great. Is this what suburban life has brought us to? A thirty-one year old woman doesn't know her neighbors well enough to trick them into checking for rodent entrails? It's just shameful.

As slowly as the morning went, the afternoon flies by. I try to find missing emails to answer and forms to sign, but alas, my work is done by five. I drive back home, running through each scenario in my head. Scenario 1: traps are empty, mouse is still at large, and I'm going to have to sleep in my car. Scenario 2: operation mouse massacre was successful and now I have to dispose of the remains. Luckily traffic is a mess on the way home, adding a decent thirty additional minutes to my commute. Normally this annoys me, but today I think of it as the universe helping me out. Maybe if I had arrived home on time I would have walked in mid-trap-snap. I'm pretty sure whatever sounds a mouse makes in its death throes would haunt me for at least a month.

Finally, I'm home. Arming myself once again with the broom, I open the door and creep inside.

The house is eerily silent. I stand by the doorway of the kitchen, not looking but listening. My ears strain to detect any scuttling, half hoping to hear little mouse paws scampering around. Nothing. Silence. Heart racing, I give myself one last pep talk (again, credit to Des'ree), and peer around the door frame.

The traps are all in the same places they were before. No new little mouse poops that I can see. 

Wait a minute. What's sticking out of that one trap -- A TAIL! A TAIL!

WE ARE AT DEFCOM TEN, PEOPLE. THE MOUSE HAS MET ITS FATE. I REPEAT, THE MOUSE HAS MET ITS FATE.

Now things start getting real. This isn't little poop pellets. This isn't thinking I saw a sponge dart across my counter. This is mouse. In a trap. On my counter. Dead. I thought once I had reached this point, everything would feel much better. Nope. Worse. Way worse. Now I have to handle this.

I think back to my mom's suggestion: "I would just get a bag and turn it inside out--"

My mother is out of her damn mind. No way that is happening. 

Okay. I have to handle this. I am an adult. I gotta be cool. I gotta be tough. I gotta be strong. So I do the mature thing. I handle it. I throw the mouse away.

....

Translation of "throw the mouse away":

I get a kitchen trash can, put a black garbage bag in it, and kick it to the counter, just under the mouse trap. I put on sunglasses so I can barely see, grab my broom, and push the trap with the broom into the kitchen trash can, jumping from foot to foot. I then pick up the entire kitchen trash can, dash to the garage, and throw the entire thing into my outdoor garbage bin, shrieking and caterwauling the entire time. I run back inside and continue to flail and shiver for another three minutes.

....

So that should take care of meeting the neighbors anytime soon.

Thus concludes the great Mousepocalypse of 2015. And yes, I still have the second trap out to catch any co-conspirators that may still be scuttling around. I understand that this is rarely a lone wolf situation. Five days later and no accomplice has been caught yet, along with no signs. (Signs = poop.) So either there aren't any other mice, or the ones that are left are stealthier and have better taste in bait.

Now my pantry boasts a special peanut butter jar labeled, “Mouse Last Supper.” And I know what you're thinking. The answer to your questions is "no." I am never — EVER — eating Brie out of my trash can again.

* * *

UPDATE: I just found Mouse #2 in the basement. It's dead already, but still as scary to dispose of as the first one. I threw it away and will be calling a real estate agent tomorrow morning. Clearly, I need to move.

Adult Fail

As a kid, putting up the Christmas tree normally involved an hour of bending endless wire branches into odd angles as my parents shoved each prickly arm into the tree’s base. Inevitably my sister and I would lose interest as my mom struggled to wrap limb after limb with white twinkle lights. We would sneak away to avoid the monotonous prep work, only to miraculously appear when it was time to hang ornaments. (It’s called “strategic bladdering.” It is also the reason why I always seemed to have to pee whenever it was time to clear the table after dinner.)

Years later, as a thirtysomething, I’m on my own to lug holiday cheer up the basement steps and wrestle my own artificial Douglas fir into submission. However, modern times have eased the process. A thousand blessings to whomever came up with the idea of pre-lit trees. Instead of individual branches, I only have to shove three shrub sections together. No wrapping of individual lights around each bough. Just a new holiday tradition: violating all electrical safety codes and holding my breath that, when I plug the last strand in, the tree will light up. This year, I say a prayer to baby Jesus and  wedge the overloaded extension cord plug into the wall. The lights pop on and the tree springs to life. I send a mental fist bump up to the heavens. If the tree had stayed dark, I would have opted to go lightless. I'd  play it off as some sort of trendy subversiveness. Non-lit trees are all the rage, you know, I’d say to guests as I handed them a craft beer and they stared at my dark symbol of Yuletide doom.

Since getting the tree in a locked, upright position feels like a cardio workout, it’s time for a snack break. And that’s when I remember something. And the evening goes from good to great. 

I run to the refrigerator and open the door. There it sits, in all her circular cardboard glory. I breathe, “hello, gorgeous.”

I have Brie in my fridge.

Do you eat Brie? If you do, do you remember the first time you tried it? Somehow, I had missed this particularly culinary treat until I was well into my thirtieth year. I recall seeing it at dinner parties in my twenties but it always left me perplexed. The innards oozed out of the rind.  Honey or nuts or jam spackled the top. Pear slices and pieces of bread surrounded the perimeter. I didn't even know where to begin. What’s supposed to be eaten and what’s just garnish? I still thought cheeseballs were the height of dinner party sophistication. This thing was entirely out of my league. I gave it a pass and moved on to the safety of cheese cubes impaled on tooth picks.

After years of avoidance, I finally tried Brie at a friend’s house. And. I. Couldn’t. Stop. Eating. It. Why — WHY — did I sidestep this for so long? It’s melted cheese and bread! Add bacon and it’s my personal holy trinity. I must have dove into that glorious circle of gooeyness twenty times. I dipped. I drizzled. I delayed dinner so I could continue my attack. After dinner I made up reasons to go back into the kitchen so I could snag another bite, offering to take everyone’s plates to the sink. ONE plate at a time. I’m strategically thoughtful that way. 

Needless to say, the next time I bought groceries I scavenged the supermarket aisles for Brie. It took me a few trips but eventually I found it. Turns out that Brie isn’t by the blocks of sharp cheddar or the individually packaged slices of American. Who knew there was a whole other section of dairy over by the fancy bread counter.

I had managed to stave off the temptation to immediately eat it, so there it sits in my refrigerator, ready to join the decorating festivities. I wait the obligatory fifteen minutes as it bakes, contemplating the fact that longing really does make the heart grow fonder. As soon as the timer beeps I take the warm, oozing Brie and French bread out of the oven and place it on to a wooden cutting board I now reserve for cheese presentation only. I pour myself a glass of wine and bring it, along with Brie and Co. into my family room. I set the culinary delights down amidst the clutter of Christmas on my coffee table. 

Now this is how you deck the halls.

As I sip and munch, I think about how, merely ten years ago, my pre-Christmas run-up was very different. I was still in college. I lived in a crowded apartment with six roommates. I used a bathroom that had one shower and two toilets. I was bemoaning some project in my accounting class and arguing with my landlord about the gas smell coming from our furnace. Now here I am, sitting on a couch — not futon — decorating my full sized — not sixteen inch tall — Christmas tree as I nosh on Brie — not Cheez Whiz — and drink white wine —not flat Sprite.  I’m sure my college self would scoff at how lame and old the scene looks. It is the most banal picture of grownuptitude a kid can think of. 

And, you know what? Instead of feeling uncomfortable or fake, as I feel about many grown-up things  -- taxes, networking events, checking into a hotel -- this time it feels fantastic. 

It’s official. Getting old kicks ass.

After a few more hours of stocking-hanging and decoration-placing, the transformation is complete and I clean up for the night. I wash the dishes and cork up the wine. Almost all the Brie is gone so I drop it in the trash can under the sink and head to bed. 

The next morning, I wake up at 6:30 per usual. (Another road sign on the way to Old Fartdom.) Ready to embrace another day of adult awesomeness.

And something goes horribly wrong…

I live alone. I’ve lived alone for around eight years at this point. Roommates can be pleasant at times but I’m a creature of solitude at heart. I’m like an old iPhone. My battery only lasts about five hours before I need to be plugged into a room by myself and recharge. Living alone is perfect for this disposition. 

The downside to living alone is that you start to lose a bit of common sense.  Everyone has ideas for behavior that they wouldn’t do if other people were around to see it. Then you live alone, and you lose that impetus to self-edit. Eventually, things start going a bit off piste. 

Take, for instance, the five second rule. You know, the widely held belief that, if you drop a piece of food on the ground, you can still eat it as long as you pick it up within five seconds of impact. Of course, there are parameters for this rule. It usually only extends to dry, solid food. Anything sticky is immediately ruled out because inevitably some lint or hair will stick and ruin it.

But then you live alone. And the parameters of the five-second rule start to expand…

I wake up the morning, turn on the Christmas tree, and go into the kitchen. I stare inside the refrigerator, looking for something to eat for breakfast.

Hmmm …. what to eat….  … hmmm …  eggs? …. nah, I’d have to was the skillet…. Maybe yogurt? … oh, okay, that expiration date was last year not gonna happen … hmmm … nothing in here sounds good … you know what does sound good is Brie … man, that Brie last night was amazing… I should have bought two when I was at the store … I bet there was still some left in the rind …. I wish I hadn’t thrown it away last night… what a waste … I could be eating it for breakfast …I could always go to the store … ugh … then I’d have to put on real pants … not gonna happen … but that Brie still sounds really good … I wonder ….

That’s when I hear the siren song calling out to me from the cabinet under the sink.

I could skip to the end. You likely know what's coming at this point. But, just for kicks, let me take you through the journey. The journey of contemplating whether or not you should eat something out of the trash.

Stage 1: Denial and Isolation

I open the cabinet door and pull out the trash can. There lay the remaining carcass of the Brie from last night. Normally, anything that passes below the mouth of the trash can I consider dead to me. But, in the morning light, the trash can suddenly transforms into an extra large Tupperware container. And there’s no one here to stop me from considering this as a viable option. So I continue to consider it.

Stage 2: Pain and Guilt

Why in the world did I throw this away? Clearly it still had potential! Just look at all the cheese drippings on the side alone? That’s enough to cover three pieces of bread, easy. And geez, it  looks so good. 

Stage 3: Anger

YOU IDIOT! RIGHT NOW YOU COULD BE EATING BRIE IF YOU HAD JUST TAKEN THE TIME TO REFRIGERATE IT YESTERDAY? YOU DON’T DESERVE BRIE.

Then again, what should it matter? I really want it. How dare societal conventions prevent me from having what I want? Any why? Just because what I want spent twelve hours in a trash can? I set my thermostat for 65 at night. That practically makes my entire house the refrigerated section of the grocery store.

Stage 4: Bargaining

Okay, in my defense, the Brie is the only thing in the trash can. I wouldn’t even consider eating it if there was other rubbish in it. The trash can liner is basically just like a white version of plastic wrap. Sure, it’s a dairy product that has been at a relatively cool room temperature overnight. But isn’t cheese better after it’s been aged? Really, the Brie should be BETTER because it sat in the trash can overnight.

Stage 5: Depression and Loneliness

I can’t believe I’m considering eating something out of my trash. I’m pathetic. I’m alone. This is probably why I’m alone. I’ll always be alone. So really, what does it matter? There’s no one here to judge me.

Stage 6: The Upward Turn

Really, why am I fighting this? This could be a good thing! And plus, earlier this fall I ate a few bites of that egg-and-cheese croissant sandwich that had been left over from the morning tailgate and baking in a hot car while I was at the game. I felt fine. This wouldn’t even be as bad as that risk.

It should be fine if I warm it up. 

Plus, I’ll warm it up in the oven, I’m not an animal.

So yes, I do the unthinkable. I dumpster dive in my own trash. I reach down, peel the Brie rind from the bottom of the trash bag, and toss it on a baking sheet. Which brings us to the final stage.

Stage 8: Acceptance and Hope

This will be just fine!

...I wonder what other perfectly good food I could have eaten out of my trash over the years?

(In case you’re wondering, it tasted delicious.)