Mouse in the House

I sat down at my desk this morning and was getting everything geared up for the day when I espied, from the corner of my eye, a fuzzy brown streak comeemerge from beneath my desk. A mouse! A sure sign that autumn is on the way.

I tried to follow the little critter’s progress, but it was too fast. And then I spotted it running into the office across from mine. Like a good citizen, I informed the cellmate that a mouse was in his house. I moved the wastebasket and sure enough it darted out and ran under his desk.

If you can imagine, there are lots of nooks and crannies in an office this size, and every year we face the same predicament. I hate killing an innocent, baby mouse, but I don’t want it in my area. You have to know that where you see one, there are probably a dozen more. Get out of my house, mouse.

Arnold Schwandogger, the Spy

I belong to a writer’s group at the office that meets once a week. When we don’t have enough material to review for the hour and a half, we often do writing exercises. Below is my last endeavor.

The scene (for all of us) was a small airport in Arkansas socked in by bad weather. It was amazing how many scenarios we came up with for such a simple setting.

Arnold Schwandogger, the Spy

Arnold Schwandogger lifted his myopic eyes from the newspaper he was reading at the scratchy sound of the cheap P.A. coming to life. “What now,” he sighed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tinny voice said. “Flight 2195 to LAX has been delayed until tomorrow. We have bad weather between here and Atlanta.

“Jesus H Christ!” Schwandogger threw his paper on the floor and struggled to his feet. He’d sat so long that his short leg refused to work with the built-up, platform shoe. He collapsed back into the low-slung, awkward chair.

“Mommy, look at that ugly man," a young girl stage whispered.

Schwandogger glared at the kid but said nothing. He rose again, his shoulders hunched and his head thrust forward like a turtle. He stumped toward the men’s room. “Nasty little brat," he said, passing the mother. “You need to get your kid under control.”

He pushed into the restroom and checked beneath the stalls for occupants. “Hello?” he called, but no one answered. “Thank, God,” he breathed and moved to block the door.

He then straightened to his full six feet four inches and peeled off the bushy eyebrows. He kicked off the uneven shoes and rinsed the gray from his hair. “That’s better,” he whispered.

Twenty minutes later, he stuck his head out the door and strode forward unnoticed and unrecognized.

I'm a Pacer

This is my third week of doing water aerobics in the never ending war against flab. What a great way to have fun while you’re toning and resizing every part of your body. I actually look forward to going. Regular aerobics was way too hard on my joints and netted me minimal results.

In this process I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a pacer not a trotter. Especially when it comes to doing the “cross country skiing” maneuver. Against all admonitions by the instructor, I can’t get my left arm to go forward with my right foot or my right arm and left foot coordinated.

Just like a pacer, my right foot and arm work together and of course so do the left foot and left arm. It’s just a normal walking coordination, but I’ll be damned if I can get it right.

Does this say something about my personality? I'll have to get back to you on that.

Terrorist or Goth?

I walked into the library last evening and saw a young man standing there talking to the person behind the counter about applying for a job. What’s so unusual about that? Well…the kid was dressed in a black and white getup that looked like it came straight from the prop room of a Dracula movie. I was a little suspicious about the long black cape with a standup collar, black vest and pants and a white wing tipped, long-sleeved shirt in 100 degree weather. There was red as well, but I can't remember where. He also wore heavy, almost white foundation with very dark eye makeup.

With all the reports of terrorist these days, I couldn’t help but wonder what he might have hidden beneath the cape. Maybe an assault rifle or even a bomb. You just can’t be too careful.

No I didn't jump him or call 911, but I made sure to examine the far reaches of the library while he was in the vicinity.

Government Study

I know I haven’t written anything in a while, but I couldn’t let this go by without comment. I heard a blurb on the news this morning that made my blood boil Reportedly there has been a study in which 71% of Americans thought a woman should take her husband’s name when they got married. The real kicker was that these same people thought the GOVENRMENT should force a woman to assume her husband’s name upon marriage.

AND HOW MANY MILLIONS DID THIS STUDY COST US, THE TAXPAYER?

Here is my take on their ridiculous study.

1. What difference does it make what a woman calls herself? She’s still the same woman!
2. What gives these ignorant bigots the right to force such an imbecilic edict on others?
3. What makes these same idiots think they know what’s best for me?
4. Do we need another “blue” law on the books that can’t be enforced?
5. Put the money to better use. Throw out the illegal aliens who are such a drain on our country and provide a “real” health care plan.
6. Get a life! Or did somebody have to justify their overinflated salary for another study that wasn’t needed?
7. Get out of my life. Less government not more.