I try not to go crazy. Well, I suppose that would make some sense, wouldn't it? It's good to be sane, or, at least partially sane, right? Good. Glad we agree.

In order to stay at least partially sane, there are certain things I do throughout the year in order to quiet all the screaming in my head. Photography. Video Games. Music. Television. Movies. Anything with Lindsay. You know, fun things. Things that make me happy.

Each year, when Fall jumps into Winter, the screaming in my head gets louder and louder. This year, however, the "jumping" into Winter is really more of a 230 m.p.h. drag race to Winter without a parachute. But, hey, I chose to live in Minnesota -- I shouldn't complain -- too much.

The No-Fall-Transition this year is kicking my ass, though. More than normal, at least. The end of last week was brutal. Paul Wellstone died (damn it), the work week seemed like it was actually 3 weeks strung together with no days off complete with hourly canings and reed thwappings and a good solid kick in the pants. Plus no more Daylight Savings Time -- also kicks me in the pants every year. And solidly, too.

And to top things off -- even more pants-kicking-action -- we found a mouse in our house. Then another one. Ew. Yuck yuck yuck.

This was our first experience with mice, so, naturally, we were surprised when they spoke. They taunted us by saying things like "Yum. All of your food sure is yummy. You know what, though? We'll just try a yummy little nibble from each package and go on to the next and shit all over everything in your pantry. Yum! *shit* Yum!"

I was all: "Oh yeah? Well... bite me, you fucking mousy looking motherfuckers!"

I think I say things like that because I'm mature. I really do say things like that, actually. And I repeat it like that all for you, the reader. Unfiltered Eric. Enjoy.

Anyway, knowing there were fucking mice in the kitchen, I wanted to arm myself in case one of the "in another time or another place could quite possibly be considered cute but are still dirty as hell and eating all our food" little bastards came out again before we had anti-mice protection down. I sauntered over to the tool drawer and peered at the innards. "Hmmm. Need maximum payback power... Pliers? Could be fun, but too small of a surface area to grab with... Tape measure? What am I gonna do, see how long the damn thing is? Screwdriver, nah. Wire strippers, nah." I decided on going for total surface area and maximum mouse killing potential and appropriated a medium-sized black rubber mallet. "Eric. Smash. Mouse," I thought to myself.

Lindsay, the proud owner of way way more common sense than me, flatly told me to put the mallet down. She slapped a large plastic mixing bowl in my hand. "Here. Trap it with this, moron. Or, better yet, grab a strainer so that you can see it if you trap it."

"Wow! You are smart, lady!"

So, immediately after making me feel like a mental giant, Lins ran off to the store to grab some mouse traps, poisons, potions, hexes, voodoo dolls, stakes, matches, you know, pretty much whatever was out there nowadays to capture vigilant little bastard mice. While she was gone, I stayed in the kitchen, strainer in hand and kept guard with Oscar.

I waited. And waited. "The bastard vigilant mice sure are patient," I thought. "Motherfuckers!" I waited some more. My mind wandered off and I thought about puppies and bunnies and unicorns. Then, finally, Lins came back home. By this point, I was probably drooling and semi-coherent, I dunno, I don't really remember. She, on the other hand, was strapped with spring traps, sticky traps and poison. It was like the scene in every Rambo movie where he lays out his artillery and we know, we just know he's gonna kick some ass. The mice, seeing our massive anti-mouse stockpile were all: "Who are you?" and we were all: "Your worst nightmare." We tried the Rambo lip snarl to top it off, but neither of us really pulled it off.

We put down the traps and threw out most of our food -- always a fun thing to do. You should try going through your cupboards and throwing everything edible out sometime. Really. It's a good time. Then we cleaned, cursed damn dirty mice, and reinforced the pantry doors with magnetic locks and retinal scanners and thumb print readers. Um, or maybe just the magnetic locks. You know, it would have been so much cooler if we could have used electro-magnetic locks, I'm sure, but that's not the sort of thing for sale at Target, now is it? No, it's not.

Currently? Either the mice are laying in wait for a killer ambush... or they're dead. We haven't heard a peep from them since the traps and poisons were put out. I'm thinking, no -- hoping, no -- praying, that the poisons did their job and all the little miceys are all dead and rotting and decaying in our woodwork. That would make me happy. Except for maybe the smell.

Oh well. Thanks for stopping by and reading!
Unfiltered Eric