Simon and Winston have the day off for MLK, Jr Day. By "day off" I mean no school, no Discovery Club. John took the a.m. shift while I got in a few hours at the office (putting out fires, no less). Now, Simon is enjoying a play date at a friend's house. Winston is playing with Play-Doh happily—his choice over ice cream at Izzy's— allowing me unfettered access to the Internet where I am intermittently reading (others) and writing (mine) blogs.
Sure beats the weekend, which was, IMHO, the worst of the year, so far.
On Friday evening we noticed the kitchen sink was backing up at the slightest provocation, something it never ever does. At some point late Saturday a plumber deigned to make a housecall—at a usurious weekend time-and-a-half rate, I might add. As soon as he threw open the doors under the sink, he announced, "Looks like your mousetraps are working." Great. How did he know I couldn't deal with mice, dead or alive? (On the bright side, the mice are dead. Afterall, the only good mouse is a dead mouse. Funny though, when John cleared out the area in anticipation of the plumber, he didn't see any mice in the traps.)
While the plumber was getting equipment out of his truck, I invited John to remove the offending traps. I couldn't bear to look, but the traps were rumored to contain four baby mice. Apparently, one of the parents was running around at the moment of discovery.
Later, when I replayed the tapes of the day, I felt a little remorse. Intellectually, I know these mice—I'm assuming they're a couple—just wanted the best for their babies. They found a warm, comfortable, sheltered place to build a nest and start a family. They scurried around day and night looking for food to keep their family well fed. Isn't that all anyone can ask for—to be sheltered and fed? Then, their babies stumble onto a glue pad...I can't even articulate the rest.
I'm obsessed with the mice. Even though the occurrences are contained, the quality of my mental health would be much improved if we never had any vermin in the house. Ever.
Back to the sink. Sludge. That was the diagnosis of the clogged sink. The prescription: fill both sides of the sink with water, then pull the plugs simultaneously and force the water through the pipes. Length of treatment: forever.
I am happy to report that we did have some happy times over the weekend. On Friday evening I got to read and knocked off a big chunk of The Whole World Over, which I will finish not only before Conversation with Books (1/22), but also before its library due date (1/17). I also cooked for a couple hours on Sunday, making an appropriately comforting chicken pot pie with biscuit topping.
The boys each had their first ski lesson on Saturday morning. Win's class met inside and practiced walking in ski boots, pushing up from a fall, and duck walks. Outside, on a patch of snow slightly larger than the Arctic ice cap, Simon's class learned the same fundamentals. Next week, we'll trek them out to the ski hill. Hopefully the snow we received last night will stick around until next Saturday.
Since every dish in the kitchen was dirty and the sink was clogged, we took the boys out for lunch after ski school. John thought Andy's Garage—a 50s-style diner in a former service station—would be the perfect treat. Apparently not enough other people think the same way as a big "For Sale" sign on the building thwarted our plans. I'm sad, but not surprised, that Andy's has closed (the Pioneer Press, not long ago, profiled the restaurant as failing). Mickey's Diner, located in a diner car, was our next choice but everyone near downtown St. Paul had that idea. So, reluctantly, I acquiesced to Boundary Waters Brewery—where, of course, I had an unexpectly good time. The boys wanted to sit at the bar and watch college hoops. So we did, and the bartender took very good care of us, bringing the boys crayons and sheets of paper and root beer. Our food was pretty mediocre, even for bar fare, but who cares.
And, on Sunday I took the boys to see a matinee—Night at the Museum, which was playing at Highland. Initially, Simon was buggin' out in anticipation of Ben Stiller's character getting locked in the Natural History Museum overnight with every animal and scruffy historical character coming to life. I had to assure him the movie was a comedy, but he gave me that withering look of disbelief. He was in anguish. I wondered how badly he would be scarred if I forced him to watch the whole thing. Soon enough hijinks ensued, and he decided to tough it out to the bitter end, laughing throughout. Now, he wants to make his own "night at the museum " adventures, imagining such things as all of his books coming to life while he's sleeping. I love his creative spirit.
Listening to some good tunes now—"Got to Be the Way It Is" Sharon Jones, "Peanuts" The Police, "What This Town Needs" Blanche, "Rise" PIL, "Jellybelly" Smashing Pumpkins.
Here's wishing every Monday could be like this one.
No comments:
Post a Comment