Hey, You're Not Willard

This morning is off to a rip roaring start, so I need to post early as my day will be filled with household tasks in anticipation of my in-laws' arrival. They're making the trip because "Daughter" is appearing in a middle school production of Annie. Holy cow, a weekend full of pre-pubescent show tunes and a visit from my Mother-in-law. Are you jealous yet? I'm only half kidding. I'll let you pick which half.

Despite the proclamations of Al Gore and other environmentalists that the planet is over heating, Winter has lingered here in the Midwest. I've been going to "Daughter's" softball games dressed like I'm trying to reach the summit of Everest, the furnace is still kicking on to fight off the 37 degree nights and I haven't been able to break out any of my Springy halter tops. Yesterday, I decided to thumb my nose at Mother Nature and make a stand. Usually by this time of year, I've taken all my patio furniture out of the garage and set up my private oasis in the back yard. I was a little behind because of my unfortunate incarceration and under motivated, because quite frankly, who wants to sit on the patio in mukluks and a parka? With the sun shining and the temperature at a balmy 63, I set my mind to oasis building.

This is not a hard task nor one that I try to avoid. Dragging the chaise lounge out to the patio turns my mind to thoughts of tropical drinks and long nights basking in the warm breezes. Sure, the reality is that I will spend half the Summer complaining about the humidity and the blood sucking scourge of mosquitoes, but a guy can dream can't he? In years past this has been an uneventful project, but as we all know, nothing is forever.

I had been noticing some strange black pellets around the garage for a while, but had ignored them. I knew they were probably signs of some type of varmint, but since none dared to show itself, I figured, live and let live. "Wife" claimed to have seen something scurry across the garage floor last week, but we all know she's prone to exaggeration. I was making good progress. I had moved the snow blower and other Winter tools into the driveway to facilitate the seasonal switch and was uncovering the patio furniture when I started seeing more and more droppings. I'm not well versed in the excretory practices of most animals, but even I knew that somehow my laissez faire attitude toward pest control was about to bite me in the ass.

I always take my patio umbrella apart and store it in plastic bags flat under the table. I moved the table and there it was, right where I left it, but mysteriously the bags were torn apart and droppings were everywhere. Immediately, my mind processed what was about to happen, but before all my synapses could fire, the horror unfolded before my eyes. I reached down to move the bag and came face to face with a ferocious creature the likes of which are the subject of both myths and nightmares. In fact, it was a gray field mouse who couldn't have been more than three inches long. Rationally I know that a guy who is roughly the size of an adolescent Clydesdale could vanquish a field mouse handily, but when faced down by nature, sometimes the rational mind fails and basic survival instincts take over. I let out a shriek that was so high pitched all the dogs on the block came running to my aid. Seriously, if I had been wearing June Cleaver's pearls and a poodle skirt the only way I could have been more of a girlie stereotype would have been to jump up on a chair and wait for "Wife" to come home and rescue me. I think I actually let out an "EEEAAKK!" The mouse must have had a Napoleonic complex, because he stood his ground and stared me down. It was either that or he couldn't believe my reaction either. After what seemed like days, he scurried back into the bag. I probably could have just stomped on the bag, but I'm a sissy not a killer so I grabbed the bag, ran out of the garage and watched as mini Mickey hustled off to the bushes.

I was sure my troubles weren't over when I spied a large clump of threads, twigs, and droppings that was now exposed next to the still folded umbrella. I wish I could show you a picture of me gingerly holding the umbrella at arms length as I carried it outside. I was tiptoeing and holding my breath, all the while praying that no more critters would scamper out. To my chagrin, they did. Another mouse came dropping out as I banged the umbrella base on the driveway. I thought this one might be dead, because he lay motionless for a few seconds. Turns out, the mouse was playing possum. He came to, stared at me, and sensing his days were numbered threw me a head fake to rival Walter Payton and beat feet to the safety of the bushes. I was tempted to burn the umbrella right then, but frugality got the best of me. Now the patio is adorned with an umbrella marked by two holes, chewed in it by my unwelcome tenants.

I hope I'm not set upon by wild creatures as I go about my business this morning, but the day is young. Time to start my tasks, one of which is preparing for the big show Saturday night/ Sunday morning on WGN.. I hope you'll join me. This week's show will feature another visit from the Insatiable insomniacs, the Overnight Arcade and lots more. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian