Friday night was movie night at the kids’ school, so after our refugee day, we met up with a friend and went to see The Nightmare Before Christmas. The kids set up sleeping bags on the floor in front of the screen, ate hot dogs and popcorn, and had fun. My friend and I talked about a few women there that we went to high school with – amazing the stuff you suddenly remember when you start talking about it. Not all of it good, but most of it is terribly funny. If you have any juicy stuff on people from Lane, c/o 1996, pass it along! Jail time, nobel prizes, multiple baby daddies – bring it.
Saturday was Girl’s Night. The restaurant was pretty busy when we got there and I’m pretty sure our foul mouths – and not to mention Captain Cleavage and her indecent exposure! – ran off the other customers. Then we went to a friends beautiful condo with a view of the Hancock building (in the middle of winter, on a very clear day, if you stand on your toes) and really got into the spirit of the evening. We scared 2 younger girls out of ever having children. We yakked about mortgages and jobs. My god how old we must have sounded! This particular Girl’s Night was in the city… smack in the middle of Chicago. The suburbanites got excited when the police beat someone up out in front, then searched the area for contraband. After waving off my ride home, I eventually called a cab and tip toed in to find DH playing video games and not noticing my absence. Ah, love.
Sunday was a quiet day. Until – there’s always a catch! – my husband opened the pantry and saw a mouse scurry away. He asked me to bring Clementine, my demented and defective cat, over to catch it. I said, “She’s not a mouser! She’s not going to catch it!” Well she proved me wrong. Took her 3 seconds to nab the little thing. I picked her up and told my husband to take the mouse away and put it outside. Instead she drops it on the floor, it tries to run and leaves a bloody trail behind it. I put her back down and she got the mouse again. Picked her back up to take her outside, she dropped it again. This time though, the wounded little guy ran into the small hole in the frame where a door once hung between the kitchen and laundry room. And I’m sure it’s going to die there, too. So I called it a day, and asked my husband why he can’t simply put down a mousetrap instead of calling in the furry death squad and making the little mouse suffer and die an agonizing death. Walked to my room calling behind me, “And what did that little mouse ever do to you? Huh?” which prompted him to call me a mouse sympathizer. Is that anything like being a commie pinko?
