I need to preface this story by telling you: my mother-in-law gave one of the girls a book for Christmas called Sing-With-Me Sing-Alongs. It's illustrated with cartoon animals and plays a different, classic song with every turned page. The girls love it.
Unfortunately (and unusually), this book plucks my last nerve. The singing voices are terrible. I don't really even know how to describe them, other than to tell you they're whiny and nasally. Think of the brattiest kid you've ever met and imagine him or her singing, and there you go.
If you find yourself obligated to buy a gift for a toddler whose parent you dislike, I highly recommend this book. The child will love it, and it will drive the parent bananas.
I put the girls' copy in a give-away box, but Clementine found it before I could get it gone.
So, anyway, we have at least one mouse in our log cabin at the moment. We know it's here only because it's a bold little critter; it ran right up to us one night, while we were watching tv. Also, it makes a lot of racket: actual squeaks, believe it or not.
So far, the mouse hasn't been enticed by our peanut butter. Jim asked me, tonight, if we had any peppermint wallflower bulbs (for our high falootin' Bath & Body Works air fresheners); he'd read that mice are repelled by peppermint.
"We don't have any peppermint bulbs," I told him, "but we have regular mint."
"That'll work," he said. "Mice are supposed to hate mint in general."
"Does it matter if they're chocolate mint?" I asked, snickering.
Just about this time, someone said plain as day: "Hey! Let's sing a song about the time I chased the mice out of the house!"
Sure as I'm sitting here, little Charleigh had chosen that exact moment to open her horrid Sing-Alongs book to "Three Blind Mice."
01/19/11 7:56 am: Exciting Update! My beloved is the great mouse hunter!
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