The Complete Idiot's Guide to the Way I Feel

(or felt)

Disgusted: I live in a mouse house. There are more mice here than people. The only explanation I can think of is that the gelid, adamantine winter, with so much snow that I couldn't even open the back door for a while, has inspired tiny rodents to do the logical thing: move to the tropics, also known as chez moi. What is to be done? My wyfe favors glue traps, which I think are cruel. I've purchased some new-fangled contraptions that kill instantly while encasing the carcass in a black plastic thingamabob that looks like a hockey puck. Neither works well. Meanwhile, as I sat here on the couch with my laptop warming my nether regions, a tiny, beady-eyed vermin appeared on the upholstery. I gave a little man-scream and he (she?) scrammed. I wish a could rent a cat....

Stoic, tending toward meditative: Another domestic mini-disaster: the dishwasher has broken down. Since I'm in charge of crockery around here --since I can't cook -- that means I now have to wash every sullied receptacle by hand. But I've decided to make the best of it. There is something soothing and, yes, almost meditative about immersing my hands in the warm water, squeezing the sponge and wandering through the white clouds of soap suds, searching for sunken forks. Even the greasy pans and plates don't bother me. I like transforming their dirty faces into smooth, clean circles of porcelain and steel. It all seems to take a lifetime, but I don't mind. (This is called being a Pollyanna.)

Uncomfortable: I was somehow shanghaied into attending a live performance of The Rocky Horror Picture Show last weekend. I've never seen the movie (though I've heard plenty about it), so this was my first exposure to this balmy burlesquing. High camp is not my teacup, unless it's unintentional (like The Room or The Wicker Man), which I find amusing. So my smirking and chortling was mostly to be polite. The cast was tiptop, however, and appeared to be having fun. Nice for them.