Of Mice and Men

 I am not a winter person. Oh sure, it looks beautiful. The pristine white cover and snowflakes falling to the ground lend a festive air to the season. But beyond that, winter is dead to me. The worst two words in the English language, wind chill, are just about enough to drive me to my knees. 

I wasn't always this way. The first twelve years of my life were filled with sledding, snowballs, and snow forts. Back then, digital frostbite wasn't something to avoid, it was something to endure....the cost of doing business with winter.

Yes, I've heard the suggestions—try ice fishing, snowmobiling, etc. No thanks, sounds awful. I did take up downhill skiing about ten years ago, but discovered the warmth of the lodge was much more inviting than the meager sixty second run down the hill after a five minute chairlift ride up it (the price of living in a very flat part of the country).   

In the last couple of years, I've seriously considered taking up cross-country skiing. Unfortunately, I have seriously considering taking up cross country skiing when there are still leaves on the trees and temps above freezing. Once both have fallen, my serious consideration drops accordingly. A true fair weather man.

So what's a poor boy to do for 1/3 of every year? Drinking comes to mind but that's a slippery slope. Read through the season? Difficult, as my attention span has . . . what was I saying? I do a lot of walking, but only if the temps are in the 20's. One year I tracked my bowel movements (for fun), but unsurprisingly winter was, shall we say, unproductive. And besides, one year was plenty. Or not, depending on your perspective. I know, gross.

As luck would have it, an idea revealed itself last month just as winter arrived. I began noticing the handles on the implements (ice cream scoop, carving knives, pizza cutter) in one of my kitchen drawers were being gnawed on. The bottom of the drawer was filled with flecks of rubber. Mice, I thought. But rather than address the problem, I simply moved the chewed implements to another drawer, essentially kicking the can down the road to appear somewhere else. Which it certainly did. 

I explained this problem to a friend, and she delighted in giving me a set of four mouse traps as a half-serious Christmas gift. Half-serious, my ass. After a moment's squeamishness at the thought of harvesting dead mice, I knew I had found a way to pass the winter months with some sense of purpose. I promptly bought a jar of peanut butter (they love that shit) and eight more traps, set the first one, and waited. 

How am I doing you ask? Two weeks later, I have five traps left (hell no, I don't reuse them). Now before you go all ASPCA on my ass, I am not getting a thrill out of this. I just don't want mice in my house. Would you? Sure, they're kind of cute, but taking preventative measures from being overrun by potentially disease-ridden mice seems wise, doesn't it? Kind of like wearing a mask when appropriate or getting a vaccine so you don't overwhelm our healthcare system.

If you're like me, waiting impatiently inside until warmer weather returns, you can relate to finding inventive ways to pass the time. I can think of much, much worse. Best. Gift. Ever. Oh, I think I just heard a dying squeak (I'm not kidding).