Die you little bastards!

So, fall has arrived and as I mentioned in yesterdays blog, I live on a fully functioning livestock farm, which means we have critters...in abundance...Some of those critters, namely mice, like to migrate to warmer climates (i.e. my house) when temperatures start to drop. We have placed all the appropriate pet friendly traps outside in the obvious places and have placed traps, poisons and other contraptions throughout the house. I went to bed Wednesday evening and dozed off to the sounds of a Law and Order rerun. (Sam Waterston and Jerry Orbach days, when it was the best). Somewhere around 1 a.m. I was awoken from my hibernation by the desperate squeak and furious flailing of a victim caught in the sticky trap....I rolled over and peered over the side of the bed, and spied the poor soul. There he was, staring back at me in desperation. The trap he was mired in was near the dresser, just a few feet away from the foot of the bed. I crawled to the edge of the bed to see just how stuck he was (he was glued down tight) however, about every 30 seconds or so he would flail about and I just knew if given the chance he would work himself loose. I also knew, with certainty, that if I attempted to "help his journey to the great beyond" by thumping him on the head with a hammer, he would certainly find sudden freedom and run across my foot. So, in bed I stayed.
I attempted to fall back to sleep, to no avail as the little bastard was persistent in his efforts to free himself. I reached for the remote, thinking that I would just turn the volume up a little more and let ADA Jack McCoy's passionate closing arguments drown him out.
It was then I realized the reason I had drifted to sleep with the TV still on was because I couldn't find the remote and was too tired/lazy to get up and turn the TV off manually.
I peered over the edge of the bed one again..I swear the vigorous flailing had moved the trap two feet. It was now out in front of the dresser, inching ever closer to the bed. The television sits on top of the dresser, just out of reach. If I truly wanted to turn the volume up, I would need to get out of bed, and step directly over the trapped rodent, falling and squeaking with all of his might. That shit wasn't happening.
I laid back down to contemplate my options. A round of Candy Crush Soda on my phone would surely help me gain the courage to battle Mr. Jingles. Twenty minutes later, I was out of lives and the little bastard hadn't died yet. What to do, what to do...
I turned the bedside lamp on thinking the light would discourage this little nocturnal creature and he would either settle down and give me enough time to whack him (I have horrible hand to eye coordination and am slow, so I need strategery when hitting a moving object. Anyone who's seen me attempt to hit a softball can attest to this) or I could at least fall back to sleep.
The lamp seemed to work as the struggle and noise started to decrease. I got the nerve up to escape the bedroom and find a boot to help me do the dirty work. I returned to bed, boot in hand trying to work up the courage to "finish the job."
I gave myself a pep talk, all the while calculating the many ways my plan to assassinate the trapped mouse could go wrong. Chiefly, the scenario in which I horribly miss the moving target and instead whack the edge of the sticky trap causing it to fly up in the air and attach itself, along with the half dead mouse to my leg, where it would stick in the leg hairs I have neglected to shave this week. (It COULD happen.) I told myself, "Bitch, get a grip and kill the little SOB."
I crawled over to the other side of the bed and prepared to whack him...at that time I noticed his movement and protest had gotten increasingly louder. I thought, "Oh, this is his last hurrah, he's giving it one more Wheeler try before he goes to the great cheese factory in the sky." I mustered up all the courage I could find and crawled out of bed. Only then did I notice, that the reason the calamity had increased was because Mr. Jingles had a buddy trapped with him to join in his misery.
I quickly dropped the boot and dove back into bed, where I waited and listened until my hunter trapper hubby AKA the Executioner got home and whacked them both with his pliers...
Why did he make it look so easy?

Popeye

Remember the cartoon "Popeye"? One of his famous lines was "I ams who I am and thats all that I am." I think we all need to remember that once in a while. You are who you are and you shouldn't pretend to be anyone you're not and if people don't like the you that you are...fuck em.
I work two jobs. My other half is busting his nuts to get his own company off the ground instead of being a corporate bitch. We have a few head of cows that we co-own with a friend and its a lot of work and time and mess. My yard is filled with hay bales and silage bags and tractors and feed wagons and other food stuffs. I frequently smell manure.
We don't live in a fancy house. We don't drive new cars. Half of my furniture is thrift shop or hand-me down. I shop at Dollar General (Why the fuck would you pay $3 more a package for the same shit paper?) I go to garage sales and buy things off of the swap pages. We don't have $1,200 designer dogs. We have a coon hound who barks all night long and a bitchy Corgi we got cheap because she isn't papered.
I eat too much, I swear too much, I exercise far too little. Ok, really not at all unless you count the many miles I spend hiking my happy ass around Darrell's Place slinging tenderloins and delivering straws. (Which is a big pet peeve of mine...if you don't drink out of a straw in your home, why the hell do you think you need one in a restaurant? And now just for that, my asshole friends will all ask for straws next time I wait on them.)
I call my friends assholes and twats.
I am a damn good cook and a pretty good baker, too. I am a piss poor housekeeper. I loathe folding socks. My dishwasher is my BFF.
I am terrible at managing money.
I have smelly feet, no matter what product I try.
I don't care if you look down on me for any of these things. In fact, I couldn't give two fucks what you think of me because I am a nice person. (Nice is such a douchey word). I am a kick ass person. I rarely find someone I don't like, and if there is someone out there I don't like, you must be a real piece of shit. My circle of friends is large and when I consider you a friend, I mean it. I will have your back no matter how often or how rarely we see each other or talk. When I tell you I love you, I mean it. I don't pretend to be anything I'm not (except sober, I have done that once or twice.) I would give you the shirt off my back if you need it and will bend over backwards to keep everyone happy. I have a big heart and I try my best to treat people the way I want to be treated. I've taught my children to act the same.
Life is too short to play games or to try to keep up with the Joneses, being a good person is far more important than having all the stuff. Like the song says, "I've never seen a hearse with a trailer hitch."
And if you do have all the stuff and are still a good person, more power to ya...wanna be friends? I don't need to own the stuff, as long as you'll let me play with it.