It started on a cool November night. I was home alone with the children for the evening and decided to shake it up a bit & grab some fast food. But before we could set out on our heart attack in a box adventure, I needed to get my cat in the house. Well, we live in the middle of a corn field. Not alone, I mean our subdivision was literally a corn field 2 years ago and has recently been erected, but the field still surrounds us. So I go traipsing through the unconstructed lands looking for my cat. She does not want to come in and looks a bit like Simba in the pouncing lesson on the Lion King. So I give some 'tough love' and tell her she will just have to wait for us to get home before taking my spot on the couch. (I know, I am so harsh, huh?)
So we get our
Now here is the part where anyone who knows me in real life is cracking up. I am literally labeled "Chicken Shit." You want to know who gave me this title? The people responsible for my therapy? My parents. You know, the ones that are suppose to love you till death do you part. Oh crap, wait, that's marriage, I guess I am screwed, they didn't take any vows to love me, just to make fun of me. Well, anyway. I see this
So I am sitting in the back seat of the van and my daughter, the cool headed one, says, "Oh, mom, it's a dead mouse, get out of the van." Thanks kid! Can't you have this one phobia with me? Anyway, after my parents laugh hysterically and hang up, I realize that my kids are looking at me like I have totally lost it, (no idea why they would think that) and I still have to get into the house. I finally get a broom to shoo the cat away, step over the guts of a half eaten mouse, and get my kids in through the front door. All is well. Then I quickly email my husband threatening his life if it wasn't gone before I leave in the morning.
But every story does have a silver lining. There was no way I was eating after that. I just saved myself 400+ calories.