I'm seven years old again. I swear I am.

Here I am in NJ staying with my 91 year old grandma while me mum travels this week. Grandma is in the kitchen cooking a vicious-smelling meal. You can't imagine the debate that will occur when I refuse to eat it. I grew up with this woman. This has happened before...

I liked the poem, Mary Ann. One quibble with the accuracy-- unless you leave the stickytrap mouse to starve, the trap does not kill the mouse. It just sticks them and they squeak, panicked or pissed, I don't know which. When that happened to a mouse we caught (back when we lived in the cool house in the woods), my husband, a good-hearted Saint Francis type, felt terrible for the mouse. He took it outside to release it from the stickytrap. He felt even worse when the mouse came free of the trap, but its feet didn't.

I wish I was making this up.

After that, no more sticky traps. Cats.

Cats. I think that's what Grandma is cooking. It smells like cat piss.

m.