Mousetrap Mania (Part Two of Riddle me this... )

What do mousetraps, blondes and toilets have in common?

Very little unless you happen to live here.

Now, I confess, I am a blonde, and I do live here, but this was none of my doing, and I can pull some really stupid blonde related stunts, but not this time.

I guess my son (blond recessive) gravitates to those of us who do dumb stuff (and trust me, he’s pretty capable too). He’s used to it. He grew up with it. It gives us something to laugh at. (Like the time… or the time… Oh yeah! Good stuff to blog about later!)

I am thankful that this girlfriend had the wherewithal to not only admit to the deed, but to actually purchase a replacement toilet. Whew… they are not cheap!

I still don’t get why the trap had to go down the toilet, but it did. One of life’s great mysteries.

That toilet, by the way, is now located outside on the north side of the house… no-man’s land.

I queried son Max as to why he would put it out there where it would soon to be entwined and covered in morning glories and lost forever, and not put it out for trash?

“Well, it’s a perfectly good toilet, as long as you can get the mousetrap out.”

So, I guess we wait for the wood to rot, then anyone can use the facilities out there on the dark side of the house?

Of course, it’s always good to have a spare toilet. Somewhat akin to having extra batteries and candles; no one should ever be without.

Then I got, “You can use it as a planter?”

Hmm. Where it is, it’ll do that on its own.

Sigh.

So Bloggers and Bloggetters, till next time, may all your toilets flush true, and your mousetraps be way less complicated.

Peace

Riddle me this, Batman...

Son, Max, came in shortly before noon this morning. He stood by my desk rubbing his chin in an I-don’t-know-how-to-tell-you-this sort of way.

“Well, we have a bit of a dilemma.”

Generally he’s asking for money at this point.

“Yes?”

“Um, well, Girlfriend (name withheld to protect the innocent—wait, she’s not innocent - okay, just name withheld) for some reason," he says waving his arms, rolling his eyes, and shrugging, "flushed a mousetrap down the toilet.”

“WHAT?? Oh, S * * T!!” (Excuse the pun.)

“But,” he was quick to explain, “the good news is that the trap stuck in the toilet itself, not the plumbing (whew!) and that my friend, Keaton, and I already have the old toilet out, and she’s going to buy a replacement. The problem is, it won’t fit in Keaton’s car. Can we use the van to get the new one?”

"Gladly!" I've had enough expensive plumbing problems lately.

Well, thank you, God (or Girlfriend). She did pay for everything, and the toilet has been replaced neatly and properly, all is well in that department and no real harm done.

BUT, the question remains… why did she flush a mousetrap down the toilet?

Why did she even have a mousetrap?

I did inquire if there was a mouse in the trap, thinking maybe she thought to flush it was a sanitary thing to do… kind of like a goldfish?

No.

Perhaps she’s an animal rights activist and was trying to make a statement?

No.

Because she’s a true blonde (or at least blonde recessive)?

Ummm… ??

Any other clever solutions to this riddle will be greatly appreciated.

Wait!

Oh crap (pun intended). What did they do with the old toilet?

Sheese.

Perhaps this post should have been titled, "How to Build a Better Mousetrap."

To be continued... (hopefully not!)

How Do YOU Spell Malibu?

It was such a beautiful day last Tuesday that Tony and I decided to venture out to visit the Malibu pier.

Alas, the excitement and spontaneity of the decision was a bit hampered as he diddled around all morning and then had to eat breakfast which turned out to be a lunch of Subway sandwiches (his favorite, not mine) that we munched at nearby Averill park. Why we couldn’t have saved time and eaten them at the pier—or picked up something different at the venue, I don’t know? But it was a lovely day and the park was nice (and I still had half a sandwich for the next day :-)).

After lunch, Tony needed to get gas for his van. Not just any gas, the cheapest gas in town, which was several miles away in a whole different town on PCH (Pacific Coast Hwy). Being as it was lunchtime, the traffic was heavy so the going on the surface streets was rather slow.

The good news at the gas station was that Tony washed the windshield. It needed to be done twice, but I didn’t complain that it only happened once, at least I could see out. Next time I’ll wash it myself.

Finally, we were on the freeway, and fortunately Tony was driving his van so we could go much faster than if we took my van, Huckleberry. The traffic was relatively free-flowing so it didn’t take too long to get to the 10, otherwise known as the Santa Monica freeway.

Now the thing I hate most about going ANYWHERE out of our little coastal paradise is driving on those horribly ugly freeways. If they just were tree lined they’d be okay, or without the retaining walls so you can see the surroundings. Nooo.. there is nothing but lanes and lanes of vehicles and asphalt.. very ugly. I don’t mind driving on freeways, in fact I love highway driving, just not in Los Angeles—yuck.

Anyway, upon approach to the 10 off-ramp, Tony asks in his best, we’re-gonna-do-it-anyway, whether-you-like-it-or-not voice, if it would be okay to visit the Santa Monica Pier instead of Malibu because it was getting kind of late, he wanted to avoid coming home traffic.

I didn’t protest, it was getting late and I hadn’t been to the Santa Monica Pier since I was a kid, so it was okay. But I was a bit disappointed because the best part of the journey to Malibu.. the part I was really looking forward to, was the drive along the coast on PCH after you get off the 10. Oh well, next time.

It was such a splendid day, weather wise… and being that it was a Tuesday in the middle of January, the pier was relatively empty. The pier itself was very cool… it’s 100 years old this year! The old planking and huge nails that pegged it together.. very cool. The vendors and such were nothing too much to speak of. Another tourist place with all the same stuff, just Santa Monica printed all over it. We walked to the end and back and enjoyed the day. I did get some post cards to send to Nikki.

And so it was… Malibu was spelled S-A-N-T-A M-O-N-I-C-A at least for that day.

Next time, I’ll be sure to plan ahead and get us out of the house earlier so we can spell things properly.

At least I can check the Santa Monica Pier off my “bucket list.” (Wait… was Santa Monica Pier on my “bucket list?” Hey it’s the beginning—no the end—of Route 66 which is definitely on the list!)

Ta for now, Blogger Buddies!