A Day at the Beach

Finally on the last day of June, we had some steamy summer weather. What else is there to do when it feels like 105 degrees outside – hit the beach!

Growing up in northern Minnesota, surrounded by lakes, I never fully accepted the notion of outdoor swimming pools. To me, they are giant vats of chemically treated water surrounded by feet-scorching concrete. The smell of chlorine and bleach takes me back to Jr. High gym class where we were forced to wear school-issued orange swimsuits that made everyone look like a floating pumpkin, regardless of their body type. Swimming in the summer means fresh, cool lakes with sandy beaches and no hint of chemicals that burn my nose. I’ll take sand in my pants over burning eyes from chlorine, thank you.

While my almost 3-year-old napped, I packed up about 40 pounds of beach gear. Towels, sunscreen, plastic beach toys, water bottles, life jackets, a chair, one pink and one blue “noodle”, and a few snacks. When he woke up, we (including my 6-year-old, who had been patiently waiting to go since she got up) packed ourselves and the gear into my tiny Jetta for the 10 minute drive to the beach.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with this beach idea. There was a double line and I was car #5 in the shortest line. Eventually, I was the last one there because on this day, the hottest day of the year, I chose to buy my season beach pass, which involved paperwork and a credit card.

We scored Rock Star parking! This meant I didn’t have to pull out the giant stroller from my tiny trunk and pack it with all the beach gear. Naturally, I regretted this decision upon the first whine from the 6-year-old that the pink noodle (the only thing she was carrying) was too heavy. We were mere feet from the beach.

We zigzagged through the towels, umbrellas, and flip-flopped feet and settled in our usual spot between the two life-guard stations. Although it was 3:30pm, I lathered up my alabaster-skinned, blonde, blue-eyed children with SPF 50. You can never be too careful! My 6-year-old decided she no longer wanted to wear any sort of life-saving equipment; she didn’t even want the noodle. Gasp.

Well, at least the almost 3-year-old would be safe in his Buzz Lightyear life jacket, even if he never enters the water. I dumped the plastic beach toys near the water for him to play with; maybe he’ll get his feet wet. I settled in my chair and look for my suddenly-brave 6-year-old among the dozens of bobbing heads. It was hot! Sweat rolled down my back, my front, my face, yet I remained in my chair. My Buzz Lightyear’s face was blotchy-red and his hair was wet (from sweat) so it was time to get him cool. I sat in the water next to him and miracle of miracles, he sat down too. We played in the 3 inches of water making sand castles.

Suddenly, there were random children absconding with my plastic beach toys! Clearly, this gang of beach toy bandits belonged to the chatty mothers sitting next to me. I cleared my throat and looked at them “I don’t mind if they play with the toys, just be sure they play with them here.” Awkward giggling. “Oh, we didn’t even notice, thanks.” Well, pay attention because your annoying cherubs were just about to enter a life of crime.

Up next, another thief, about 4-years-old, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed a blue bucket and ran to the other side of the beach! I went after the pint-size robber like a Keystone cop and caught up with him in the surf. “Excuse me little boy, but that is my bucket.” He put it in my hand without incident, except for the horror in his eyes. Big bad momma, coming for my bucket! You better be scared. And where are your parents?

I spent the next hour fending off would-be beach toy burglars, instead of watching my 6-year-old pretend to be a good swimmer. She found a friend from school who kept her occupied and I only had to yell at her once for going too far out in the water. “No, you may not swim out to that dock. That one is only for teenagers!” (Teenagers who actually know how to swim!)

More and more kids appeared for the toys. I can’t be the only one with this problem. I can’t be the only one that brought cheap plastic toys to this beach. I kept them in a pile near my Buzz Lightyear, who was clearly playing with them. But they hovered and eyed them like prey. “You may play with them, but they have to stay here.” I finally said to two different groups – some of them who were at least 11-years-old. The older they are, the more stealthy. They peered around; wondered if anyone was watching. I am. I’m staring right at you. You can’t miss me; I’m huge.

5pm safety check was the perfect time to pack up and leave. I gathered up the plastic beach toys; almost lost a cup to a kid who said it was his because he found it floating. Yeah, that’s because another one of your kind – the thieving kind, took it out in the water and left it there. It’s mine. Step.Away.From.My.Cheap.Plastic.Beach.Toys.

Fortunately, the friend of the 6-year-old left too, so there was no drama when I said it was time to go; except when she ran off to rinse her feet but left her flip flops back in the sand. Buzz Lightyear was bothered by his wet swim diaper, so we dragged our sweaty selves and the 40 pounds of beach gear into the rest room to change, which was sweltering because the hot-air hand dryers turned on/off for no apparent reason.

I started the car for the air conditioning (like you would do in the winter to heat it up) and I packed my beach cargo and kids in. I was soaking sweaty wet; wetter than I had been in the last hour sitting on a beach.


If and when I do this again, I will label my old, weathered plastic beach toys with a giant black Sharpie. “Do Not Touch. Or Steal. Unless you’re one of my children. Who knows manners and knows how to ask to play with things that are not theirs.”

Rodents Among Us

EEK A MOUSE!

If you look closely at this picture, underneath the travel coffee mug you will see on the left side a long tail and on the right side, a pointed nose. Yes, it is indeed a mouse.

A few months ago we discovered the presence (in the form of droppings!) of mice in the cabinet where we keep the trash can. A few days later, we heard some wrestling noises coming from there and my very senior cat stared at the cabinet doors for hours. Slowly but surely, we accepted that we have unwanted vermin in the house. We set traps for three nights in a row and caught two large-size mice. We also plugged the holes in the walls of the cabinet. The evidence of mice was gone.

Two nights ago my husband admitted that he thought he felt something brush across his feet one early morning while making coffee and wasn’t sure if it was his pant leg or something more sinister. Later, mindlessly staring at the TV, I was distracted by some activity just to the right of where I was looking. I focused on a tiny brown mouse scurrying ACROSS THE STOVE, ONTO THE COUNTER! OH MY GOD! My husband rushed into the room just as the varmint was slinking into the seam at the back of the stove. He didn’t believe me that is where the mouse went until I held up my fingers, “The thing was thisbig! They are small; they can mash their bodies to fit into anything!” My first instinct was to turn the oven on BROIL, but quickly ruled that out for fear of scraping burnt mouse out of my oven. That night we set two more traps and went to bed early. We were afraid of being on the same floor with the rodents, but not before witnessing a miraculous event; my 18-year-old cat mustered up enough strength to chase something (no doubt a mouse) unsuccessfully across the floor. It was the fastest I’ve seen him move in years!

The next morning, both traps were victorious. A large-size and the small-size variety of the average brown house mouse were dead from snapped necks, lying under the flipped-over wooden traps. Fortunately, I have not been the one to see and/or dispose of any of the carcasses.

Later that day, I spotted another unwanted mouse family member on the stove and when I screamed he ran back to whatever hole he came from. So we set more traps. We were under siege! These rodents were brazen and obviously desperate because they were coming out during the day with plenty of activity around – including the cat and dog who were both on high alert. I feared the worse; there is a nest, a colony full vermin living someplace I can never see or get to in my house.

I called an exterminator, who couldn’t come until the next day because I was calling on Sunday. I didn’t care about the cost; I could no longer live like this.

An hour later, I heard winces and muffled screams coming from my husband. He beckoned me to the kitchen where he stood covering his mouth and his other hand was pointed at the sink. A tiny little mouse was trapped. We all stared at each other. Paralyzed. “He’s kind of cute,” I said. “Not when he’s in our sink,” my husband answered. “What do we do?” “I have no idea.” So, naturally, I did what any modern girl would do and grabbed my iPhone and snapped this picture. The mouse made the decision easy for us and crawled into the garbage disposal. I grabbed a bowl and put it over the drain hole and put the travel coffee mug on top for weight. Little baby mouse will stay there until a professional retrieves it. And yes, we did consider flipping the switch on, but the idea of a bloody ground-up vermin was too much to reflect on. Poor husband was getting himself a cookie when he discovered the menacing mouse and later my 2-year-old, who witnessed the incident, surmised that “daddy was scared of the cookie.”

The next day, a portly, jovial man carrying two industrial looking buckets knocked on the door and said he was here to take care of Mr. Jingles and all his friends. “Good, because have I got a surprise for you,” I said and explained about the mouse in the disposal. Smiling, Mr. Exterminator asked why I didn’t turn it on. “Instead, we are going to drown it,” he said and turned on the hot water. Great, boiled baby mouse!? He went down in the basement to distribute the bait – a delicious mixture of bird seed and poison. I watched the sink start to fill with water and wondered if any was getting under the bowl. I lifted it up a bit but apparently it was too much lift because suddenly a tiny wet mouse jumped up at me and I screamed like a little girl! I grabbed a spoon and started batting at it to keep it from getting away or worse, jumping on me! Mr. Exterminator came up from the basement grinning and asked what happened. I could not put two words together but he figured it out and said he’d handle it. I left to collect myself in the next room and I knew he was finished when he asked for a plastic bag. Bye bye Mr. Jingles.

He distributed another dozen or so mouse-death dinners around the basement and kitchen and clarified that these “dinners” are meant to be eaten by the parents and regurgitated to the young. Great, I’m going to find dead mice all over my house?! Mr. Exterminator explained that we live in MouseTown, a name he christened neighborhoods located near nature preserves. He has a client near me he services regularly because she keeps feeding birds and we all know how mice love to eat birdseed! He pointed to our birdhouse and said to get rid of it and told me to fire my cat. Eventually we’ll have to plug up all the holes we see in the basement rafters and behind cabinets and the stove to block their entry. He pointed to an opening in the foundation of our garage that seems to be the likely culprit for allowing the vermin invasion. He poured some poisoned powder in the hole and if all goes according to plan, when the mouse enters, the white talcum covers their fur so when they groom themselves it’ll kill them. I guess I didn’t know mice lick themselves too?

As he was leaving he wrapped his hands together in the air and exclaimed “What a great day already, hand-to-hand combat with a mouse.” The best $175 I have ever spent.

I realize the poison doesn’t work over night, but I’m hopeful that I won’t see anymore vermin running across my counters anytime soon.

Spring is here!

Time to pack away the puffy-down winter coat and fur-lined boots.

While it is the ugliest time of the year with brown grass and black snow, it evokes a sense of reawakening after a long spell of winter dormancy.

Soon green buds will emerge on tree branches and hosta bulbs will peek out from the brown ground.

Birds sing and fly all over the back yard! Time to put food in the bird house.

Melt, drip, melt, drip, melt, drip. Flood!

Rake up soggy leaves and clean up missed dog doodie.

No more fleece sweaters or slippers. Layers for quick removal.

Plan flowers and summer vacations.

We missed you, Spring!