Mutual of Tiz and Ass's Wild Kingdom or Mutual of Omaha's Tiz and Ass (I can't tell which makes more sense)

I have a houseguest. No, It's not Aunt Flo...although she is visiting for the umpteenth time this year. I heart perimenopause. (Sorry boys, that shan't happen too often.)


I have a mouse. And the mouse’s name is Maue Mischke. Anyone familiar with the Polish language (and its subsequent misspellings and bastard-tizations by git American girls) knows it means, “Little Mouse,” which was my Polish nickname. Why did I have a Polish nickname? Because I worked with a Polish orchestra and chorus in Germany for seven months. Why? Because they paid me.


I had been the proud possessor of said nickname for a number of months when I yelled at the huge Arschkopf of a German producer, begging him, “Bitte, entlassen Sie mich. Ich hasse dich UND die Spiel.” That bad Deutsch translates to, “Please, fire me. I hate you AND the show.” The Polish chorus and orchestra, who had also been abused by the aforementioned Arschkopf (who resembled Jaba the Hut in spirit and visage), applauded and called me “The Maue Mischke that Roared.”


You've gotta love a Polish chorus and orchestra who know of the fabled Duchy of Grand Fenwick.


Why have I given my little furry friend my Polish nickname? Maybe because he has staying power…just like me. Maybe because my parents gave our last dog my childhood nickname. Maybe because I’m a sad, sad pasty-faced girl.


I believe I met Maue Mischke in 2007, when I accidentally flushed him down my toilet. It’s a little trippy when you squat to drop the kids off in the pool and see a floater…doing the mousey paddle. I squealed and flushed, and then wept, thinking, “I killed him.”


I’m not big on the killing.



But miracle of miracles he came back…or at least I like to believe he did. Remember, I can see the world through such rosy eye wear that I once exclaimed blissfully, “Oh, would you just look at the rats playing in the moonlight.”


So, let’s just say he came back. Work with me here.


Despite the fact I rarely offer him anything, he generously leaves me presents. At first I thought they were chocolate shavings—wasn’t that a rude awakening. Sometimes he likes to say hello. Rude hostess that I am, I throw a shoe and yell “Go away,” which is the only time he moves with any alacrity. The rest of the time he might as well be Baby Hughie, moseying along, singing, “I’m bringin’ home my baby bumble bee.”


And he shouldn’t be moving that slowly because I did accidentally leave him some gifties. Last year he got into hermetically sealed, daily doses of vitamins. He enjoyed everything but the fish oil capsules, which he methodically left underneath the stovetop. Do you know what that smells like? Took a month of scrubbing, air fresheners and my Ionic Air Quadra to wash away the childhood memories of Long Island Sound lowtide.


Oh wait, it does make sense. My bad. If he had only taken the fish oil, his arthritis wouldn't be flaring up and he’d be gliding along a la Peggy Fleming.


But it’s time for him to go. Three times in 24 hours he has meandered through the living room. As I fear the sight of…*




and I don't wish to host a...

I have bought…

It seems to be the most humane. Peeps have suggested poison, sticky paper, zappers and death traps. I’m going G's sweet way and then offering him a life of vacay in the citay in distingue Central Parque...

Sometimes friendships need a little distance.

*Truth be told, if Maue Mischke were actually wearing the jaunty chapeau and lederhosen, he'd be staying. Although that might have made him popular in the Rambles.