When I was coming back from the second best holiday EVER...
~ The BEST holiday EVER was the year I spent Christmas with my less than favorite side of the family. The night before, BFF & I had engaged in our now annual Christmas Eve Sushi Feast and I had gone to the liquor store in order to stock up on Santa's Little Helpers (Jim, Jack and Smirnoff). I was three feet from the liquor store door when I slammed my hand in the car door. (So close, yet so far away. Story of my life!) I got to spend the next four hours in the ER with a fat-assed nurse who could not be bothered to get me some ice and a man who wanted a tetanus shot for a cut he had received three days earlier. The ER doctor was obviously less than please to be working the holidays and dosed me with enough pain killers to keep Rush Limbaugh happy for a few years. What made this the BEST holiday EVER was that I got to spend the entire Christmas Day drooling on myself, demonstrating that hand-eye coordination is not key to demolishing freshly wrapped gifts, and generally getting away with telling the less-than-favorite-family-members what I REALLY thought about them; then getting to blame it all on the drug induced haze. Loved it!!
Anyway, back to the Second Best Holiday Ever. Which was brought about in part by my Dad's superior Apple Martini making skills. After spending a few days with the family and my shaken-not-stirred new friend, I was headed home via the Houston Intercontinental Airport. I had decided to sit apart from the crowd at the gate when I looked down and saw a pair of black eyes and whiskers poking out from under a newspaper. WHAT THE??!?!?!?!!?
It was a little mouse. No shit!! A mouse. In the middle of a major international airport. A small, grey colored, cute as a button, little field mouse. Complete with whiskers and a little tail that were moving like he was in the great quake of 1906. How in the world he got there, I have no idea, but he defiantly took a wrong turn somewhere in the maze. And now this little guy was shaking for dear life under a chair in the Continental gate 23 lounge of Houston Bush International Airport. About the same time that I noticed Mr. Jingles, Bubba the Redneck comes running up to him like he is going to stomp the living daylights out of the poor mouse. I mean, this man was hell bent on doing something to this poor mouse.
Now, anyone will tell you that Ms. Tastrophie is a softy for the furry. Not so much for people. Especially not so much for people who don't have a soft for the furry. And had Bubba gone through with his mouse stomping plans, Ms. Tastrophie would have been spending the end of her Thanksgiving break in a Houston jail cell. (And I do NOT look good in orange!)
Since Bubba was on a mission, I quickly got up and scooped up Mr. Jingles and whisked him over to my seat. After a few minutes of soothing whispers and gentle stroking, I tried to figure out what to do with this newest edition to my travel plans. I think there was a little divine intervention for Mr. Jingles, since I just happen to have a little plastic container to put him in. (Gammie had packed me a lunch for my trip; thus the container.) Although I think the excitement might have been a bit much for the poor fellow. He was scared stiff and looked like he was going to die from fear alone, not Bubba's size 22 boot.
After a few minutes of pleading with the nice man from customer service, Mr. J was on his way to the field outside the airport. At least that is what I made the man swear to me was going to happen. I did not want ~ and do not want~ to know if Mr. J was going to meet any other fate. (I would have brought him home, but Elsa would have made it a very short homecoming for Mr. Jingles and I think he preferred the fields anyway.)
I'd like to think that Mr. Jingles is now off somewhere in the green fields of Houston Intercontinental Airport. Maybe with his own little Cirque du Souris. And if Karma likes to give it out to others, like she has been givin' it to me lately, Bubba is experiencing a few little boot stompings himself.
P.s. for my germaphobic readers: YES, I washed my hands. And used the Purell.