One of the pieces of advice is to spend your time and money on things that make your life better, rather than things that make you feel good. The author looks back at his younger self and comes to this conclusion:

If I could have back all of the thousands of hours I spent playing video games alone, I could have learned several languages, built several businesses, saved a fortune, become a killer guitar player, and built the body of a Roman demigod.

Lesson: Always try to get a decent return on investment for your time. Use your time and money to build assets and leverage in your life, not just to get to the next bit of time.

It’s true that I do play a fair amount of video games – for the last six weeks, Bill and I have made a habit of playing an hour or so of Super Mario Bros most nights on our Wii.  But for me, that’s an investment in our marriage, since it’s the one time in the evenings that we sit side-by-side on the couch and actually do something together.  After that, he goes back to working on his computer and I go back to working on my computer, and the hours elapse until we collapse into bed exhausted and fairly humming with work-related thoughts.

So I’m cool with the video games.  But what I realized is that I waste a good half hour each day looking at celebrity gossip sites.  People, TMZ, Dlisted – they started as a fun break in my 18-hour days.  Something I could quickly peruse while on a boring conference call, or while I had 10 minutes between meetings.  But then I started looking at them first thing in the morning – right alongside checking out Washingtonpost.com and CNN.  Yes, dear reader, learning about Rielle Hunter’s cheeky GQ photoshoot has now become as important as keeping up on the Israel-Palestinian peace talks (or lack thereof).  And damn if I don’t check those gossip sites before I go to bed too—just to see if anything interesting has changed in the land of Brad and Angie.

Yup.  In the time that I’ve spend keeping up with celebrity gossip, I probably could have become fluent in at least ONE language, read a dozen (very large) books, gone for a daily walk, and trained my puppies to be model citizens. 

So yesterday I went cold turkey.  I eliminated the gossip sites from my Chrome browser, so they no longer pop up when I open a new tab.  I tried to block them, but couldn’t easily find a way to do that – so I’ll be going on willpower alone.  Now just 18 hours into the experiment, I’m already suffering withdrawal – how will I know the seedy backstory and rumor mill about Kate Winslet’s newly announced separation?!

There is no larger point here – just that I’m trying to be a better person.  To get a better return on my investment for my time.  Maybe today I’ll go for that walk.  Or at least brush up on my Mario Bros so that I can soundly beat Bill the next time we play.

But this weekend a wonderful thing happened.  On Saturday I got up early, went to the grocery store, cleaned off the kitchen counters, and cooked with two of my best girlfriends.  We made a slew of vegan fare—from something indelicately called “raw balls” to multigrain pilaf, butternut squash lasagna to chocolate tahini bread.  It was delicious and delightful.

Since shacking up with Bill and moving to the sticks, I don’t get to see Amy and Elizabeth much.  We used to meet at least once a month to discuss books, see independent movies, gossip about work, and various and sundry other “girlie” things.  Now I’m lucky to see them every quarter, and I miss them a lot.  I feel like whenever we get together we have to spend the majority of the time doing status updates, rather than actually having fun.

So it was great to get them for a solid six hours, to get all caught up on travel adventures, work achievements and dramas, and relationship humor.  It was good for my soul, and my refrigerator was thrilled by the fruits of our labors too.

Maybe I share too much of the bad side of our puppy-raising experience.  The destruction, the barking, the occasional altercations over a bone—I’ve chronicled it all.  But frankly, it’s what makes for good reading.  Kind of like how my blog got its best readership when discussing my disastrous dating adventures.  Finding love is great, but makes for poor copy.  Good dogs, likewise, are boring.

Every once in a while, though, I feel the need to add something to the other side of the scales.  Because Maya and Gracie really do have their good points.  Right at this very instant they are curled up on the couch next to me being perfect angels.  Gracie is snoring, and Maya is resting her head on a pillow at the exact angle that allows her to watch TV—she is entranced by HGTV. 

Gracie has learned to be friends with Madchen (the only one of our cats that deigns to appear before her canine siblings) and fetches a tennis ball in the backyard with a sweet enthusiasm that just melts my heart.  Every day she gets better about her manners.

Maya guards me from the dishwasher when I clean the kitchen at night, placing herself directly between me and the threatening appliance.  She understands “wait” and “stay” and patiently waits to be invited up the stairs and onto the bed.

They both are content to sleep in until 8:30 in the morning and after a quick run outside will happily return to cuddle until noon.  They will watch The Dog Whisperer for hours, and perk up every time a dog appears on a commercial.  They compete to see who can get the closest to the space heater and wood stove, and will wriggle across the deck in three inch intervals in order to track the best sunlight. 

They do their part to speed up the winter snow melt by tunneling through the backyard and eating the snow at an alarming rate.  They eat any and all food scraps and don’t scruple to devour carrots, apples, tofu, and other non-typical dog delicacies.  They are ridiculously excited when I throw Cheerios in the backyard.

In a year that has been full of ups and downs, Maya and Gracie are an example of the bitter and the sweet living side by side.  And each day that goes by tilts a little more towards the sweet.

* Mom and Dad, I'm looking at you.

A New Master Closet - Approximate cost: $1,000.

Right now we have a deep (but narrow) walk-in closet that has ugly, sagging shelves on one side and two rows of hanging space on the other.  There is nowhere to put a long dress or coat, and there are no drawers, so most things are just stacked into piles that begin leaning over in slumping messes almost immediately.  Bill and I agree on the need for a better system, but haven’t quite come to see the solution in the same way.  Bill wants to install a ClosetMaid system, I want Elfa.  It doesn’t matter now, because either way the price tag is too much.  

Redesigned Basement - Approximate cost: $7,000

We’ve been working on the basement for almost a year now.  We’ve painted twice, gotten an amazing sofa (which required some home repair after getting it down the stairs), installed some wall art, and gotten the gigantic television professionally installed with all the concomitant wiring that goes with a “man’s sound system”.  But really we’ve just scratched the surface.  We want to create row of cabinets and bookshelves to frame the aforementioned giant TV, install a dry bar with compact refrigerator and wine chiller, change the curtains, swap out the two ceiling fans for something “not brass”, and perhaps add some wall decals.  What’s stopping us?  Before we do anything major we need to replace the off-white carpet, which currently shows every stray dog hair and muddy paw imaginable.  And a DIY laminate hardwood replacement is going to run us about $3,000, not to mention the time and agony associated with the project.  The picture is the current “favorite choice” for flooring.

A New Pantry – Approximate cost: $900

Our current pantry suffers from the same ills as our closet – poorly fitted, sagging shelves.  And since our little nighttime incident where the cupboard shelf collapsed under the weight of our plates, the pantry is now stuffed to capacity.  Oh how I long for a neatly organized space where everything has its place, I can easily reach up to the top shelf, and the spice packets don’t pile up in the corner.  We’re also thinking about relocating my office upstairs and turning the room off the backyard deck back into its intended purpose: mudroom.  We could easily use one wall for extra pantry storage, which would make it just that much easier to justify lots of canning this summer.

Backyard Makeover: $30,000 - $50,000

We have an amazing backyard in terms of space and sunshine and trees.  But the grass is sparse at best (thank you dogs!), there is no landscaping, and we’re surrounded by horrid little mosquitoes during the best times of the year.  Ultimately, I’d love to replace the deck with a conservatory, so that we have an enclosed space to enjoy the backyard.  Bill wants a Jacuzzi/lap pool, and the dogs kindly request some place to swim that they can get all muddy without angering anyone.   We also want to replace the fence because 1) it’s old and 2) the neighbor dogs can reach through and bite anyone brave enough to approach the property boundary.  As they have demonstrated on my leg last summer.

Then there is replacing the carpet on the upper level with hardwood floors, re-doing our master bathroom, and decorating the extra bedroom upstairs to be a nice office (as opposed to the current “cat room with some random office furniture”).  All expensive, all time consuming.  But oh! it will be a dream home someday.  And in the meantime, I think I may just pop over to the Home Depot and get some plant food.  If I can’t begin any major home improvement projects, at least I can revive my dying houseplants.

With cool pillows at my face and

Warm puppies in the bend at my knees.

Afternoon naps with the sun

Streaming through the window

And the luxury of stepping away from life

At 3:30 in the afternoon.

An empty recycle bin

With room in the pantry for figs

And vegetable broth and crackers.

A sink clear of dishes and pots and pans

And counters that are wiped clean of crumbs

With jazz playing in the background.

A vase of pink roses still in bloom

Even after 10 days

And a small mishap with the cat.

A couple of weeks ago I started compiling a list.  It’s all the books I can remember reading.  It includes the 50+ Nancy Drew books and the 50+ Hardy Boys books and the Harry Potter books and the Amelia Peabody books and the three years of book club* books and the Ramona Quimby books and the travelogues and the books that got me through long nights in Sweden. 

So far, I’ve tallied up 510 books (see them all here).  Who-hoo, halfway there!  I’m sure I’ll add another hundred or so just from memory, but then comes the hard part.  I have run out of room in my life for new books—at least, the kind that I purchase and then put on my shelves.  There is no more room, and no more budget.

I do believe I will have to get a library card, which I have neglected to do since moving to our new house 14 months ago.  Shame on me, I know.  But I really dislike the library.  There is something about renting a book instead of owning it.  It’s cheap.  It doesn’t respect the wonder of the written word.

Here’s the metaphor that works for me.  The library is essentially a book brothel, with the books whoring themselves out to whoever walks in with a card.  I have too much respect for books to treat them like hookers.  I want to marry my books, not rent them by the hour. 

But clearly I need to get over it and start treating those books like the tawdry trollops they are.  Let the games begin.

* I originally typed “boob club”.  Wouldn’t that be fun!

We went to a friend’s birthday party last night and left the mousetrap set (and all four pets locked in various rooms of the house).  We were gone eight hours, arriving home late to find that our mouse adventure had just begun.

11:30 p.m.

We get home and as I hustle Maya past the kitchen to the backyard, I hear Bill say “no mouse…no mousetrap”. 

11:40 p.m.

I finally get both Gracie and Maya outside and return to the kitchen to discover that Bill is right.  There is no mouse, and the mousetrap we left has also disappeared.  There is a surprising amount of blood on the floor, including trails of spatter along the floorboards.  I am horrified.  We’d had a discussion about humane traps, and Bill insisted on getting the cheap 50 cent traps that are supposed to snap their necks instantly.  I had no idea that it might just maim the poor thing.

11:42 p.m.

I feel my stomach churning, my eyes filling with tears, and my breathing get perilously close to hyperventilating.  Bill suggests that I go wait in the next room.  I feel like after I’ve taken an active role in torturing this poor creature, it’s my responsibility to see it through.

11:45 p.m.

We find a flashlight and start looking all around the room, under each piece of furniture and in all the cupboards.  Bill gets the end of a broom and uses it like a pole to drag things out of the drawers, apparently preferring to stay 10 feet away from the injured rodent.  At this point, he is also wearing work gloves and has his jeans tucked into his socks.

12:05 a.m.

We’ve pulled apart every cushion, emptied out the drawers under the sink, and are still unsuccessful.  Bill pulls out the refrigerator, an inch at a time.  I’m beginning to expect a raccoon-sized mouse to appear at any moment—fangs bared and frothing at the mouth.

12:07 a.m.

With the refrigerator pulled almost all the way out, Bill jumps about 8 inches in the air and announces he’s found the mouse, and that it’s still attached to the trap.  I nearly vomit.

12:08 a.m.

Bill gets a broom and sets a trash can on its side.  In a delicate and horrible move, he sweeps the trap into the trashcan, having to reach down and flick it with his gloved hand to get over the lip of the can.  I breathe a sigh of relief. Then Bill gazes into the trashcan and says “the mouse isn’t there”.  That’s right, it’s escaped the trap.

12:10 a.m.

We look under the refrigerator (expecting to be attacked at any moment by the frantic creature) but can’t see anything.  Bill notes that they can climb up into the refrigerator mechanism.  He looks at me with weariness writ large and asks me what I want to do.  I tell him there is no option: we have to find it.  (He’s leaving for a week in San Francisco in 6 hours and I’m not going to living in a house where there is an injured animal.)  We start unloading the refrigerator.

12:20 a.m.

With sofa cushions laid on the floor, Bill lowers the refrigerator on its side while I stand guard at the foot of the machine, ready to do something dramatic [not sure what] should the mouse appear.  It doesn’t, and we realize that the vents at the bottom of the refrigerator are REALLY tiny and that the mouse would have to be an acrobat to have wedged its way inside.  We are stumped.

12:23 a.m.

I look at the pantry doors adjacent to the refrigerator, and a light goes off in my head.  Carefully maneuvering around the refrigerator (which, on its side, is now taking up most of the kitchen floor space), we open up the pantry doors and Bill uses the broom end to jab and poke at the stuff cluttering the floor.

12:24 a.m.

“There it is.”  Bill locates the mouse, and I get my first glimpse of the beast and my heart crumples at the sight of the ball of fur—not 2 inches long.  I only see it for a second through the gap in the pantry door before turning my attention to locating the garbage can and various other implements to block up various tiny escape routes.

12:25 a.m.

I will gloss over the next 10 minutes.  Trust me, you don’t want to know. 

12:35 a.m.

With the mouse remains safely in the outside trash can, we proceed to move the refrigerator back into place (Bill), restock it with slightly warm food (both of us), and mop up the mouse blood (me).

12:55 a.m.

Finally in bed, I come very close to having a complete nervous breakdown.  I don’t think I have ever felt guilt like this.  What’s weird is that I could easily break the legs of a human intruder and not feel a whit of regret, but the idea of that poor furry little mouse spending its last hours…too much.

Today

Starting today, there can be no safer place in the world for stray mice than our house.  After last night, I will happily tuck them into bed each night and feed them bits of (vegan) cheese by hand.  I promise the mice of the world, we can all just get along.  I’ve learned my lesson.

I of course assumed that Gracie had eaten something (a pillow? a shoe? a cat?) and continued on with my business.  It was only when I came to a natural stopping point a few minutes later that I wandered out into the living room, stretching and yawning, to ask what was wrong.

Apparently, we have a mouse.

A MOUSE IN MY HOUSE.

I hope the walls in your house shook with DOOM when you read that sentence, because they surely did in mine.  A thousand thoughts flashed through my head at once, as Bill tried to keep me calm.  Was it a mouse or a rat? (“It is a mouse.”)  Is it because we are dirty people? (“No, it’s because it’s cold outside and it wanted to be warm.”)  Are they like cockroaches and for every one you see there are a hundred lurking in the background? (“There is probably a family of mice.”)

At this point I stopped pausing to let Bill answer.

WHY AREN’T YOU OUTSIDE SCOURING OUR HOUSE FOR MICE ENTRY POINTS?  CAN MICE CLIMB STAIRS? CAN THEY GET INTO OUR BEDROOM? DO YOU THINK IT’S BEEN CRAWLING ON US WHILE WE SLEEP?

OH MY GOD DO YOU THINK THAT IT HAS THE BUBONIC PLAGUE?

Obviously, our next move was to gather up the pets and move into a hotel room until this situation was resolved.  Strangely enough, Bill thought we should just “get a trap tomorrow”.  In fact, he openly mocked my concern.

So if you don’t hear from me tomorrow, you’ll know who to blame.  And if the mouse chews my face off, please have a closed-casket funeral.

Just in case you were wondering, the mouse ran all over our kitchen floor before disappearing under the dishwasher.  The dogs, both lounging a few feet away DID NOTHING.  Useless beasts.

It was almost nine when we got home, and I was planning to continue the mayhem by proceeding directly to bed.  Alas, we were halfway through changing the sheets (e.g. removing the old sheets and duvet cover) when I noticed that the “clean” sheets were still at the bottom of the hamper.  Unclean.  Just in case that wasn’t clear.

So now I’m wrapping up a fantastic evening at my computer desk because the space heater underneath is the only source of heat in our “utility-frugal” home, watching reruns of 30 Rock on Hulu, waiting for my fingernails to dry (ooh, fancy purple-black!), and hoping that the sheets only take another 15 minutes to dry. 

And I thought my crazy days were over.