Double bag it, you don't know where he's been

A few nights ago I decided I was going to have a lovely night home alone.  I was foreseeing an evening of Merlot, Chili and catching up on season 2 of Treme on HBO (watch it, if for nothing more than the jams.)  After a brief and semi-productive day at work, I ran to the store and grabbed a bottle of wine some dog food and the buy of the century.  Oh, Wal-Mart, you know me so well!  Why not place dog-sized Halloween hats next to the dog food for small breed dogs? I made it home and of course, first on my list of things to do...try the hats on the dogs.

Tell me they aren't stinkin' cute.

After 19 attempts of taking pictures and finally getting my dogs to sit still, the above picture came out as perfect as possible.  I poured myself some wine, heated up some chili with a peanut butter sammich on the side and curled up on the chaise for some good TV. As I downed my vino, texted friends and enjoyed myself I had no clue I was in for the most eventful evening in my pj's I can remember.

In between episodes, I bolted to the kitchen for a vino refill in the dark kitchen when something caught my eye.  A rose I had in a bottle above the fridge had fallen out onto the floor.  As I bent down to pick up the rose, I remembered...I threw that rose away days ago.  I stumbled backwards into the stove, flipped on the light and screamed.

Oh hey wilted, headless mouse.  What the f&*k are you doing in my kitchen?  Oh I'm sure I know... I bet my lovely son-of-a-cat brought you in as a present.  But the question is truly, where the hell is your head?  As all this is happening, I'm live tweeting it, because let's be honest...I'm home alone and someone needs to know this is happening.  Why not my entire group of twitter followers?

While I tried to compose myself and figure this out I couldn't look at the mouse anymore.  I was gagging all over the place trying to keep my chili and wine down so I came up with the best solution possible.  Throw a paper bag over it (isn't that the old saying, if you can't look at it put a bag over it's head? Or in this case lack-there-of?)

Notice the blood spot in the very top center of the pic, meaning he drug it around the floor.

Still trying to compose myself and live tweet the murder in my house, this guy strolls in like it's any other Tuesday night.  Oh hey mom, I see you got my gift...You're welcome. I kept screaming at him, "Where's the head?  Where's the head?  How can you eat at a time like this?  Are you really hungry?!" Such a smug little asshole. He was promptly removed from the house and not allowed back in until 4pm the following day.

Finally I composed myself as much as I could.  Through tears, gumption and double bagging Wal-Mart sacks on my hands, the following occurred.  Don't watch this video if you take offense to the F-bomb.  Seriously don't.  I had a complete mental breakdown while trying to clean the crime scene. COMPLETE mental breakdown, including:  talking to myself, crying, laughing, gagging, whispering and jumping up and down.

You will all be happy to know that I am now back to being mentally stable, I am no longer talking to myself like I am Sybil and I do not really think I need a boyfriend...just a backbone.  I'm sure this little diary of an eventful Tuesday night in my house leads you all to believe my life is super glamorous, my house is spotless and I'm a bad-ass.  Continue those thoughts, they're all true.  And if any of you were wondering, I never found the head.