When I get to feeling crazy rather than committing myself to a saner course of behavior, I do a strange thing: I focus on a task that will lead to even more crazy. It's just what seems to work for me.
Let me back up a bit. Several weeks ago, I woke up to feed the cat and found several small mouse-droppings deposited around the sealed can we keep the cat's grub in. When I first spied them, my philosophical mind calmly appraised the situation and concluded, Hey! Such are the perils of living in a 130 year old house.
Fine. The days rolled by. The mouse dropping persisted. I cleaned them up dutifully and tried to remind myself to set the trap, a reminder which quickly and swiftly drowned in the sea of Christmas crap that has become my brain. And then it nibbled at the $40 worth of fixing I'd purchased at the bulk store to make homemade granola (as gifts, of course. Gifts!) Sullying the granola, Intraweb, was just a bridge to far. That's when I set the trap.
The first night it licked the peanut butter off of the trap without being caught. Okay. That can happen, I guess. The next night, I doubled the amount and woke up to an empty trap. Again. Oh, it's ON! I thought. So I covered the trap, Intraweb. Saturated it with Skippy. That did the trick.
When my husband came down, I proudly announced that I'd killed the mouse that had been tormenting my fragile psychic balance . Oh, yeah, and could he also kindly get rid of said mouse. Sure, he said. It was the least he could do. That's when he informed me that I had killed not one but two mice.
"Yeah," he said, as he lifted the impaled mouse towards the trash. "One in the trap ad one just dead BESIDE the trap." Huh?!
He paused here for affect and pointed at the un-smushed one.
"I think this one just died of grief."
Let the Christmas drinking begin.