Not for the Faint Hearted

This is a true story.

Names have not been changed. No one is innocent.

Don't read on if you are squeamish or faint of heart, dear reader.



Every day I retrieve my black ski parka from the peg in the hallway.

It's an ugly garment but warm.

Every day I put it on along with gloves and a hat.

Every day I venture forth into the wide world and walk a couple of miles. This keeps me young. COUGH HACK CHOKE. This keeps me bitching and grousing for hours.

A winter walk is not like a summer walk.


It sucks more.










It reminds you more that you live in a godawful hellhole. NONONO, that is NOT true. I don't mean it.

But when I'm walking, I mean it.





Eventually I reach the halfway point.

So.

Okay.

Anyway.

Last week I was walking along and I felt this odd sense of movement in the front of my coat, sort of below my throat but veering off toward my armpit (I really hate saying armpit).

That was weird, I thought.

Was it a bracelet? Some stupid jewelry item? Bra strap?

A few minutes later it happened again.

Now this was plain creepy. I yanked off the right arm of my jacket and walked along that way for a while, one arm in and one arm out. Sort of the half-ass walking technique.

This is ridiculous, I thought. And freaking cold. So I took the jacket completely off and gave it a good hard shake and what do you think fell out?

A MOUSE! A LIVE MOUSE!

EEEEK! SHRIEK!!!!

I am still getting over it. In truth, I think it has happened to me in other years, but with a hat, which is worse in some ways.

So on that note, dear reader, you may have been wondering what happened to my coverage of the Vatican.

I will tell you. I didn't have my camera that day. I will also tell you that it was so incredibly crowded that I really thought someone could have been trampled.
I guess the highlight was in the Sistine Chapel when our very knowledgeable guide Greg directed our attention to the Michelangelo depiction of Adam and Eve and exactly where Eve is positioned in relation to Adam. Ahem. Cough.

I don't know how many other tour guides address the blowus jobbus subject while standing in the Sistine Chapel, but hey, whatever. No one drifts off, know what I'm sayin'?

Papers abound. Only one bloop so far: "My mother waited up for me till one in the mourning."
A rivedercci, dear reader.
love,
becky