In 1969, for most occasions, I gave up eating potato chips. That simple effort accompanied by an increase in bicycle riding resulted in my loosing about 25 pounds. I was amazed at my results.

This does not mean that I do not eat potato chips ever, but I’m in enough control that I won’t devour the entire bag – even Lay’s.

Even though the weather hadn’t become autumnal, critters have been seeking asylum within our walls. During the month of September, thanks to live traps, we have relocated seven mice from our kitchen to the river. We patted them down prior to the trip to make sure they weren’t packing any breadcrumbs to drop, a la Hansel and Gretl, to find the way back to us.

Son had a stare down with one more the other night. Son at the counter, mouse in the cupboard. I made plans to get all packaged good into glass or plastic.

Last week, I had a hankering for chips. I grabbed the bag from the top of the refrigerator and took the bag to the living room. I was sure from the number of times the bag had been folded that I was probably only going to have chip crumbs. I was right. I was very surprised to discover that these remnants were not crisp. They were stale.

I held the chip bag up to my chin to catch crumbs, but was soon surprised to have crumbs on my shirt. On the other end of the bag. “How the…?”

That was when I found a hole in the bag. I quickly lost my appetite for chips. I was pretty sure how the hole got in the bag. (When I told husband, he commented about having had stale chips a few nights before.)

Tonight, I heard a very loud rustling of paper in the dining room. I was home alone, so I tried to ignore the sound. I concentrated on answering the questions on Jeopardy. The rustling was hard to ignore, but I stayed in the living room. There were too many places in the dining room overflowing with paperwork to check out and from the living room I couldn’t pinpoint the location of the noise.

It didn’t take long after Son got home from school and settle behind his computer in the dining room for him to question, “Was that you?”

I had done such a great job that I hadn’t really registered that I had heard the rustling until he asked the question. I said, “No, that came from the dining room.”

I asked if he could tell where it came from.

“Near the waste basket, I think.”

The waste basket was on the floor next to the table where we accumulated our paper recycling.

A few more rustles tempted Son away from the computer to investigate the continuing distraction.

He turned on the overhead dining room light. Shortly he was laughing uproariously and inviting me into the dining room to see what he had found.

“Where?” I asked tentatively.

“In the waste basket.”

Before I got close enough to look in to the container I could see the top of a tossed potato chip bag. It was wide open.

I looked into the trash receptacle around the chip bag, but saw nothing. I looked into the snack bag without bending over. What I did see looked like mouse leavings, but not mouse.

Son came over, picked up the chip bag and rearranged to I could see the blind corner. Our rustler was in that corner. It tried to jump up and out, but it couldn’t jump high enough to escape the slick sides of the potato chip bag.

So this mouse has proven my theory that eating potato chips is hazardous to ones health.

Meanwhile, there’s another trip to the river in our future.

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