When the mouse costume arrived today, the thrill of exhilaration that surged through me must have surely been equal to that of Ben Franklin’s when he discovered electricity after being zapped by a lightning bolt. At some point however, during my frenzied celebration of running, foaming, leaping and shouting, it dawned on me that the things which were giving me ecstatic glee were perhaps only doing so because I was, rather sadly, unemployed. It had only been five minutes earlier that I’d been amusing myself by belching into an empty milk glass and trying to waft the fumes into my face. Silently cursing the particularly pesky milk fumes that refused to come out from the bottom of the milk glass, I was certain that the belching-wafting entertainment was a symptom of my unemployedness. The question was though, was my jubilance over the mouse costume? When Tim got home, I got my answer. I hadn’t even gotten one word out of mouth before Tim was fully garbed in downy mousey attire and making series of arcane mouse-ing motions with his arms. It was then that I, like Franklin perhaps, was privy to my own little piece of the light, and knew unemployed, or employed, that the mouse costume was timeless.