So, I was taking a picture these, that my friend Stu, who is a Nebraska state trooper, sent me for Christmas. As you can see they feature my second and third favorite members of KISS, The Spaceman and The Starchild:
when I noticed something large-ish and black out of the corner of my eye skittering down the hall toward the kitchen. I didn’t get a good look at it but judging from the size and color, it was either a mouse, a giant African cockroach, or a tarantula. So I got up and stood with my arms clutched to my chest and whinging to myself for about five minutes in my office before talking myself down and realizing that no one else was gonna take care of this. I’m single and I live alone. I had to pursue the perp myself. So I skulked about That End of the house with my camera (for evidence), a flashlight (to look under furniture), a broom (with which to subdue the suspect) and my iPhone for moral support. I did what any reasonable, independent, college educated woman would do. I called my parents.
Who proceeded to support their only daughter in the only way they knew how. By laughing. And telling me it’s more scared of me blah blah blah if it crawls on me and murders me in the night YOU’LL BE SORRY. And not FIVE MINUTES EARLIER I had just called to wish my father a happy birthday! If I get bitten my a mouse, tarantula or…. whatever the hell African cockroaches do to people which I’m sure is unpleasant and ultimately death-inducing, it’s on THEIR HEADS.
I sat on the dining room table with my feet on a chair for a while hoping the quiet would lure whateveritwas out of its hiding place. To no avail. Getting leftovers out of the fridge and heating them up was what I can only imagine looked like bad, overly dramatic pantomime. Unlike subtle, realistic Stanislavski method mime I guess. I apologize that I have no video footage available for your amusement as I am sure you, like my cold, heartless parents who will be going to the creepiest nursing home I can find, are laughing at my plight. My father suggested if I kept a cleaner house, this wouldn’t be a problem. His room will not have a window. Or a door.
So now I’m sitting here all freaked out with candles burning praying to Jesus, Buddha and Mohammed that whatever it was was actually running down my hallway toward what it KNEW to be the way out as fast as possible because it couldn’t wait to leave as it was terribly late for something and its overbearing significant other varmint who never understands anything would be waiting and would never believe its story about being trapped in an INCREDIBLY CLEAN HOUSE inhabited by an utterly neurotic female who had had a very, very bad day.
Hey did I ever show you a picture of my coin purse designed to look like a vagina?
Here it is attacking Domo kun:
Besieged
April 9, 2002
…Then the mice assaulted my citadel. A few days after the car debacle was finally concluded, mouse droppings appeared in my kitchen. Everywhere. The following evening as I was getting into bed, one skittered in front of me. Too freaked out to sleep in the same room as a mouse, I went to stay at Elder Sister’s house. In the days that followed, a pattern emerged. Wake up, get ready for work, vacuum up the droppings, wipe down the counters with anti-bacterial spray, fix breakfast, go to work. Then upon arriving home, repeat the cycle, including vacuuming the furniture and floors.
I should mention that I am in a state of extreme ambivalence regarding mice. I think they are adorable, and when I wasn’t screaming when they darted in front of me, I thought they were awfully cute, sticking their little heads out from under the dresser to see if it was safe to come out. All I wanted was for them to be GONE – I didn’t want to have to deal with dead or alive mice. The thought of picking up a trap with a mouse in it makes my skin crawl. Even nudging the traps with my foot to see if they were “occupied” requires a herculean effort. But even more did I want them to stop littering my apartment!
It took my landlord 5 days to finally get pest control in, so in the meantime I went and got one of those ultra-sonic plug-in units that emits a high-pitched sound that makes the mice go away. It worked so well that the mice left more droppings than ever right under the socket where it was plugged in. Finally pest control came and put down a couple of glue traps. Having carefully checked the traps for several days now, I can confidently say that GLUE TRAPS ARE WORTHLESS. They’ve escaped every time so far. Apparently for glue traps to work, you need to 1) hear the mouse getting caught and flailing about, and then 2) press down on top of the trap to completely envelop them in glue. It should be obvious by now that I DON’T WANT TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR A TRAP WITH A MOUSE IN IT, DEAD OR ALIVE. Do you know what a mouse completely caught in a glue trap does? It has a heart attack – that’s how it dies. I’m not sure an old-fashioned snap-trap isn’t more humane than that.
In a state of extreme frustration, I went and bought mouse poison and put it down in my kitchen. I should start finding dead mice in 4-5 days, or so the box tells me. Pest control has returned and put down more pointless glue traps, I still vacuum and disinfect every day after work, and I think I smell mice in my ventilation system. This past weekend I stayed at Elder Sister’s again, just so I could avoid 2 days of having cocky mice jump out from behind the microwave or Kleenex box, giving me heart palpitations.
It’s amusing when related like this; but the essential fact remains that once again I have to take care of the problem by myself. I’ve made jokes before that everyone (especially women) should be single for a good long stretch at least once in their life so they can learn to “squish their own bugs.” Well, I’ve graduated from bugs to mice, and I can assure you that the same saying does not apply here. I am thoroughly tired of independence and want to embrace my inner fragile Victorian woman who faints at the sight of mice.
see? God sends the mice in your mid-thirties to toughen you up.