22 October 2006

Mouse in the House

Why does all the stupid stuff happen when my partner is on the road? I suppose I shouldn't fret. I shouldn't be so nervous. Nothing broke down like that one time he went on the road in the middle of the winter and the washing machine backfired ice cold water all over the kitchen floor. The only thing that happened this summer was the discovery of fucking maggots in the garbage can and I swear - that traumatized me.

This morning I awoke to the sounds of something eating something. Nothing loud and that concerning. I have a tendancy to worry about every single thing so I brushed it off and labeled it as sleepy paranoia. I got up, went into the living room, and heard another slight gnawing noise. Shit. And then I grabbed the baseball bat. I'd hate to see how I'd react if a person broke into the apartment if I am arming myself with a bat when I fear the presense of a damned mouse.

I stood there in my pajamas and armed with a wooden bat. No, I wasn't going to kill the creature. I don't have that in me. Hell, I haven't even cooked meat since junior high home-ec class. I stood there and listened to the noise. Is it coming from under the stove? I poked the stove with my bat. Silence. What would I do with a home intruder? Tickle him with a knife? From under the stove wandered a little but replusive moisture bug. Nope, no fan of bugs. I took my partner's boot and killed him. I can kill bugs if need be. So I walked away and heard the gnawing noise again. Once again, I stood there and listened. We have this space where a dishwasher would go. There we have this plastic storage containers, beer bottles to be returned, and some flattened cardboard packaging. I poked the bat at the plastic containers and something ran past my feet. I like to imagine that I was dressed like some sassy 50's housewife in heels and a saucy house dress and I jumped on the table like a defenseless female. Instead, I slammed the bat down onto the floor ten times and squished the mouse into a bloody pulp as I screamed in my best Samuel L. Jackson voice, "I will have no motherfucking mouse in my motherfucking house!".

Actually, no. I stood there in my wrinkled pajamas and weakly held the bat in my hands. And then I mumbled something about this not being in my domestic job description - this is HIS job, not mine. And then I felt sick to my stomach.

No, I'm not scared of the mouse. I know it's scared of me. I feel I have some sort of domestic reputation to uphold. Does having a mouse guest mean your house is a complete mess? I think my worst enemy in cases like this is my vivid imagination. I don't picture one little hungry mouse. I picture mouse babies and hundreds of them. I picture this disgruntled rat the size of a small dog, living behind my fridge and picking food out of his teeth with a toothpick. Talking like a mobster in a New York accent. Smoking a cigar, after attacking my jugular vein in the middle of night. Why does this affect me more than the raccoon that decided to visit our kitchen in the summer?

Only a few more weeks and we'll be out of this place. Only a few more hours and he will be home. He can get reacquainted with Mr. Jingles when I'm at work tomorrow.

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