Yes, my friends, we have a mouse in our house. We don’t actually live in a house, but house rhymes with mouse so we are just going to pretend. Let’s start at the beginning…..
:::flashback graphics and music:::
We settled down to some “Battlestar Galactica” bonding time last night, complete with a Totino’s pizza for Brian and some soup and crackers for my upset stomach. During a particularly tense scene involving some nasty Cylons and a desperate fight for the survival of humanity, I saw a small black thing dart underneath the television. “Did my eyes deceive me?” I asked myself. No, I couldn’t be deceived, I had seen the same exact scurrying black shadow dart across the floor a few weeks back at the $1.50 theatre on Blue Ridge Rd.
“I JUST SAW A MOUSE!!” I shouted.
“WHERE!!” Brian shouted back.
“IT RAN UNDER THE TV!” I continuted shouting. (Ask Brian how thankful he was that I was around to shout at him)
At this point, we paused “Battlestar” and Brian lay down on his stomach and put his face dangerously close to the vicinity of the mouse and its germy self. The mouse darted back behind the couch, then back under the tv. Brian tried his best to shoo the mouse out the back door or trap it with his hands, but the mouse was waaay too fast for him. It was Brian VS Mousie and Mousie was definitely winning. Our bedroom door is located right next to the tv, so I shouted “CLOSE THE BEDROOM DOOR!” The mouse, probably sensing my anxiety about him having a party in my room, then proceeded to run UNDERNEATH the bedroom door.
We have not seen his mousie little face since.
:::fade back to present:::
Now that we are sharing a bedroom with a mouse, I have been tip toeing around my bedroom expecting that little mouse to jump out at me and chew on my toes. I’m not a girlie-girl, I can use tools and get dirty and change poopy diapers without gagging. I’m the girl who rolled her eyes and said “Omygosh, I WILL DO IT” when there was something gross to be cleaned up at my various childcare jobs. I didn’t think I would be the girl whose first thought at the sight of a mouse would be to put her feet up on the couch and refuse to move. Yes, America, I am the sterotypical apron-wearing housewife who jumps on a chair and screams at the sight of a mouse. No matter how many times Brian tells me that “The mouse is more afraid of you”, I still firmly believe that the mouse is somewhere in my closet having a party in my favorite shoes and planning on how best to nibble on my toes.
It’s absurd, it’s an absurd fear that a mouse will nibble on my toes. It’s absurd to be scared of SEEING a mouse!
Apparently, according to my behavior during this crisis, the worst thing that can happen to me is seeing a mouse run across the room. And if that mouse, who is deathly afraid of a human 78 times bigger than him, gets any free time, he will spend it darting across the room in order to bite my toes off.
I’m disgusted with myself.
Since I cannot write a post without thinking of a literary reference, I will leave you with the words of the nameless character in Dr. Seuss’ classic book:
“Not in a house, not with a mouse”