Thursday, March 22, 2007
I Love My Thumbs And My Easy, Easy Access To Poison
Apparently, I scream like a girl with the proper motivation.
A couple weeks ago, on the Monday after the switch to Daylight Savings, I stumbled downstairs to get ready to leave for school. I shuffled about on the cold tile floor, barefoot, trying to slap together a bagel sandwich and collect whatever assorted leftovers I could out of the fridge that I could reasonably call breakfast at 5:50 (that was, as far as my brain and body were concerned, 4:50) in the AM. Dinner the night before was heavy on the Corona and about a half a pound of carne adovada was still sitting in my stomach impervious to digestion. Clearly, it was going to be a good day.
I wandered into other rooms looking for other items I might need to get my ass out the door. Cellphone. Wallet. Keys.
Mr. Scoop was up, even though he didn't need to be to work for about three hours. Just a shade too tired to be fully possessed by the first nic fit of the day, he hung at the sides of the room trying to let me do what I needed to do and not huck things at me to make me move faster. We have this cute ritual where he sees me off in the morning (and makes sure I don't drive my car into the side of the garage as I back out...it's adorable. I swear.). Still, nicotine addiction will wait for no man or sleep addled co-dependent. I'd finally found and put on my shoes and was heading back toward the kitchen when I noticed the black, fuzzy shadow that darted from the heat vent by the kitchen sink to the crevice between the dishwasher and cabinet under the sink...and disappeared.
My brain, despite the fuzziness of the shadow and my more than general Monday morning damage, registered mouse. A mouse. Right where my bare feet had been minutes earlier.
And that's when I screamed.
It sounded wrong and almost inhuman - to the point where I can't actually even remember accurately what it sounded like anymore. If you ask Mr. Scoop what it sounded like, he'll just tell you it sounded like wrong. If he doesn't gut you for implying that his girl might possibly be that weak that she'd scream at a mere mouse. Really depends on which beer you get him on.
But the point is, the lizard part of my brain responded to rodent. In my damn, frigging clean house that we pay people to actually come in and clean so we can avoid this shit. Mr. Scoop hadn't seen it and tried to convince me that it was a trick of the light or some weird shadow. But I knew what I'd seen. Shadows don't move like that. The lizard knows. Stupid lizard.
But, I pulled myself together and scooted out for work. About five minutes out, Mr. Scoop called me to confirm that, yes, he'd seen the mouse too. I wasn't experiencing the DT's. When I got home, he'd mined the condo with enough death traps to make moving from the car in the garage to the bedroom on the second floor an exercise in SEAL training. Mouse traps do not belong in the tub. That's all I'm saying.
We drank that night, not to kill the pain, but to kill the rodent paranoia. It was still a restless evening. We had, afterall, been violated by fuzzy vermin after being told by the house inspector prior to purchase that we had no rodent problems.
"How did you sleep last night", I asked Mr. Scoop the next morning as I entered the garage to leave for work.
"Like a baby. I cried through the night and woke up covered in my own shit", he replied.
As I resolved to do laundry when I got home, we noticed the dead mouse in one of the multiple traps Mr. Scoop had set in the garage.
"In your copious free time at work", I said to Mr. Scoop (only mostly joking), "please call an exterminator".
Mr. Scoop hates the idea of living with mice. So he did.
We are now, so far, rodent free. But, I still wear shoes around the house now. Because you just never know.