A few weeks ago, I was watching TV in my bedroom. It was a typical evening…and I was toggling between Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives on Food Network and I Didn’t Even Know I Was Pregnant! on TLC.
Do not judge me. I can’t explain it…there’s just something bizarre about that show. Maybe it’s because the voiceover-guy always says, “And new mom Twyla has no idea if her newborn child will suffer any post-traumatic stress from being born in the toilet…” and we all know that the baby is fine because every baby from the last 200 episodes has been fine and this is the part where I say out loud, “Oh, gee. I wonder if that mom’s gonna play this episode for this kid when he gets older and say, ‘See, honey? We put the story of how you were born in the toilet on TV for all the world to see’, ensuring that, if nothing else, he’ll be taunted by his peers and called names like “Poopy Boy” and “Toilet Throat”…’cause…ya know, kids can be cru-el and aren’t very sophisticated.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see…(wait for it)…a mouse. It darts behind the armoire and I begin to choke on that slice of pizza I was casually eating. Then, I scream.
Connor(14) comes barreling into the room and politely asks me to exit the area. Actually, I may have knocked him down in my enthusiasm to get out the door…but you get the idea. I
bolted casually walk down the hall and frantically leap nonchalantly sit on the sofa in the living room. Connor had closed the door behind him and had evidently decided he was going to catch this unwanted intruder. Unbeknownst to him, the little bugger made a hasty retreat back under my door and ran down the hall…directly towards me.
It was the scream heard ‘round the world.
I ran into the kitchen, crying and gagging and I flung myself onto the countertop…feet resting in the sink. Absent from this scenario was any hint of motherly restraint…for Connor does not fear this…this beast. This is my demon.
When I spied the thing scurrying across the living room…as if it was following me…I almost lost consciousness. At this point, I’m done. Game over. We’re moving…we’ll just live in the car…and I feel utterly betrayed by the one place where I should feel safe.
At this point, the thing disappears. Connor hunts and hunts…alternately moving furniture whilst reminding his mother-in-a-puddle that “it’s way more afraid of us”. After many, many minutes of looking, Connor proclaims the area secure…that it probably couldn’t take the noise level and booked next door for some peace and quiet.
After 20 minutes of hysteria, I began to settle down and had moved from my perch on the counter back to the couch. That’s when I saw it run out of my office. When I screamed, it ran back in.
Oh. My. God.
I flew out my front door in my bare feet and hammered on the landlord’s door. When he opened it, I yelled, “MOUSE. IT MUST DIE”, or something to that effect. He set traps and stuffed towels under my office door, assuring me that it would be “taken care of” by morning.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I told anyone that would listen about my mouse-mayhem at work the next day and I received little sympathy. Almost everyone looked at me like I’d lost my mind…being afraid of a helpless little mouse.
Although Connor initially claimed the mouse had been caught and disposed of by the landlord the next day, upon further
interrogation questioning I learned that the trap was, in fact, empty. I arrived home that evening with half a dozen mouse traps, four packages of blue poison pellets, several plug-in Sonic Pest Repellers and a healthy dose of dread.
The next morning, the traps were empty…but something had left a small piece of blue poison right next to my flip-flops. Almost as if to say, “I was gonna eat this but I decided to chew on the edge of your comforter instead. NAH-NAH-NAH-nah-nah-nah…” (Insert evil mouse-laugh here.)
That was several weeks ago…and since then, I haven’t seen any signs of anything.
Helpless, my ass.