Saturday morning I decided to rise before the boys to get a head start on some spring cleaning, brew the coffee, and ultimately enjoy the quiet before our Saturday truly began. Quickly realizing that our sugar dish was a little low, I decided to root through our pantry in search of a half-full bag that I just knew was lost in the clutter on the floor. Clutter might be putting it mildly. Let's just say there were several half-full bags of various baking goods haphazardly strewn about, creating a large mound of forgotten surplus. There were probably 3 bags of flour. Like I'm The Pioneer Woman or something and need 15 pounds of flour on hand on any given day.
So, anyway, I'm searching for the sugar, and coming up with a Halloween candy basket, powdered and brown sugar, more flour, some toothpicks, and STOP THE WORLD something THAT MOVES WHEN I TOUCH IT.
A mouse you all!!!!! It was unmistakeably a mouse!!!!! And I TOUCHED IT.
When my brain registered the fact that I touched a MOUSE I screamed the loudest, most girliest scream I could muster and immediately squealed B, WE HAVE MICE!!!! With my skin crawling, I managed to dash to the living room and onto the couch (pulling my legs up of course), and sent B in the direction of the kitchen.
So, he headed toward the pantry, fully prepared to deal with our rodent visitor. I took up residence on the dining room table, newly clad in my Ugg boots for good measure, able to witness the disposal of this disgusting critter. Just writing about it, give me the heebie jeebies.
There I sat as B sorted through the floor of the pantry, scared out of my mind. I don't really think he had a plan, other than to be my knight in shining armor and locate the mouse. My plan was to stay out. of. the. way. {Sidenote: I can watch the scariest of movies, but -gosh darnit-I cannot cannot cannot handle critters of any kind - especially IN MY PANTRY. That is WAAAAAY scarier.} After tossing a couple random objects to the kitchen floor, out scurries the mouse HEADED IN THE DIRECTION OF MY BEDROOM. I scream again. Like a girl. And B laughs and scolds me for being loud enough to wake Beckham and the neighbors. I am about to puke with fear. Visualize the-squirrel-in-the-Christmas-tree scene from Christmas Vacation and I am the grandma passing out on the floor. At least B was channelling Clark and not Uncle Eddie, though a dickey really would have added some much needed comedy to the situation. Anyway.
By the time B made it to look around outside the kitchen, Mickey was long gone, and I was FOR SURE he was either in Beck's toy bins, the inside of my shoes, or in the sheets of my bed. Mostly, I hoped my Fairy Godmother bippity-boppity-booed him back into Cinderella where he belonged. FAT CHANCE.
Of course we couldn't find that fast little guy, and I continued to wear my Ugg boots during the day (despite it being 70 degrees) just waiting for him to dart out across my feet. We cleaned out the bottom of ALL of our closets, and luckily found no droppings or remnants of this mouse or his mouse cousins. We obtained some mouse traps and put one in the kitchen, the living room, and beneath our bed.
Fast forward to 12:30am.
I am in bed, reading the latest on Young House Love, and B is snoozing on the couch in the living room. Naturally, I checked all of the traps before I got in bed to assure that they were still in place and prepared to do their jobs if need be.
Well, need be you all, need be INDEED.
All of a sudden I hear the SNAP! of the trap BENEATH MY BED. BENEATH MY BED. BENEATH MY BED.
I was terrified. I couldn't even move. It took minutes for me to find my voice to holler for B. Because that rat wasn't dead as far as I knew, and was likely flopping around under me trying to climb up my sheets and onto my face. So, I finally yelled for B, who responded by saying What? and then apparently falling right back to sleep. I spent another three minutes trying to produce enough saliva to rid myself of dry-mouth so I could yell for my husband again. You have to understand, I WAS ABSOLUTELY PETRIFIED. This was a fear like no other. As I waited for B to come, I pulled the sheets way up over my face so that only my eyeballs were showing. Because, of course, that is the way to protect yourself from a dead mouse under you bed. That and Ugg boots, which were unfortunately located in the top of my closet at this point.
B finally comes and I mouth the situation to him as he peers through the door. I didn't know if speaking too loud might bring the dead mouse back to life. Wide-eyed at my announcement, he comes into the room and looks cautiously under the bed. He confirms what I had heard ten minutes earlier, and I make him get my boots so that I can move. I put them on under the covers, and remained in bed until B exhumed the body. I finally mustered up enough courage to get out of bed after he disposed of the remains, and then refused to leave B's side for the next 20 minutes while he cleaned under the bed and reset the trap. Lord have mercy, it was the scariest hour of my life.
Our traps have to yet to catch any other mice, but usually where there's one, there's more. Which is completely disgusting and makes me feel dirty. Which I'm not. And our house isn't either. We just have good mice food, I guess. Regardless, I still get the chills thinking about it, though I've moved beyond wearing my boots around the house. Except when I go in the basement, where I'm sure an entire mouse compound exists.
Oh, gosh, I hope not. Grrrrrrrrrroooooooooooooooooooos.
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