When you’re getting ready to move to a new home, things sometimes get weirder and weirder.
And with moving day quickly approaching on Friday, Noah and I are still experiencing some strange dynamics.
Like learning that we’ve been dining on rodent feces for who knows how long.
A couple of months ago, I was watching a very scary, very manly, very intense show. Community or something, I don’t remember.
Suddenly, a little deer mouse ran from under the couch I was lying on and scurried across to the kitchen where he disappeared under the stove.
I wish I could tell you that I didn’t scream like a little girl. I wish I could tell you that I didn’t jump up onto my couch and assume the fetal position. I wish I could tell you that I was as tough as a ninja.
But I won’t. Because, well, I can’t lie.
I also won’t tell you that I did scream like a girl, that I did jump up on my couch, and that I did ninja the entire situation to death.
Because, well, I can’t be blamed for what you deduce on your own.
After everything above did or didn’t happen, I went and dug through my garage boxes for mouse traps that I knew were in there somewhere. It took me more than an hour, one snapped finger, and a tightly grimaced face to do it, but I loaded the trap that I found with peanut butter, set it next to the stove, and went back to my show.
It took less than 20 minutes. And that mouse was dead.
And then, I felt safe. And cozy. And sound again.
But the next morning I found fresh mouse turds on the floor in front of the stove. And I was like, what the freaking eff?!
And I set another trap. And while I was sleeping that night…
That mouse was dead.
Convinced at this point that there must be an entire mouse colony (or herd, or clan, or whatever they’re called) living under my stove, I went down to my local made in China store and I purchased several glue traps. After all, rodents and my OCD tendencies don’t mix very well.
And, Noah and I set them up together. It was a real father son bonding thing.
And we waited. 24 hours later and…