Fat Girls and Field Mice
Let’s just pretend you are a fly on the wall……
Here I am, heading to bed when I think to myself….I say “self, you need to get one of those little loves notes from your love note book and put it in Big Daddy’s lunchbox to give him a thrill.” So, after I had already been upstairs and snuggled in bed….about midnight…I decide that I should do this.
I grab a note and head downstairs being very quiet because….ya know…I think Big Daddy can hear me from across the house, up the stairs, with three fans on and the bedroom door shut. I’m trying to be very very sneaky.
Once in the kitchen, I realized that his lunchbox was in the pantry. I open the pantry door and what should run over my feet but a mouse. The mouse and I had a conversation, but she had already set up home and had her apron on…there was no negotiating.
Now….I’m a woman than can do a lot of things. There are three things I do not do….1) I don’t get in boats 2) I don’t touch dead, raw chickens, and 3) I don’t do mice.
So, what does this fat girl do? She grabs her boobs and jumps up and down squealing like a 12 yr old school girl. Then, I freeze. I stand there in silence wondering if the warmth I’m feeling is the fire place or pee running down my legs….it was the fireplace 🙂 I tiptoe into the dining room and get the big dog bed and oh so quietly scootch it to the pantry door to prevent said mouse from escaping.
Next, I run upstairs and I’m not so quiet as I stand in front of Big Daddy jumping up and down and squealing that there is a mouse, the size of Montana, in the pantry….very very close to my coke. He must, HE MUST go and do something about it. My nerves are getting the best of me and there is sweat in inappropriate places and an onset of gas that could rival any sonic boom.
He *finally* gets up, fussing the whole time, and ambles (think John Wayne) towards the kitchen. He ever so slowly (Big Daddy doesn’t get in a hurry….ever) goes into the laundry room to get glue traps and his intention is to put it down and capture the mouse.
Being the supportive wife that I am. I stand, on the chair, in the dining room yelling supportive statements like “I love you. You are wonderful. Thank you. This mouse is huge. It will eat your feet. Focus! Focus! It’s gonna get out! I’ll get a cat and we can throw it in there” I got several
dirty loving looks from him. It was a moment.
Apparently, the glue trap method was not working so he tells me to get a cat. I love cats. I do. We’ve had upward 20 cats in the last year. I stand outside (in my drawers…freezing) and yell for them and Martha comes running up. I grab her and toss her from the dining room to the kitchen where Big Daddy was standing guard. He throws Martha into the pantry and shuts the door.
I must say, I did snicker a bit when he cracked the door open because he was afraid that the cat could not see in the dark to catch the mouse. He was trying to help poor Martha. Every time he cracked the door open, though, Martha would dodge out. I could feel her screaming “SANCTUARY.” She *wanted* outside. After failed attempts with Martha, I finally granted her wish and let her out.
About that time, Starr ran up. She isn’t the nicest of all cats, but I thought her tenacity and her hatefulness would do the job. Alas, the same scene continued to play out. Open the door, toss Starr in. Close the door, crack the door because of pity, Starr escapes. It was something to behold.
The last attempt (while I’m still standing in the chair being supportive), he throws the cat in, one last time. I’m wondering if the cat is going to do her job and before the thought continued out of my head, here comes the mouse scurrying out of the pantry while Big Daddy is doing a jig. I’m surprised the next county didn’t hear the screams coming out of my mouth. I’m *really* surprised that I didn’t break my chair because big girls do not need to be jumping on the furniture. Starr goes one way and the mouse goes the other way.
The mouse heads back from where it came…under my cabinet. The cat flies out the door, fur flying. Big Daddy proceeds to yell at me for screaming and “scaring the mouse.” I mean, seriously…*I* scared the mouse. He fusses at me until he is back in bed.
I told him “my goal was to be all seductive and cool and put a love note in your bag…I’m thinking you are just gonna have to deal with granny panties and hair long enough to braid on my legs cause I am not doing that again.”
As I finally calm down and get relaxed, I hear him say “you know, mice can climb stairs and squeeze under doors. She may end up in bed with us.” Needless to say, I dreamt of field mice and told my husband that he was rotten.
The mouse is still out there…somewhere…beyond the cabinets…just waiting….just waiting.
In a week, Big Daddy and I have been outsmarted by a pig and a mouse. Is it just me and my life or do other people experience this trauma?
Where are my nephews and their homemade blowdarts when you need them? *Sigh*