Hello all. I’m sorry it’s been a while, but in the words of Bethenny Frankel, #ThisIsACrisis.
As I write this, I am currently standing on top of my kitchen table. And not for the reason which I always thought I’d be standing on my kitchen table, which would be to hang myself from the ceiling fan. Instead, I have been perched on this table that I bought for far too much money (I fooled myself into believing that it would be an “investment piece”) because it is the only place that I feel safe from the four-legged NIGHTMARES that have infiltrated my home.
Approximately three weeks ago, I had the great misfortune of noticing a mouse slithering, seemingly carefree as if he paid some sort of rent here, across my kitchen floor. Because I like animals more than I like most (all) people, I decided that I was going order humane traps which would not kill the mouse, but instead contain it until I could set it free in a lovely meadow where it could live out the rest of its mouse days drinking water from a stream and snacking on blades of grass or whatever it is that mice do. However, after several days of waiting for the humane traps to arrive, and several sleepless nights waking up my boyfriend with my blood curdling screams because I had a dream that mice were crawling in my hair, I decided to fuck off to Target and purchase some standard run-of-the mill glue traps. This was mistake number one.
The next evening, I returned home from dinner with a friend where I drank approximately 17 glasses of rose in an effort to garner the courage to check said glue trap. Much to my revulsion and dismay, a mouse approximately the size of a buffalo nickel was stuck in the trap. I must have blacked out from pure horror because the next thing I knew my boyfriend’s cousin (who had been staying with us) was shaking me from the fetal position I had fallen into on the floor.
“QUE PASO? QUE PASO?!?” she shouted.
Because I could not recall the Spanish word for mouse, I pointed to a few feet away to the office where the poor creature was struggling for its life and continued making a series of guttural screams. This may be a bit of a niche reference here, but if anyone has seen the bomb episode from Season 2 of Greys Anatomy when the wife found out that her husband had shot himself with a bazooka, it was something like that.
What happened next was yet another step in the seemingly never-ending cycle of Murphy’s Law that is my fucking life. While it’s safe to assume that she has seen her fair share of field mice growing up in the dusty fields of Colombia, I was not anticipating for her to react so calmly. She began jajaja-ing to herself, and asked in Spanish for me to get her something to kill the mouse with. In what can only be described as a fight or flight response, I sprung into the kitchen like my hair was on fire and brought back a small cooking pot that could not have weighed more than one pound. She side eyed the pot, side eyed me, and gently took the pot from my hand like one would when dealing with a mental patient.
“Stay.. back.. Go.. go over there! Don’t look!” she said.
“NO PROBLEMO!” I cried while diving onto the couch.
As she continued laughing and wandered into the office to murder said rodent, I believed the worst was over. I was wrong. With each presumed swing of the pot, I heard a thump, followed by a tiny squeak. This went on for several minutes. The 90 pound girl, who apparently must have moonlighted as a RUTHLESS ASSASIN during her time in Colombia, continued on in her efforts to beat the mouse to a pulp before coming out with the pot in her hand and said, “No is dying.. I don’t know!” followed by a series of giggles. From one look at the pain in my eyes, she could see that I was seconds away from skinning myself alive and silently went into the kitchen. She returned with a broom, and with one fell swoop, swept the concussed mouse into a dustpan and brought it outdoors to dispose of it.
Flashforward to three weeks later, and seemingly unphased by the brutal slaying of their brother in fur, the remaining mice have grown only more intelligent and more brazen. Not only have they entirely ignored the humane traps which I took the TIME and ENERGY to fill with quality Trader Joe’s cheese, but they are outwitting me at every turn. Only last night, as I sat in abject horror on my couch chugging a chilled glass of Pinot Noir, I saw two mice actually run into each other and do a fucking back flip landing in full dismount before retreating back into the office.
My mental health is on a steep and steady decline, and if you do not hear from me again, you know why.
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