Mousewatch 2009

So, yesterday just before dinner the Terminix man came and laid down a glue trap about the width of my stove. I was starting to feel like maybe I'd hallucinated the mouse since there had still been no further evidence of one being in my presence. I was starting to relax a little bit, moving freely about my kitchen while making as much noise as possible, but moving about no less.

H thinks it's the coolest thing ever, telling everyone he sees "We have mice in our house!"

They lifted my couch and chair in the living room to ensure that there were no rodents living amongst the furniture; which, if there were, I may have passed out with revulsion right there. They reminded me to page maintenance if Mickey or Minnie decided they were going to pull a Steamboat Willy into my kitchen again, and I assured them I would. H was very curious as usual, asking all form of the question; What happens to the mouse when you catch it? Dick, being the kind grandfatherly figure he is replied with "We just take him outside and get him as close to his home as possible and then let him go." At the same time Mr. Terminix muttered "Yeah, to mouse heaven."

I was assured that the more the mouse struggled, the more stuck they'd get.

I spent several hours later on sorting baby clothes for the yard sale (I made $160 profit!) then watched TV in semi-darkness for about 10 minutes before deciding to call it a night. H was already in my bed because, well because he just was and I read Boho Knits for Babies for about ten minutes because I'm just that cool.

As I turned off the light and wrapped myself into the promise of good dreams I heard it; tchk, tchk, tchk, tchk, tchk...bang! scramble! tchk, tchk, tchk. Yeah, I could deny it no longer. I had the sickening mixture of glee that I'd be vindicated and disgust that there was an effing mouse struggling under the drawer of my oven.

I paged maintenance as I listened to the mouseical that was Swan Lake under the stove. I did not receive an immediate call back, so I decided to make some phone calls to various friends and relatives who are nice enough to placate me through this latest trauma, even though my father reminded me today; they're just animals. Yeah, dirty disgusting little animals that can eat your face off in your sleep!

Hmmm...about 40 minutes later and still no call back from maintenance. They are generally very prompt and I didn't want to push my luck by calling the 24-hour number a second time...it was almost midnight after all.

I again reacted as a rational adult would and gathered Charlie from his bedroom to sleep in the pack-n-play in the room with H and I and jammed towels under my door and in the crack, with the deadbolt unsecured so that maintenance could com in; willing myself to fall asleep to the soundtrack of Mousekail Baryshnikov, humming to myself like Dori 'just keep struggling, just keep struggling, struggling, struggling.'

I was awakened to J muscling our bedroom door open, and told him about the new glue trap and that there was a mouse in it. I put on my glasses and padded in after him, because I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

Well, I saw it alright. Stuck. My. Ass. All that was stuck to the trap was hair and poop. Apparently the little danseur had perfected his grand jete and made a quick exit to what I hoped was stove rear.

The next morning, with no more evidence of mice than I had before, I left a message for the office letting them know to please plug whatever hole they find in the back of the stove. At the yard sale I received a call confirming that I really wanted the hold plugged with steel wool, because then the traps couldn't do their job...uhhhhh, yeah, because they did that job so well last night.

In the end, it looks like we'll be pulling out the big guns and having poison bait traps set in the kitchen while we're on vacation. As if I'm not already neurotic enough, now I get to add 'worry that mice are crawling and crapping all over your house in your absence' to my list. J is so lucky to be returning four days before me...maybe he can make sure the ballet summers elsewhere.