No Room At The Inn

Tonight, I put the kids to bed and settled in to watch my latest Netflix pick, Confessions of a Shopaholic. I'd read the whole Shopaholic series, and everything else by Sophie Kinsella for that matter, so was excited to see how Rebecca Bloomwood translated to the silver screen.

About 15 minutes in, I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. I turned just in time to see a mouse streak from the dining room back to the kitchen. At first I just sat there. Then I jumped up. Then I said things I can't repeat while still not venturing toward the kitchen to see to where the mouse had escaped.

I picked up the phone and got just close enough to the kitchen to make out the 24 hour maintenance number on the magnet on the fridge, then politely and maybe a little hysterically told the sweet lady that I wanted someone at my house. Now.

I pictured my sweet babies sleeping in their rooms with a potential outbreak of Hantavirus (HPS for those in the know) lurking in every shadow. Dick, my friendly maintenance man, called back within five minutes of my call to the 1-800 number. I explained the situation and he said he'd be over with glue traps within a half hour and that an exterminator would come in the morning.

I called my little sister, and she was at first laughing, until I started crying because I really, really, really don't like mice; well, rodents of any kind. At least with spiders and other insects you can smash them...you can't very well stomp on a mouse now can you? Being that J will be at work until about three in the morning, I did what any rational, mature adult would do; I paged him at work and started crying when he called me back.

Seriously, who is this girl? I call my doctor-husband who's working in an emergency room to tell him we have a mouse. He was less than impressed, especially when I informed him that I'd not be going to sleep until he got home.

Dick was very kind, and pulled the stove drawer and refrigerator out, placing glue traps behind. He then gave me the pep talk of 'it's just a little field mouse coming in from the rain." Uh, well then you call tell that little disease-spreading whore that there is NO VACANCY at this no-tell motel!

He patiently waited while I switched a load from the washer to the dryer, and checked the cupboards for tell-tale turds. None found, which made me feel better. In May 2008, we'd had a scare because the neighbors were having issues with mice. I bet these are the same mice, just waiting until I put my guard down and let some goldfish crackers stay on my floor overnight.

Am I being punished for not having a dog who can clean up after meals? My friend Alex initially laughed when I called with the story, but when I started crying (enough with the waterworks already!) she offered to come over, or to have me and the kids stay there. At least I'm adult enough to realize that this is not a get-your-kids-out-0f-their-beds kind of deal and politely declined.

I did finish the movie, with one eye on the entrance to the kitchen the whole time. I closed the gate because the last thing I need is to have H get up in the morning and think that frickin' Ratatouille has decided to make a personal stop on his Eastern Seaboard tour.

Great. Just in time for us to be gone on vacation for a week...there's nothing like returning home to the smell of dead rodent. I don't know what made me cry more; my irrational fear of the mouse or all the cleaning that will have to follow.