A long time ago, I was a college student. I was an awesome college student, truly the envy of my fellow academics and binge drinkers alike. I had many proud moments, but one shining example really shines brighter than the rest.
My senior year of college, 4 of my dearest friends and I rented a 3-story house in a super sketchy neighborhood. The house was fantastic, but the neighbors were mildly insane. There was Jerry Springer Fighting Couple across the street, who once had the police arrive because the male counterpart of JSFC ran over the female half of JSFC with his 1982 Buick. Drunk. And high. Then, there were our next door neighbors, Crazy Family with Eleventy Billion Children on Welfare with Annoying Chihuahuas. They used to dance in the street when their Welfare checks arrived and send their children, who wore only diapers and nothing else ever, over to ask if they could "Borrow some of our electricity." Strangely, we did allow them to borrow electricity. Dagnabbit, they never paid us back!
Then, there was my favorite moment on a cold December morning as I headed out to my internship at the Zoo. I pulled up to the stop sign at the end of our street and like my mother always taught me, I looked both ways before turning. Left side: all clear. Right side: all clear except for that old man who is naked from the waist down drinking a hot cup of coffee in the parking lot of the doughnut shop. All systems go! What?
So, as you can tell it was a very classy neighborhood. Which is why you will likely be surprised by my next entertaining tale. Soon after we moved into our awesome house in the Maury Povich "Who's My Baby's Daddy?" neighborhood, we realized that our house was infested with mice. Not just a mouse, but mice. There was a dad mouse, mom mouse and like 5 million babies. No, not the babies wearing diapers that lived next door, mouse babies. They were everywhere. And they were not wearing diapers. I know this because their poop was everywhere.
Now, if you know me well enough (which you don't, so just play along) you will know that I'm totally a girl when it comes to wild animals, creatures and bugs. They are disgusting. And scary. And stinky. And full of disease. They make me say things like, "Bleck" and "EW!" So, it will shock you even further to know that amongst the 5 female residents of our house, I was the most courageous when it came to trapping and killing mice. While the rest of those giant babies were jumping on chairs, toilets and screaming bloody murder, I was running swiftly with a cup to catch the beasts. I was awesome. I was the mouse wrangler. I roared. Loudly.
Eventually, we caught all of the mice and life was back to normal. Well, as normal as a normal episode of the Jerry Springer Show. Which is not normal.
So, fast forward 5 years (jeez, I'm getting old) and rewind to Sunday morning. I walk out of the door on my way to church, into the garage and a mouse RUNS ACROSS MY FOOT. As in, I was touched by a mouse. It was much less spiritual than an episode of Touched By an Angel. I screamed bloody murder, much like I had been shot. My immediate thought was, "Gee, I hope it didn't poop on me." Because that's a normal thought when you're Touched By a Mouse.
My husband, who often hears me scream this way about things that don't deserved to be screamed about in such a manner came running and asked if I "Saw an ant." Um, no. No. I did not see an ant. I SAW A MOUSE AND IT TOUCHED MY FOOT. I NEED TO DUNK MY FOOT INTO A BUCKET OF BLEACH NOW. DO WE HAVE TIME TO DISINFECT MY FOOT BEFORE MASS? NO? OK.
I know this is wrong, but I spent most of mass thinking about the mouse. And my foot. My poor, poor foot. And that mouse! Is he trying to get into the house? Why would he want to get into my house? Does he want to eat my Old Fashioned Rolled Oats and my Kashi Go Lean Crunch Cereal? I hope not! Those are my things, mouse. You cannot have them.
So, like any rational human being I declared it my mission to trap this mouse. I purchased some lovely "Tom Cat" brand glue traps (now with a natural anesthetic for a less painful death!) and placed them in the offending area. I checked my traps daily, like a good hunter. Days passed and I began to think that maybe I was as crazy as my husband thinks I am and I was just Touched By a Cobweb instead of a Mouse. That is, until Thursday rolled around. I headed into the garage to take out the trash when I heard it. The screaming. The writhing. The horror!
I had caught that bastard and he was stuck in my evil glue trap, clearly not being lulled to sleep by the natural anesthetic. Clearly. I ran back into the house to report to my husband my great find. Keep in mind this really is how we talk to one another.
Me: I caught me a MARLIN!
Him (watching sports, half-listening): Good job.
Me: It's gross.
Him: I'm sure.
Me: You know what's the grossest of all?
Me: I think the mouse sh*t itself. There is seriously sh*t everywhere. And not normal sh*t, like "I had way too much Mexican last night sh*t." He has mouse diarrhea. Should I feed him Pepto Bismol in an eye dropper?
Him: Well, if you were stuck in a sticky glue trap and you knew that you were going to die, wouldn't YOU sh*t yourself?
Me, using my unspoken mind powers to imply that I want him to come out and do something: Soooo, what am I supposed to do now?
Him: Throw it in the trash.
Me: Right. Of course. Good thing it's trash day!
So, I manned (womaned?) up and covered the mouse in a t-shirt and threw him in the trash. Mouse diarrhea and all. And I didn't even sh*t myself once!