I called Mr. Ghana who was working and not paying me the kind of attention I needed (wanted). He couldn't stop work and come over to handle the situation like I asked. It would have taken at least an hour to get to my side of town from where he was. He instructed me to be confident and brave; I needed to get a broom and sweep him up. How was this going to work? There was this little creature with black eyes appearing dead, but was he? Maybe he was the same mouse who was sitting in the dark on my area rug in the kitchen when I got home last night. Perhaps when I threw my cowgirl-heeled shoe (the ones I picked up in Cannes) at him, he was hit in the head. Instead of staying awake until the swelling went down, he went to sleep with what turned out to be a severe and fatal concussion. Whatever the case I was grateful I did not meet him moving around. I did end up pulling my courage together today. I scooped him up and put him in a bag, which I tied up and put with the big garbage I will be taking out first thing tomorrow (I was too lazy to take him to the dumpster). The moral of the story: big girls have to take out their own trash sometimes.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Somewhere, Out There
I have a confession. This is really hard for me to talk about or say, but I must come clean. I have a bit of a problem at my house. My issue is, the building has become infested with mice. That's right, Fifel is in the house! My first encounter was with a baby mouse several months ago. He (or she) was sitting on top of my garbage when I lifted the lid to throw away my trash. I screamed and went one way, he (or she) screamed and went the other. I left the house immediately and did not return for several hours. My life has not been the same since. I could go into details about previous mouse incidents, but they freak me out and leave me paranoid and terrified, so I won't. However, there is victory in every scenario. Today when I got home, I saw from the left corner of my eye, a creature. Yes, there he was, Fifel (Mr. Ghana affectionately calls them 'my little friends'). The good news was he was dead (although that did not stop me from screaming). The bad news: somebody had to get him up and dispose of the body. I could barely look at him, let alone scoop him up without screaming.