Mouse Guest (part 2)
I was belly-down, ass-up on the bathroom floor, sliding the Wet-Jet back-and-forth under the sink in my underwear.
“Who… let… the… mouse… in…?”
Wifey needed to know.
“Who… let… –“
Each word had a 10 second pause between it.
“... it… in…?”
He let himself in!
“Not sure. Could have got in anywhere?”
“Are… there… rat… turds… all… over… the… place?”
Oh, my GOD! For the Sweet Snoring Melodies of Sonos… wake up if you’re going to have this conversation with me…
I’m having a conversation with a coma.
“No.”
“No… what?”
“No there aren’t rat turds all over the place.”
“Are… you… sure?”
“No.”
No. I wasn’t sure there weren’t turds all over the place. Not ALL over the place, at least. I hadn't checked for turds, yet. I was still trying to catch the fucking mouse with the Swifter Wet-Jet.
But, if you have to know…, “There is a small stack of them dead center of living room.”
“OHMYGOD!!! Clean it up! Mice are filthy! Their shits carry disease.”
Her house is suddenly dirty... so... now... she’s awake.
Officially.
My house was falling apart. Imploding into convex vortex of micro-mouse-feces that were hilled up on the living room rug.
The dog was no help. My, usually delightful, lady was up in flames over the possible pestilence scattered across the floor. And I had to figure out a way to excise the remnants of my mus musculus from the carpet.
“I'll vacuum them in a second!”
“NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“No?!?”
“Not with the Dyson,” she panicked from deep against her pillow.
“Then with what shall I suck up the shits?”
A straw?!?
“Please, don't use the Dustbuster. I clean the beds with that.”
“Okay…?”
“And , please, don’t use the Swivel Sweeper... please... don't...”
Okay. First of all, why are there this many fucking vacuum cleaners in my house?!?
“You determine which sucking machine I’m supposed to eat these shits up with, meanwhile, please, keep it down. I’m trying to coax this fucking mouse out from under the sink so I can kill it.”
With the Wet-Jet.
Which she didn't know I was using and as long as she didn't, I knew I was going to be okay.
“Kill what,” it was Tiny. All groggy… and awake, "Daddy's killing something."
Great. Now she thinks I kill shit while she's sleeping.
“It's a mouse.”
“A real one?”
No, a fucking robotic mouse. I invent rodents while the rest of you sleep?
“Yes. It’s real, baby. Go back to sleep.”
“Not alone with a mouse running around. No way!” talking all like Shirley Temple before the big dance routine.
“I don’t want him in the house at all,” Wifey echoed.
The girls were clearly bothered that there was this “thing” amok.
Wifey ping-ponged between me and the melatonus mutt on the hypo-allergenic pillow, “Who found him? The dog?”
I unfurled and flicked my index in “the dog’s” direction, “Him?”
No.
Definitely not.
He was R.E.M.ed, dreaming up a snore storm and kicking his sleeping legs like he was running through a field. A field of mice, I hope. You deserve nightmares tonight.
Pussy.
“A mouse? I don’t want a mouse in my room.”
Then Wifey appeared. Bathrobed and agenda’d: “Howdidhegetin?Weneedtocovereverythinginthecabinates.He’sinherebecausetherestoomuchshitinthedrawers.AndTinyeatsinherroomandtherearecrumbs.Doyouthinkwehavemoreorisitjusttheone?”
She panicked in no spaces. No periods. Then, finished up in a, “And he’s probably shitting everywhere.”
“Ew…”
Thanks, Tiny.
“And Daddy’s trying to get him with the Wet-Jet.”
And thanks for NOTHING, Tiny.
“Not my Wet-Jet!”
Wifey’s tools are important to her. Way important. Even when they don’t work. She’s a package buyer. If the box says it will work, she’ll buy it. But the truth is, this Swifter Wet-Jet is so shitty, I can’t even whack the mouse with it.
“I can’t find him. I can’t find him.”
“So,” Wifey looked at me for answers, “What are we supposed to do?”
“I dunno. Never caught a mouse before. I’ll do some research and figure out how to get rid of him…”
Him?
Hmm…
Nope.
As it turns out, my research showed if I got one… I got many…
Many…
Many?
“We got more than one, guys.”
“Dad, can I sleep with you guys tonight?”
“Yeah.”
And like the least brave family OF ALL TIME, we huddled together in the pine sleigh bed… with the dog at the foot of it all, protecting us from our feet… because the mice were clearly out of the protection question.
To Be Continued…
“Who… let… the… mouse… in…?”
Wifey needed to know.
“Who… let… –“
Each word had a 10 second pause between it.
“... it… in…?”
He let himself in!
“Not sure. Could have got in anywhere?”
“Are… there… rat… turds… all… over… the… place?”
Oh, my GOD! For the Sweet Snoring Melodies of Sonos… wake up if you’re going to have this conversation with me…
I’m having a conversation with a coma.
“No.”
“No… what?”
“No there aren’t rat turds all over the place.”
“Are… you… sure?”
“No.”
No. I wasn’t sure there weren’t turds all over the place. Not ALL over the place, at least. I hadn't checked for turds, yet. I was still trying to catch the fucking mouse with the Swifter Wet-Jet.
But, if you have to know…, “There is a small stack of them dead center of living room.”
“OHMYGOD!!! Clean it up! Mice are filthy! Their shits carry disease.”
Her house is suddenly dirty... so... now... she’s awake.
Officially.
My house was falling apart. Imploding into convex vortex of micro-mouse-feces that were hilled up on the living room rug.
The dog was no help. My, usually delightful, lady was up in flames over the possible pestilence scattered across the floor. And I had to figure out a way to excise the remnants of my mus musculus from the carpet.
“I'll vacuum them in a second!”
“NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“No?!?”
“Not with the Dyson,” she panicked from deep against her pillow.
“Then with what shall I suck up the shits?”
A straw?!?
“Please, don't use the Dustbuster. I clean the beds with that.”
“Okay…?”
“And , please, don’t use the Swivel Sweeper... please... don't...”
Okay. First of all, why are there this many fucking vacuum cleaners in my house?!?
“You determine which sucking machine I’m supposed to eat these shits up with, meanwhile, please, keep it down. I’m trying to coax this fucking mouse out from under the sink so I can kill it.”
With the Wet-Jet.
Which she didn't know I was using and as long as she didn't, I knew I was going to be okay.
“Kill what,” it was Tiny. All groggy… and awake, "Daddy's killing something."
Great. Now she thinks I kill shit while she's sleeping.
“It's a mouse.”
“A real one?”
No, a fucking robotic mouse. I invent rodents while the rest of you sleep?
“Yes. It’s real, baby. Go back to sleep.”
“Not alone with a mouse running around. No way!” talking all like Shirley Temple before the big dance routine.
“I don’t want him in the house at all,” Wifey echoed.
The girls were clearly bothered that there was this “thing” amok.
Wifey ping-ponged between me and the melatonus mutt on the hypo-allergenic pillow, “Who found him? The dog?”
I unfurled and flicked my index in “the dog’s” direction, “Him?”
No.
Definitely not.
He was R.E.M.ed, dreaming up a snore storm and kicking his sleeping legs like he was running through a field. A field of mice, I hope. You deserve nightmares tonight.
Pussy.
“A mouse? I don’t want a mouse in my room.”
Then Wifey appeared. Bathrobed and agenda’d: “Howdidhegetin?Weneedtocovereverythinginthecabinates.He’sinherebecausetherestoomuchshitinthedrawers.AndTinyeatsinherroomandtherearecrumbs.Doyouthinkwehavemoreorisitjusttheone?”
She panicked in no spaces. No periods. Then, finished up in a, “And he’s probably shitting everywhere.”
“Ew…”
Thanks, Tiny.
“And Daddy’s trying to get him with the Wet-Jet.”
And thanks for NOTHING, Tiny.
“Not my Wet-Jet!”
Wifey’s tools are important to her. Way important. Even when they don’t work. She’s a package buyer. If the box says it will work, she’ll buy it. But the truth is, this Swifter Wet-Jet is so shitty, I can’t even whack the mouse with it.
“I can’t find him. I can’t find him.”
“So,” Wifey looked at me for answers, “What are we supposed to do?”
“I dunno. Never caught a mouse before. I’ll do some research and figure out how to get rid of him…”
Him?
Hmm…
Nope.
As it turns out, my research showed if I got one… I got many…
Many…
Many?
“We got more than one, guys.”
“Dad, can I sleep with you guys tonight?”
“Yeah.”
And like the least brave family OF ALL TIME, we huddled together in the pine sleigh bed… with the dog at the foot of it all, protecting us from our feet… because the mice were clearly out of the protection question.
To Be Continued…
posted by Oh My Lot! at 1:37 PM
2 comments
