Monday, August 28, 2006
Beauty and the beast
Well, my evening of beauty on Saturday was cut short by a little ugliness. I was standing at my dining table, putting my picture frame together, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry across the floor. Thinking it must be a roach, I got my flashlight out of the drawer, prepared to smoke it out (or shine it out, as it were) from its hiding place for a date with the bottom of my flip-flop.
I deduced that it must have headed for the safety of the couch, so I swiftly pushed it back from the wall and shined the flashlight into the cavity. And that's when I saw it, sticking out from the edge of the couch: the back half of a furry body, tapering off into a long tail. A mouse. Or perhaps a rat. I didn't really care to get close enough to make such a fine distinction. Instead, I did what any independent, self-sufficient woman living alone would do in such a situation: I jumped onto the coffee table, called the nearest male I could think of (in this case, my friend Todd) and proceeded to scream hysterically into the phone.
Todd was able to calm me down enough to convince me to get down off the coffee table and head to CVS to buy a mousetrap, which he offered to come and help me set up. (I gladly accepted this offer because, even though I probably could have figured it out on my own, I wasn't about to go near the back of the couch again.) Somewhere during this excursion, I decided to name the rat George (after the other big rat in Washington...ba dum ching!), as naming household vermin sometimes helps me be less freaked out by them. (It does not, however, give me any compunction in killing them, as per the rules of engagement, so there goes the theory that telling a murderer your name will somehow prevent you from being murdered.)
By the time Todd arrived to set up the traps, I had not seen George again, but I attributed that to the fact that I was unwilling to get within five feet of the couch. I had Todd check under the couch and in various corners for signs of George, but he did not see him. He also thought that the fact that I hadn't noticed any droppings or evidence of food tampering meant that perhaps George was just a temporary visitor. But really, I don't know where he could have gone. Although Todd explained to me how a mouse's bone structure allows it to fit through tiny cracks in walls and on baseboards (a fact that boys apparently have some innate knowledge of), if George is half as big as I remember him being, I'm not sure how that's possible. Then again, it's quite probable that I've greatly exaggerated his size in my memory. Or that I just hallucinated him to begin with. Which could mean I'm crazy, but at this point, I'd almost rather be insane than be sharing my home with a mouse/rat.
Well, my evening of beauty on Saturday was cut short by a little ugliness. I was standing at my dining table, putting my picture frame together, when out of the corner of my eye, I saw something scurry across the floor. Thinking it must be a roach, I got my flashlight out of the drawer, prepared to smoke it out (or shine it out, as it were) from its hiding place for a date with the bottom of my flip-flop.
I deduced that it must have headed for the safety of the couch, so I swiftly pushed it back from the wall and shined the flashlight into the cavity. And that's when I saw it, sticking out from the edge of the couch: the back half of a furry body, tapering off into a long tail. A mouse. Or perhaps a rat. I didn't really care to get close enough to make such a fine distinction. Instead, I did what any independent, self-sufficient woman living alone would do in such a situation: I jumped onto the coffee table, called the nearest male I could think of (in this case, my friend Todd) and proceeded to scream hysterically into the phone.
Todd was able to calm me down enough to convince me to get down off the coffee table and head to CVS to buy a mousetrap, which he offered to come and help me set up. (I gladly accepted this offer because, even though I probably could have figured it out on my own, I wasn't about to go near the back of the couch again.) Somewhere during this excursion, I decided to name the rat George (after the other big rat in Washington...ba dum ching!), as naming household vermin sometimes helps me be less freaked out by them. (It does not, however, give me any compunction in killing them, as per the rules of engagement, so there goes the theory that telling a murderer your name will somehow prevent you from being murdered.)
By the time Todd arrived to set up the traps, I had not seen George again, but I attributed that to the fact that I was unwilling to get within five feet of the couch. I had Todd check under the couch and in various corners for signs of George, but he did not see him. He also thought that the fact that I hadn't noticed any droppings or evidence of food tampering meant that perhaps George was just a temporary visitor. But really, I don't know where he could have gone. Although Todd explained to me how a mouse's bone structure allows it to fit through tiny cracks in walls and on baseboards (a fact that boys apparently have some innate knowledge of), if George is half as big as I remember him being, I'm not sure how that's possible. Then again, it's quite probable that I've greatly exaggerated his size in my memory. Or that I just hallucinated him to begin with. Which could mean I'm crazy, but at this point, I'd almost rather be insane than be sharing my home with a mouse/rat.
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