Death Traps, revisited
MG, I have more sympathy (now empathy) for you regarding this post than ever before. I was baking an Amy's Organic Pizza (three-cheese with cornbread crust) while getting laundry done and otherwise tidying up for the upcoming visit of my fella. I was on the phone with said fella (JMG for future reference), when I bent down to pick something up off of the floor next to my kitchen table. Down there, I noticed a gray lump of something. It was a mouse. A dead mouse, to be precise.
I started shrieking. Like I was being stabbed. And I ran into my living room (not far), leapt upon a couch and tucked my feet up beneath me. Still shrieking.
Thus safe from the threat of physical attack from the dead mouse, I was able to punctuate my freakout with a description of what had happened. Upon learning that I was not, in fact, being bludgeoned, JMG tried to suggest ways to deal with it while laughing at me (good-naturedly, I was not offended). But I promptly hung up to page maintenance to get someone up here to deal. MG, I considered your cereal box idea, but nixed it when I realized I'd have to do some scooping. And that I could not abide.
For moral support after calling maintenance, I called my dear friend BJL. Her response: screaming on my behalf, then emphatic instructions to leave RIGHT NOW and come over to her house (she lives two and a half hours away). That made me laugh. I kept her on the phone while waiting for and during the visit from Maintenance Randy, my hero.
MR came in amidst my babbled apologies for not being an adult about this and pointings toward the dead invader. His weapon of choice: a napkin. He did the scooping that I did not have the capacity to do. Once that thing was off the floor and out of my sight in its papery shroud, I felt hella better. Then MR checked the other mousetraps in my kitchen (the city was doing some sort of digging in the sewers in front of the building a couple of weeks ago which led to a full-scale invasion it seems), to be sure that I wouldn't call him, incoherent, again. Seeing nothing, he accepted my profuse, prattling thanks with grace and left with the carcass.
My heart-rate returned to normal. My breathing slowed. I was able to eat the pizza that I was afraid would burn, because NO WAY was I walking past that thing to turn off the oven. I sat down to blog it out. And now I feel almost normal again.
I started shrieking. Like I was being stabbed. And I ran into my living room (not far), leapt upon a couch and tucked my feet up beneath me. Still shrieking.
Thus safe from the threat of physical attack from the dead mouse, I was able to punctuate my freakout with a description of what had happened. Upon learning that I was not, in fact, being bludgeoned, JMG tried to suggest ways to deal with it while laughing at me (good-naturedly, I was not offended). But I promptly hung up to page maintenance to get someone up here to deal. MG, I considered your cereal box idea, but nixed it when I realized I'd have to do some scooping. And that I could not abide.
For moral support after calling maintenance, I called my dear friend BJL. Her response: screaming on my behalf, then emphatic instructions to leave RIGHT NOW and come over to her house (she lives two and a half hours away). That made me laugh. I kept her on the phone while waiting for and during the visit from Maintenance Randy, my hero.
MR came in amidst my babbled apologies for not being an adult about this and pointings toward the dead invader. His weapon of choice: a napkin. He did the scooping that I did not have the capacity to do. Once that thing was off the floor and out of my sight in its papery shroud, I felt hella better. Then MR checked the other mousetraps in my kitchen (the city was doing some sort of digging in the sewers in front of the building a couple of weeks ago which led to a full-scale invasion it seems), to be sure that I wouldn't call him, incoherent, again. Seeing nothing, he accepted my profuse, prattling thanks with grace and left with the carcass.
My heart-rate returned to normal. My breathing slowed. I was able to eat the pizza that I was afraid would burn, because NO WAY was I walking past that thing to turn off the oven. I sat down to blog it out. And now I feel almost normal again.
Labels: things to avoid in the kitchen
posted by ek at 6:43 PM
1 Comments:
ah, the first household mouse and the shrieking and the finding of someone else to deal...sigh. For your sake I hope you don't have a night of 6 meeses like I once did ... it's kind of messed up when you progress from "MOUSE!freak!the!f!out!" to "mouse? yawn." in the span of 12 hours.
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