In November, I saw a mouse in my apartment. It disturbed me greatly, not just because I am somewhat obsessive-compulsive and anal-retentive, or because my apartment is generally pretty neat, but because even when I lived in total crapholes, I never had a rodent.
Anyway, when I saw the mouse the first time, it was about 11 pm. I had left work pretty late, and grabbed dinner on the way, and when I got to the apartment, there was a package waiting for me outside the door. I dropped the box on the floor, and went about my business. Then, about an hour later, I saw the mouse. It saw me too, and we both froze. When I recovered from my initial shock and began to move, I promptly tripped over the box, and the mouse ran away, in the direction of my bedroom. So, in a panic, I did what any sane almost-30 year old single girl would do -- I called my dad, who happens to live about 1,000 miles away.
My dad was quite nice about the whole thing. Surprisingly, he didn't really laugh at me. Plus, he didn't even try to discourage my idea that I might have to check into a hotel. The conversation ended when he asked if I was going to be okay, and I said, "No, I really don't think I'm ever going to be okay again." Anyway, once we hung up -- after I called the apartment manager to arrange for an exterminator -- I decided that I was going to sleep on the couch in the living room, with all of the lights in the house on, and -- just to be safe -- in cowboy boots.
For the next several weeks, I slept with the lights on. It took me quite a while to get over it. And my dad did the sweetest thing. He bought me a package of mousetraps from the dollar store for my birthday, and wrapped it in newspaper.
Anyway, I didn't see or hear from the mouse again . . . until last night. And, to be honest, I didn't actually see it. Instead, at 3:22 in the morning, I was wakened by the sound of something squealing in pain, terror, or some combination thereof. Then I realized what it was. The mouse was stuck in one of the glue traps that the apartment management had put down in the kitchen.
At first, I thought it would stop. And then I thought I should do something about it, but honestly, I'm not that brave. (I wasn't even brave enough to look in the traps to confirm my suspicions.) On went the lights, out came the cowboy boots -- just in case it escaped and ran into my bedroom. When I left the house at 8:45 this morning, it was still squealing. This morning, I called the apartment management and, of course, my parents. I told my mother that it's a good thing my car is paid for, because at least I have a place to live.
I am so moving.
