I have a bit of a headache today. I guess that’s what happens when you drink half a bottle of Moscato.
I needed the Moscato because I was putting away groceries late yesterday afternoon. And when I got ready to load canned goods into my lazy susan, I noticed spilled coffee grounds. Coffee grounds that had spilled out of the side of the bag because the bag had been chewed open.
Yes. The mice had gotten into my lazy susan. This, after 3 days of constant cleaning, steel wool placing, mousetrap setting and general profanity. When they couldn’t get into my silverware drawer, the mice expanded their horizons.
I needed the Moscato. I needed it so badly that I was not thwarted by my malfunctioning corkscrew. I was not thwarted by the fact that I ended up with half the cork in the bottle. And I certainly wasn’t thwarted by the fact that Moscato is traditionally a dessert wine. No, I was completely comfortable drinking it out of a juice glass at 5 p.m., long before any sort of food.
I don’t drink a lot. But holy crap, I needed something to take the edge off. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or just move. Why do the mice hate me so much? What sort of karmic debt am I paying here? I like Jacques and Gus Gus from Cinderella. But I’m pretty sure that the mice in our house are less Disney and more al qaeda.
It’s hard to concentrate on much of anything when all you can smell is Pine-Sol, all of your canned goods are stacked in a lovely pyramid on your kitchen counter, and your silverware drawer – yes, the drawer and all of its contents – has been on the kitchen counter for 3 days. Like you’re a hillbilly. With some can’t-put-stuff-away version of Tourette’s.
I’m starting to feel like Chuck Norris: I don’t sleep. I wait. I wait for the mice to come and bust their way through the steel wool and aluminum foil fortress that I have crafted in my kitchen cabinetry. I will be waiting, armed with a surly attitude and a half-empty bottle of wine.
I guess I come by this vermin vendetta honestly.
My dad’s pride and joy is his yard. When I was growing up, there was a mole that tunneled all over the yard – definitely without my dad’s permission. My poor papa tried everything – bait, traps, all of it. But you know how he got finally rid of the mole? One morning, my sweet daddy was starting off on his morning constitutional, and he noticed 1 of the mole tunnels … moving.
And then you know what my mild-mannered daddy did? He ran over and stomped the shit out of that tunnel. Dad + vexation at vermin + Adidas = a mole that tunneled no more.
That’s how I feel about the mice.