For the last three months, I have been forced to share my home with mice which makes me very thankful to be moved into a new place. I never would have predicted how low my tolerance level for mice actually is. I hate mice. I have been transformed into a girly mess over these rodents. Spiders are fine, box elder bugs are fine, I would even prefer a Rabies-infected bat! (I also really hate those house centipedes that are super speedy and come out of drains! eew!) Mice are not easy to get rid of and the poop EVERYWHERE! It is very disconcerting to know where the mice has been by their excessive excrement. As I prepare to move, I feel almost like I have lost to the mice.
I have seen mice in two other houses where I was sleeping; both were ex-boyfriends' homes when they were there too. Hearing and seeing a mouse when in the presence of a man was completely different to finding them on my own. I have tried to reflect on this difference and really hope it is not about having a big strong man to protect me. The two mice seen with boyfriends were only seen once by me, and seemed to stay in areas I was not about to sleep. I did boot-up when I saw one in the kitchen where I had been cooking barefoot, but I then proceeded to sleep on the mattress on the floor 10 feet away from the kitchen door. Having arms around me did not hurt too of course.
I first discovered definite mousage problems when I had just returned from Europe this summer. There had been a brief suspicion earlier, after some dirt mysteriously jumped out of a potted plant, twice, but without any other evidence. I was home alone, at night, sitting in my comfy chair watching something on my computer, when I heard a crinkle of plastic on my art table. The fan may have been on, so I thought nothing of it. However, your brain can somehow tell when something is not correlated...and this noise was not caused by the fan. I went to investigate if a box elder bug had landed on something. I picked up a box to move it, and a mouse leaped out and ran across the floor! Talk about a surprise! I squealed and probably ran away or did a little dance!
In my bedroom, one door over, I sat on the bed heart thumping. There was more light in this room and I was clearly there, but nonetheless a mouse or the same one decided to run into my room from the other room. I squealed again, and I like to think the mouse squeaked in response, and ran back the way it had come! This was not pleasant, not exciting at all. We were as far from the kitchen as possible and I was not happy to think about going to sleep that night.
I woke up three times that night hearing mice and worrying about mice. It was not enjoyable trust me. Mice are cute when they are pets for some reason, but little lightening bolts of fur streaking across the floor where your bare feet just were is eerie. I ever since worn shoes or heavy slippers when walking anywhere in my house. Besides the thought of little claws digging into my flesh as a mouse sought refuge in my pant leg, I did not want to step on any carcasses when we put out the poison that made them drop dead anywhere. Finding dead mice made me scream just as much as seeing a living one!
How I missed a man during these mousy months! I wanted to surrender into a man's arms, relinquishing my tough shell to fully expose the gooey girly core. But alas, I was -am- single. I have survived the mouse house and (fingers crossed) have not brought any stowaways along with me. I now reside in a sweet bachelorette-pad near downtown Minneapolis. It is as if I have moved to a Midwestern New York City neighborhood. Living in an apartment is quite a change from the homey family-friendly neighborhood where I left, and I hope to become a person worthy of this younger-, hipper-, and much more appropriate-apartment. I raise my paper cup of lemonade to my new adventure...and now to find my drink glasses...
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