I don’t have a picture to share for this blog, but you wouldn’t really want one. Shelley and I are in the kitchen talking over a glass of wine when she suddenly starts shrieking.
“Mouse! Mouse! Behind you! Under the stove! It was a big fat thing! It kind of looked like Fluffball!” (For those of you who don’t know, Fluffball is the hamster that lived four whole days with Harper before being accidentally squeezed to death.)
So the two of us are shrieking our lungs out until the men arrive to save us. John and four year old Harper. John sets two traps for me and then they retreat back to the man cave to watch their movie. Shelley and I get back to our conversation but then the mouse reappears–running from the stove to under the freezer to the pantry. I fling open the doors to the panty and there he is, checking out anything not envelopped in plastic. It isn’t even bedtime! He’s running around my kitchen while I’m still in it! So then he runs under the freezer and under the stove and is running now toward the kitchen sink area, which happens to be where I am standing. And I start screaming, which freaks him out and he runs back to the stove and accidentally runs over the mouse trap. SNAP!!! So now Shelley and I are both screaming like there’s an ax murderer coming at us and wondering why the guys aren’t coming up to save us.
Finally, John and Harper respond to our cries of distress. John picks up the mouse trap. The mouse lets out a squeak. Shelley and I start a new round of shrieking. (Shelley, by the way, is all the way in the family room hiding on a sofa. I, at least, am still in the kitchen.) Harper looks at me like “What IS your problem?” (Just because I’m grandmother doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings!)
John disposes of the mouse. The lads resume their movie (something involving a talking robot who wants to be real–sounds like a rip off of The Velveteen Rabbit, if you ask me). Shelley and I finish the wine.
This better not be a sign of how this week is going to go.