A Mouse in My House: A True Life Story, Not a Children's Book Title

There is a mouse in my house. Now please let me preface this by saying that my house is not gross, the type-A in me keeps it rather tidy. I wash the dishes, sweep the floor, and keep my kitchen counters clean. Yet a mouse has moved in.

It appeared a couple days ago while we were making dinner, running right out from under the refrigerator into the bathroom next to the kitchen. Suddenly my enchiladas had lost their appeal. I hopped up on the counter where I proceeded to freak out and tell my boyfriend, Frank, what to do in order to catch the mouse. Because obviously the "screaming freak out" version of myself gives logical directions on how to properly catch a mouse. Frank proceeded to find a mouse trap down in our basement (from the looks of the rust on it, it's probably 100 years old) and put some peanut butter on it to try and lure in the mouse. And may I mention that it was really good peanut butter. None of that Jiffy or Skippy crap, but The Peanut Butter & Co. Maple Peanut Butter (it's heaven in a jar if you haven't tried it). We thought if he was going to walk into a trap the least we could do was give him the good peanut butter.

So we put it in the bathroom, stuffed a towel beneath the door, and waited. A couple hours went by. Not even a peep. Now I know this sounds awful. Trust me I didn't want to hear the sound of the trap either. The mouse, for those two seconds I saw him, was in fact rather cute and little with giant pink ears. But he is a mouse! I don't care if Cinderella hangs out with them on a regular basis singing songs, they are filthy! Who knows where this mouse has been?!

And that's when it hit me. Why is it in all the stories we read or movies we see (animated ones of course) are mice these cute and cuddly creatures that no one seems to freak out about when they see them scurrying across the floor? I'm sorry, but you can't tell me that Cinderella, were she not an animated Disney character, as a woman would like having mice crawl on her. No way! There is some serious misrepresentation going on out there.

Later that night we actually walked to the side of the house and peeked in the window to see if the mouse was still there. We probably looked like burglars. There I am sitting on Frank's shoulder's cupping my hands to the window in fear of something no bigger than a quarter. I won't get into the ridiculousness of being afraid of something this small. I already feel silly enough as it is. But somehow the mouse had gotten out. Being tiny has its advantages.

This all happened two days ago. Yesterday, no mouse, who by the way, we have started calling Mr. Mouse. I was stupid enough to think he left, moving on to bigger better kitchens full of crumbs. I was even walking around barefoot again. Life was good.

And then I got home tonight, and who was trying to get into my tasty caramelized onion and blue cheese focaccia? Mr. Mouse!! So there I am, up on the counter again. Frank, broom in hand, swatting the floor. And yet he had done it again. Completely disappeared. Nowhere to be found.

Some way or another I WILL find you Mr. Mouse...