Prayer Works

Life just improved dramatically.

I am mouse free. Not a single dropping or sighting  in over a week.

How did this miracle happen? After a MONTH of sleepless nights, near-laryngitis from Native American chanting, tearful prayer and lots of aerobic activity in the kitchen -  we plugged the holes in the laundry room!

Yes, you read that correctly. We plugged the holes in the laundry room! The SAME holes, I must state, that I pointed out the very first time the bug/mouse guy came to the house. The very SAME holes that he said were not mouse holes.

ALWAYS get a second opinion!

Suddenly I can sleep. I can cook again. I can WALK into my kitchen...silently.

No more clogging. No more chanting. No more Native American prancing.

No more mice! For now they are only a memory - I hope they stay there.

Prayer works! And the poison bait and toxic putty foam didn't hurt either.

CATS - the musical "Memory"

Elaine Paige - Memory

Cloggers Ain't Got Nothin' On Me

I am certain my children have memories of me dancing and singing around the house, it's something I have always done - in spite of the very evident fact that I am not talented in either singing OR dancing.

However, I highly doubt that even my children who have seen me prancing around like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music would believe what I am doing these days. Every day, several times a day.

Since we are still dealing with the mouse issue, I have put out poisoned bait for the little critters in several places (well, the exterminator guy has - I am too paranoid to even think about touching anything related to a mouse). One place he put the bait is on the floor beneath some pantry shelving. This shelving is open to the kitchen and not hidden behind some lovely slatted pantry door, but I call it pantry shelving anyway. It makes me feel more high class.

Last week,  when I wandered innocently into my high class kitchen, I disturbed a little feast that was going on (exactly what we want, but exactly what I don't want to be part of). My sudden appearance, brazenly walking right into my kitchen without warning, disturbed the two mice who were gnawing on the cube of poisoned grain and off they ran - in two directions - sending me into a piercing scream as I retreated as if the place was on fire, arms waving, heart thumping, nearly tripping over my own feet. It should be funny, but it wasn't.

So now, to avoid any surprises I start stomping my feet and yelling (think: Indian Rain Dance Chanting) before I even set one foot in the kitchen. Honestly, I start stomping about 4 feet down the hall, just to give them a warning so they can scamper away without me seeing them. And I no longer look down. Mice are quiet, so if you don't see them, you rarely know they are there. (I know they are there, but I am sooo trying to be in denial so that I can sleep at night, etc.)

Anyway, back to my version of the Indian Rain Dance. It's a vision, I know. Moi - stomping, ranting, flailing and looking to the heavens every time I walk into my kitchen. It's a reality and a memory no one should have to deal with. Kind of like some people feel about clogging...

Anyway, needless to say, I am eating out a lot. The kitchen has become exhausting and scary.

But I must add that we (the exterminator - Gary - and I) are getting them; I no longer find droppings in other rooms of the house. I think we are down to these last two and if I keep dancing and screaming and stomping I have no doubt that they will skittle out of the kitchen for good....kind of like my kids did so very long ago.

The exterminator comes tomorrow. But I am gonna keep dancing anyway.

I am looking to the heavens even now in gratitude...hiyaheyalaleyheyayahayahihayaya. Stomp.

Cloggers

American Indian Chant

Of Mice and Men

I pride myself on being a fairly gutsy lady. There's not too much that can scare me away. I am determined, stubborn, fairly bright, curious and a redhead...I probably better just leave it at that; I imagine you get the picture.

Anyway, being a redheaded gutsy lady seems to matter not when it comes to the matter of mice, or mouse even. How do I know this? I have one.

One. Uno. Singular. Just one.

One tiny little gray mouse. He came to visit last Wednesday and has not felt it was time to leave yet. Obviously he (she?) is not familiar with the standard rule of houseguests - they are like fish, after 3 days they begin to smell and should just be thrown out.

So, I am striving to honor that saying and trying to throw the wee mouse out, attached to a mouse trap...but no luck.

Last night, about 1 AM, one of the traps snapped and it was LOUD, so LOUD it made me jump in my bed from a deep sleep. I spent a long time pondering how to handle this. Mice give me the creeps and dead mice are even creepier. I tiptoed to the linen closet (in slippers, no WAY was I going to go barefoot when a mouse might still be loose in the house) and grabbed two thick towels (old towels). I knew there was no way I could pick up the trap, or the mouse, or the whole package without THICK layers between whatever I was picking up and my hands. I grabbed a pair of gloves too.

It had taken over an hour to get up the nerve to climb out of bed in the first place, and after gathering my arsenal of towels and gloves, I VERY slowly leaned around the door with my hand over my eyes to peek out to see what I hoped was a dead mouse, and I was completely disappointed.

The trap had snapped, but there was no mouse in it. In fact, the damn thing had the nerve to race ACROSS the middle of my living room floor as I was peering at the empty sprung trap in dismay. And that was that...I was awake from 1 AM until just after 5 AM, just lying in the middle of my bed unable to nod off because of a mouse.

Exhaustion finally won after dozens of losses on the iPhone Checker's application and I collapsed in the middle of my bed to a mouse-filled dream-filled slumber.

This is an absolute example that men can be useful; this is one of those critical moments when a man would be very useful.

I hate mice and I would love a man to take care of this for me.

So much for the gutsy redhead...and a lot of good my pistol is doing me (not). I need a BIG broom and lots of cheese, peanut butter, bread and nerve!

Michael Jackson "Beat It"