Here’s a Story of a Lovely Lady

I am so. tired.

I tell you this because it’s pertinent to the story. And the story is this: My husband came home from a 26 hour shift yesterday (and I’M complaining about being tired, ha) and I got up off my rear to serve him an early dinner. Yesterday was one of those rare needed days where plucking my eyebrows while watching movies is at the top of my to do list. I had spent the past couple days doing some much-needed cleaning, and while the house wasn’t (isn’t) perfect, it was clean enough that I could sit down for a few hours without obsessing over what I wasn’t doing. All day while plucking my eyebrows, watching movies, and enjoying the general splendor of my children bounding in and out of doors, I thought of my husband. He was working so hard, such long hours. I wanted to do something nice to show my appreciation, so at 2 pm I got up and made an absolute mess of my kitchen.
Two hours later as my husband came through the door, I served him up a big steak sandwich on a homemade bun and freshly squeezed lemonade on ice. My husband was MORE than happy to come home to Steak on a Bun, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, he took us all out to the movies. I couldn’t believe his stamina.
Once home, the people -both great and small -all around me started dropping off.
First, my husband.
Then my son.
Then my daughter.

Though the time was growing later and later, I kept my eyes pried open for one sole purpose: I wanted to bask in the silence and feel the joy that comes with being completely left to yourself. No one wanted anything. No one needed anything.
And because I hadn’t spent my energy, um, AT ALL yesterday, it wasn’t a big sacrifice to stay up late.

I streamed a television episode.
And as I streamed, I felt myself drifting off. I fought off sleep by getting up from the couch and walking to the closet to fetch a big comfy blanket. The closet isn’t easy to open. It sticks. And creaks. It’s also right next to the kid’s room AND our room (The joys of little houses, where love grows best).

I walked over to the closet,
Just as quiet as could be.
I opened it up really wide,
And a mouse jumped out at me.

Literally. It JUMPED. Right out at me!
I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t yelp.
But what I could do was throw my hands in front of my face, jump up in the air, take two giant leaps away from the closet and one final grand leap onto my very own occupied bed.

Have I ever told you that my bed frame creaks? Like my closet door, it can’t be touched without whining. The slightest movement will set it off. If my husband rolls over in bed, it wakes me up. This isn’t a huge bother since I’m pretty much pro at falling back asleep. My husband doesn’t wake up as easily, so we’ve gotten on very well this way for 6 years.

BUT I’ve never flung myself at full speed onto my bed while my husband was sleeping on it.
Finally sleeping on it.
After 26 hours of not sleeping on it.

He shot up out of bed, “What?! What is it? What’s going on?! Honey. ARE YOU OKAY?!”
Remorse shot up from the bottom of my heart and pretty much ate my head. I apologized to him as best I could through a quivering voice, telling him what had happened and also telling him to go back to sleep.
“So long as you’re okay…” he muttered.
I told him I was, but I wasn’t. I was rooted to my bed, peering out my door at the crime scene. My teensy attacker was out there. Then again… so was my Netflix.
I gulped, pretending that my gulp was actually my swallowing a big Pill of Courage. And I ran full speed back to my couch. I was shaking like mad, and all thoughts of drifting off were far, far away.

I tucked my feet under me and I rocked myself on the couch. I pulled my lap top onto my lap and I started calling it Wilson.
We were alone… stranded… on the Island of the Couch. Rather than being surrounded on all sides by water, we were surrounded by fear. FEAR was holding me hostage. I had no materials around me to wade through it (no bee keeing suit, for instance), and so I opened Wilson and blogged a little.

The clock continued to tick, and I knew my alarm would be going off in five hours.
In four and a half hours…

I felt a slight dip in the temperature -not the kind that made me wonder if dead people with unfinished business might soon appear, but the kind that make me really, REALLY wish I had a warm blanket. Because going to the closet was completely out of the question, I knew I had to go to bed.
I also knew the large soda I had shared with my husband during Kung Fu Panda 2 was starting to get to me.
The only course of action was an immediate return to my bed… by way of the bathroom.

I started talking to myself, “You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a mouse. You’re a grown woman putting off going to bed because you’re afraid of a little rodent. You’re pathetic. Get up and stop acting like an idiot.”
So I did.
Bullied by an unwelcome disease-ridden house guest, I took refuge in my own bathroom.

My assailant was crafty and took full advantage of the fact that in my present condition I could NOT elevate my bare feet, and he assailed the crap out of the situation…. right out from under the laundry hamper.

It didn’t take me all of four second to get OUT OF THERE and into my bed where I shuddered, shook and generally swore that there was a reason FOR ALL IRRATIONAL FEARS.
And then I curled up into a ball and apologized to Heavenly Father for not kneeling down to say my prayers.

Today a trip to the store is in order. Traps, poison (for outside, promise), and traps, traps, traps!

“There will be blood tonight!”


  1. Jamie Burt says:

    Oh my! What an adventure you had last night haha! I’m glad you survived, and I hope your little rodent doesn’t! And what movie is it that your title is from? I keep singing that part over and over in my head but I can’t think of the next part or movie.

  2. Stephanie says:

    EEK I HATE those nasty little things!! Next time I see you I have to tell you my story about the Christmas mouse and my gingerbead men.

  3. Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You kill my father. Prepare to die. (The mouse should prepare to die, anyway.)

  4. Think, a musical jingle in the background…” Here’s a story, of a lovely lady, who was busy with three girls of her own….” Brady Bunch. That’s what immediately came to mind. Mice don’t “freak” me out into a pile of screaming goo, but I attack with a vengeance and get out the traps. Sometimes I sic my Jack Russell after them.

    • storylady says:

      Sweet. I’m totally calling you to come kill the mouse that just scurried across my floor. I hate those bloody things! You think I’d be used to them after having them for a year and a half, but I’m not. We need a cat!

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