The Exterminator

OK, so when I think of Mr. White, I can’t help but think about dead rodents. Hmmmm…that sounded better in my head….

Let me begin once more, and perhaps provide some clarification. Things are going marvelously well with Mr. White. We’ve been together for a few months, I dig him, he digs me, and as an added bonus, the Chicas dig him as well. I’ve even changed my relationship status on FB for Chrissakes, so y’all know I ain’t messin’ around.

As for the other one-half of my opening statement, well, that will require more explanation. Lucky for me, I have a captive audience in you, My Lovelies, because I know in my heart of hearts that you can no more turn away from this website than I can stop talking. About myself anyway.

I have an extreme, intense, jaw-dropping, pants-wetting…."fear of rodents”. I know most of you would have filled in that blank with “ass” but this is a family show, and I’m trying to tell a classy love story here, so let’s please focus shall we? So yeah, I despise rodents in all their forms. By rodents, I mean creatures that include, but are not limited to mice, rats, gerbils, squirrels, opossums, gerbils and hamsters. The latter two have put me on the elementary-school-pet-shit-list, but I’m an equal-opportunity hater. Just ask Mr. Guinea Pig.

So last year, my aversion to the bottom-feeders of the mammal kingdom led me to purchase some lovely little poisonous packets to place in the garage and shed of Casa Chica. I threw them in the corners, never saw hide or hair of the furry little bastards, so I consequently did not think twice about it.

This year things were slightly different. Enter Mr. White and his new-fangled extermination system. Instead of the discreet white-envelope-lookin’ things, these were trays filled with little blue pellets. He placed them in the very same corners I had put my white-envelope-lookin' things, and after two weeks declared, “They ate all the poison, we need to get more trays.” Now aside from the fact that I was absolutely dumbfounded that the poison might run out and therefore need to be replaced in order to achieve ultimate Mickey-repellent-status, I was totally creeped out that there had been nasty, nasty mice openly coming and going and feeding in my garage and/or shed. These aren’t your regular vermin after all…these are uber-duper-'hood-rodents livin’ in the D.

So Mr. White, God-Bless-Him, put out more trays. About a week later, I went downstairs to do some laundry. I tromped down the stairs, carrying a highly-overweighted basket full of chica-togs, turned the corner, and there it was. There was a D-E-A-D-M-O-U-S-E on my basement floor. Holy Mother of God, I dropped that basket and booked up that staircase faster than a Wolverine at the NFL Combine. Oh, who am I kidding, it was waaaay faster than that…they’re in the Big 10 after all… I was running for my life for crying out loud.

Needless to say, he rid the lower level of the vile carcass, and then put some of the snack trays down there as well. And about a week later, it happened again. And once again, I went screaming up the stairs, except this time, Mr. White was not on the premises to get rid of the body. So I did what any sensible, independent, college-educated woman would do. I locked the basement door, ran upstairs, and jumped in bed because we all know that your bed is “home-base” and no critters and/or boogey-men can gitcha when you are on your bed. Same as in 3rd grade. Duh.

The next morning, Mr. White came over to the Casa after I’d left for work. I then received a text message that stated, “Mouse Gone.”

Of course, I was thrilled, but after a few moments of reflection, I called him to relay my concern regarding the fact that I’d resided in my palatial estate for over 3 years, and ne’er once laid eyes on any critter within my domicile proper until those blue pellet snack trays came along, and while I thoroughly appreciate all he’s done for me, I simply cannot have/see/or hear about another critter in my home. Dead or alive (Go ahead and sing the song…I know you want to).

So he said, “No, no, no…I meant that I couldn’t find the mouse.”

And after regaining consciousness, I managed to stammer, “Wha-what do you mean you couldn’t find the dead mouse at the bottom of the stairs???” And my thoughts went immediately to the possibility that there was some dead mouse cloning project pioneered by a master race of Zombie Rodents that I’d somehow missed being reported on TMZ.

And he said, “Wait…at the very bottom of the stairs…to the right?”

And I said, very quietly, “Yes, why?” suddenly very afraid that the dead mouse was something way more horrific. I don’t know what that could possibly be, but an Undead Zombie Mouse is pretty goddamned freaky if you ask me.

And he asked, “Did you turn on the light?” And this is where I worried he’d flipped his friggin’ lid, because who in their right mind would do such a thing? Certainly not moi.

And that’s when he said, “Uh, huh, I didn’t think so. I didn’t see a mouse over there, but I did see a pencil with a very poofy feather thing on the end...probably looked like a mouse in the dark.”

So yeah, in the end, the Chicas strike again. And any fellow who's willing to put up with, help out, and otherwise fit himself into the lives of me and my insane offspring is OK by me. Better than OK. He's great.