Storytime from the Road Part II: Dead Mouse Gate 2011

He's super cute, right?

Friday afternoon (it was 4 p.m., is that afternoon or early evening? I never know, it's a limbo time.) I was on my way into my apartment after work. I was on the phone with my mom because I utilize my I'm-very-lucky-to-have-it 15 minute commute home from work to chat with her. So I get into my apartment and my cat greets me at the door, meowing at me. I figure this is just like usual, he's telling me he's pissed I left him to go to work, which he does every day when I get home. I'm not lying, he meows constantly when I get home until I pick him up and pet him, like he might die without immediate snuggling. Anyway, I ignore the meowing briefly so I can go into my bedroom and change into my comfy after-work clothes. It should also be noted here that I took off my shoes when I walked into the apartment. (Very cute grey suede wedges, by the way.) Now I'm still on the phone so I'm somewhat in autopilot with the whole changing thing and I have a tendency to pace when I'm on the phone. Drives Zac (my cat) crazy. Anyway, I'd taken off my jewelry and was walking back out of my bedroom for whatever reason when something revolting stopped me dead in my tracks. I realized I've ruined the reveal here with the title but that's ok. Laying there in the little hallway between my bedroom and my bathroom is a DEAD MOUSE.

A little background info: I am ridiculously irrationally freaked out by mice in any form. I can't explain it because I'm not always such a wuss and I haven't always been afraid of mice. But the past 2 years, since we've lived in our old apartment building, I've had a lot more exposure to mice and I've spent more time than I care to admit standing on furniture screaming at Danny and Zac to find and destroy them without me seeing.

Back to the story at hand, I see this dead mouse and of course I start screaming bloody murder. Actually it was more like "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod, deadmousedeadmousedeadmouse," at a high pitch and decibel level. Woops, sorry Mom! He's still on the phone, riding in the car with my dad who I can hear saying "What's wrong? Is she ok?" because my screams were loud enough to alarm him through the phone at my mom's ear. My mom, being the graceful and in-control lady she is, proceeds to talk me down off the metaphorical ledge for all of 5 seconds until I realize that I had walked RIGHT BY this dead mouse BAREFOOT and I could have stepped on it with causes we dissolve into a new round of screaming. It's here where my mom says: "You never used to be afraid of mice, I wonder why it's such a problem for you now." NOT HELPFUL, MOM. I don't have time to analyze my psychoses right now, ok? Of course, it was a totally benign and well-intentioned comment but I'm illogical in the face of danger or in the face of a tiny dead rodent that poses no danger to me whatsoever.

Finally, I pull myself together long enough to conclude that something must be done about the mouse corpse. For this task, I of course first turn to Zac and say "Good boy! You are such a good hunter! Could you please get rid of it now?" He looks at me blankly then meows once, which I take to mean: "Bitch, please." Then my next logical step is to whine repeatedly about Danny not being in town and moaning to the gods of rodent behavior that this is only supposed to happen in winter when mice come indoors thus leading me to believe it was safe for Danny to be gone in August and September.

After listening to all of my ridiculous lamenting and avoidances so as not to deal with this myself, my mom, the great mom that she is, manages to both sympathize with my irrational over-dramitization of my plight and inspire me to action. She makes the useful suggestion of covering the dead mouse with something like Kleenex and then sweeping the whole thing into a container that I can dispose of.

Kleenex in hand, I approach the mouse body cautiously, as if it could re-animate into a mouse zombie at ANY second.

Google actually had image results for mouse zombie, and this picture was the least gross.
The Internet is a strange and terrifying place.

Side note: this thing was not in good shape, Zac had done quite the number on him. I throw the Kleenex over the body from a good 2 feet away and it floats down to the mouse, unfortunately leaving the tail exposed. The tails are what really get me. They're not like good animal tails like fluffy cat and dog tails. These are skin tails and they are creepy and gross. Anyway, after gagging and a little more screaming, I pull the Kleenex over enough so it covers the whole thing. I then get a Solo cup and a hand broom and really brace myself for what will surely be the most harrowing part of this Herculean (in my mind) task.

Poor little dead mouse's final resting place.

I sweep the mouse and Kleenex into the cup on the second attempt. On my first attempt, I missed and the mouse fell out of its funeral drapings and I jumped away screaming again before bravely replacing the Kleenex and trying again. Thank God, when I get it all into the Solo cup, the Kleenex is covering the mouse body so I don't have to see it up close. I then run down the hall to the point of panting, clutching the red Solo cup away from my body as far as my arm will stretch. I get to my trash chute, wrench the door open and throw it down. SUCCESS! I jog back to my apartment, gloating to my mom, the poor thing, about my victory over a small dead animal and we say our goodbyes. Her goodbye includes some continued laughter at what a crazy person she has for a daughter. But I am oblivious to this at the time because I am bathing in the glory of my triumph and I text Danny to tell him that I am a hero.

Ten seconds later, I text him to beg him to please come home as soon as possible so I never ever ever have to deal with another mouse, dead or alive, again. My glory was short-lived.

And so closes the story of Dead Mouse Gate 2011.

Story time from the Road

Handwriting a blog post is difficult for many reasons. For one, it's counter-intuitive. I mean, a blog by definition requires a computer and the Internet. But, much like Sarah Palin, I'm a maverick. Our similarities end there. Well, we also share a taste for expensive clothes, but that's it, I swear! I can't even wink! Now I'm sure you're thinking "Carly, I'm reading this post on the Internet and it was clearly written by computer. You are a liar." but here's where semantics come into play friends. This post was merely transcribed by computer, but I promise every word you are reading on your screen was first written in my borderline-illegible handwriting in the Moleskine notebook that my husband gave me for Valentine's Day after I told him I was going to start writing again. (How freaking cute is he? Such a sweet present.)

So back to how posts by hand are challenging. In this specific instance, my obstacles to successful post composition include: 1) a lack of stable writing surface because I am on a bus to New York this Saturday morning, 2) a lack of caffeine as 1 small cup of coffee after waking up at 5:30 a.m. to catch said bus is not doing it for me and 3) a lack of patience because the aforementioned bus was stopped for 20-30 minutes twice, on either side of Baltimore. Apparently there is some giant motorcycle brigade traveling up I-95 North to NYC this morning and we had to stop and wait for all 18 MILES of motorcycles to pass us and then our driver thought he'd take an alternate route only to be stopped to wait for all 18 MILES of them to pass us again. Yes, 18 MILES.  I mean, this obviously happened because I thought I was being so smart taking the early bus from DC2NY (that's funny because it works in the sentence and it's the name of my bus company! Oh bus trip humor!) because there'd be less traffic! No one gets out of bed at 5:30 or 6 to drive to New York on a Saturday morning EXCEPT 18 MILES OF MOTORCYCLES!!!

My favorite part was as they were passing us, some would wave like we were spectators in a parade who were EXCITED to see them. I may be a small-ish blonde girl listening to Glee songs on my pink iPod shuffle but I swear I had enough rage in me to take down one of those burly waving bikers. If I wasn't stuck on a bus.

So here I sit, next to a woman with 3 bags shoved under the seat in front of her (one wonders how many she stowed under the bus) and I push through my lack of writing surface, caffeine and patience as well as a borderline crippling pain in my wrist that I'm pretty sure is a sign that I injured myself in the adventure I'm about to impart to you. Prepare yourself for a complete and total shift in focus for the next post because I'm about to drop quite the tale on you.