I HATE Mice!!!!

Mice. I hate them. The only good mouse is a dead mouse. I hate mice. They're ugly, nasty, squeaky, disgusting little rodents. I think someone should invent a biochemical weapon to kill off all the mice in the world. In fact, I know nothing about chemistry, but I might be willing to take that one on myself. I know I can find a few people willing to contribute to the funding.

Seriously. Can someone, anyone, give me one good reason mice should exsist. I dare you. Because I will refute it. They make messes. They ruin things. They leave nothing but urine and feces in their wake. And don't tell me God created all animals, blah blah. I'm convinced these little suckers where created by the devil. The devil I tell you!!!

I suppose I should give you a little background on my hatred for the nasty little critter...no, not critters because critters is too cute of a word...how about, nasty little $#!++ers, (because that's all they do).

Growing up in the country, we had lots of mice. So many, in fact, that on regular occassions, I would walk into the house to find one in the middle of the living room floor. As I got older, like 18+ish (Yes, I still lived at home. Don't judge me!), they were in the walls like crazy. They would keep me up night after night, squeaking and nibbling and knawing and scratching and making baby mice and whatever other stupid things mice do. And on regular occassions they would die in the wall and it would reek for DAYS. I hate mice. One morning I woke up and walked to the bathroom. Still groggy, I lifted the lid on the toilet and started to sit, when I realized, "hum...I think there was something in there." My first though...Michael. He just didn't flush. He's such a pig. I turned around and, still groggy, I noticed "it" was moving. Man, what did he eat last night?!?! GEEZ!! Then, um...NO!! It was a stinkin' mouse doing the backstroke in the toilet!! They had moved in and taken over!! They had turned the toilet into their own private swimming pool. I'm suprised there weren't little lounge chairs around the rim and the cats bringing them fruity drinks with tiny little umbrellas. Well, needless to say...I didn't take this lightly. I jumped. I screamed. I ran. And I screamed some more. And some more. And some more. Mom was gone. Dad was in the shop and heard me screaming. He came to my rescue and um, well, when he found out what I was being rescued from, let's just say he wasn't too happy. On a bright note, he did take a tool in of some sort and broke that little suckers neck, before flushing it (that was way back in the day before these low flow toilets that you have to flush 16 times during one BM). That was it...I was done. But they weren't done with me. Oh...no. There was more scratching and baby mice makin' going on in those walls. So much that it got to the point that I was having nightmares and waking up screaming. It was a sad, sad time in my life.

Eventually, we moved from that house. I got married and had a home of my own. A mouse free home. Ahhhhh...peace. Or so I thought...

It was December, 1998, Gracie was 6 months old. It was time to start decorating for Christmas so Tim brought in the boxes. We got a tree and it was all Christmasy and stuff in here {{She said in her best hick accent}}. Then I noticed these little black things on the kitchen counter. Little black things that I recgonized, but refused to admit what they really were. They were just little chocolate sprinkles, I told myself. I even tried to convince Tim by sprinkling them on some ice cream, but he wasn't buying it. It was time to admit it. It was mouse droppings. AAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!!! I was a wreck. A flippin' mouse was loose in my house!! We got some traps and set them out, but nothing. Then one night, that little sucker darted out from the Christmas tree. Um...yeah, that didn't set well. I was FREAKING OUT!! Poor Tim. In the next day or so, I was in Gracie's room getting her dressed when one darted out from behind her changing table. Oh my heavens. I grabbed her and her clothes, and ran to the kitchen, where I jumped on the counter. Literally, I was sitting on the kitchen counter, dressing my baby, all while continually screaming at the top of my lungs. I called Tim and told him to put the for sale sign up. I was moving. He convinced me to stay, but it wasn't a happy time for me. I was a mess. We got some sticky traps (invented by a flippin' genius, by the way!) and put them out. Within like 30 minutes, we caught one in the laundry area. We heard a thump and this horrible screaching squeal. Ah...music to my ears! (Ok! Ok! So it was really horrible and I even felt a little guilty!) We ended up catching 3 total. After we went a few day without catching one, I finally decided that it might be ok to walk down the hall, rather than Tim carrying me (seriously, I made him carry me).

Fast forward a few years. I'm sitting in the chair and what do I hear in the wall? Yep. Scratching, squealing, baby mice making. That's it! Where are the matches? This house is going down and taking all those nasty, little, rabid, disgusting little suckers with it!! However, rather than risk losing everything and going to jail for arson, we opted to call the pest control company. And this is how it went down.
Pest Control Guy: "Where is your attic access?"
Me: "In the closet in my bedroom."
PCG: "Ok. Show me."
Me: "Ok. This way."
PCG: "Do you have a ladder?"
Me: "Um, yeah. There's one on the back patio."
PCG: {{just standing there looking at me}}
Me: "Um, I'll go get it." So I go get it and bring it in.
PCG: {{still just standing there}}
Me: {{handing PCG the ladder}}
PCG: {{still just standing there}}
Me: {{setting up the latter}}
PCG: {{climbs up the ladder, barely opens the attic and sticks a sticky trap right inside the attic. climbs down and leaves...leaving the ladder}}
Ok, really? That's your solution? Thanks for NOTHIN', Loser.
So, for the next couple years (LITERALLY), I listened to the mice making all their nasty little mice noises in my ceiling. Tormenting me during the day and keeping me up at night. I couldn't take it ANYMORE!!! Tim called the pest control company again and I refused to let them come out. Nice, try, Timmy...but this time, we're doing this our way. I insisted Tim to get his own traps and poison and take care of problem himself. (Man, do I sound like a hag or what?)Anyway...poison and several sticky traps later, we are officially a mouse free house, but not before we had to be traumatized two more times.

One time I nearly picked up a trap in the grass and the dead mouse glued to it, that the dog was trying to eat (so picture me bending down to pick up a piece of plastic in the grass and then realizing it was trap with a mouse being ripped to shreds by the dog. NOT PRETTY) I will admit that I probably didn't respond appropriately, considering I started screaming bloody murder and ran inside, leaving the two year old outside trapped in the fort, alone. The last time was when Gracie was outside in the grass, barefooted, when, yep, you guessed it...she stepped on a dead one. That didn't end well, either.

But, alas, our battle is over {{sigh}}...just in time for us to move. And so help me, if this new house has mice, my next home will be the looney bin. I'm serious as a heart attack, people.