Last night, while Mark worked out on his bike trainer, I attempted an all-in-one crafting kit meant for kids 8 years and older. I was supposed to make a yarn covered unicorn, but the end product looked more like a hastily bandaged horse with compound fractures because its cardboard legs folded in, under my not so delicate hands. I spent so much time squinting, trying to peel back the microscopic pieces of double sided tape, that I started seeing spots. So, I didn't think much when I saw a spot dart across the floor. Disgusted with my pile of horse and waning vision, I packed up and started to close up the house for bedtime.
I shut the front door and saw the spot again. This time, I was certain I wasn't seeing things, that a creature had made its way underneath the dresser in the foyer. In this part of the world, I figured it was likely a wall spider. They are huge, flat spiders with bodies that sometimes grow the size of a quarter. They are also wicked fast, which makes me think their legs are more easily ripped off, especially if they make a fast wrong turn. There is a 7-legged wall spider in my bedroom that either has lived for 2.5 years, or its progenies keep losing their legs. Luckily they don't cause much harm.
Anyway, the spot moved into direct light, revealing itself to be an ordinary mouse, which is kind of disappointing considering all the other things it could be. It ran into the office where I shut the door, as if that would keep it from escaping. I went to get Mark who had just finished his workout. We both know full well that under no circumstances could I handle being in the same room as any creature (snakes, mice, spiders, birds) that has the capability to liquidize its bones and squeeze into tiny cracks or jump on my face. So he took on his heroic role without question.
Sighing, he picked up my foam roller and walked to the office: in bike shorts that clung and shined with sweat and his cycling shoes. Nothing more, nothing less. In my book, this is true love: dealing with rodents, when he'd rather be doing anything else. Like, taking a shower, or plucking ear hair.
Mark rolled his eyes when I fearfully asked if he might try to kill the mouse using my foam roller. Instead of telling me no, he told me not to worry about it and I closed the door. The next thirty seconds were cartoon sounds of him sliding in his shoes, moving furniture, and opening the sliding door in an attempt to motivate the rodent to make an easy exit. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mark moved a bookcase to the center of the room causing a child's two-foot walking stick to fall down, effectively braining the mouse mid-stride. It died instantly, thank goodness.
"The trajectory of blood splatter is impressive, you should take a look," he said enthusiastically, handing me back the foam roller, which he had used to block off the main door. I used to take pride in my ability to withstand blood and guts, but the hibernating nurse in me refused to engage. I stood there, all angsty and a little nauseous. Unceremoniously, the mouse was scooped up in a Spar grocery bag, and the crime scene was wiped clean before Mark retired to the shower. The admiration, love, and respect I have for my hero in spandex knows no bounds.
I shut the front door and saw the spot again. This time, I was certain I wasn't seeing things, that a creature had made its way underneath the dresser in the foyer. In this part of the world, I figured it was likely a wall spider. They are huge, flat spiders with bodies that sometimes grow the size of a quarter. They are also wicked fast, which makes me think their legs are more easily ripped off, especially if they make a fast wrong turn. There is a 7-legged wall spider in my bedroom that either has lived for 2.5 years, or its progenies keep losing their legs. Luckily they don't cause much harm.
Anyway, the spot moved into direct light, revealing itself to be an ordinary mouse, which is kind of disappointing considering all the other things it could be. It ran into the office where I shut the door, as if that would keep it from escaping. I went to get Mark who had just finished his workout. We both know full well that under no circumstances could I handle being in the same room as any creature (snakes, mice, spiders, birds) that has the capability to liquidize its bones and squeeze into tiny cracks or jump on my face. So he took on his heroic role without question.
Sighing, he picked up my foam roller and walked to the office: in bike shorts that clung and shined with sweat and his cycling shoes. Nothing more, nothing less. In my book, this is true love: dealing with rodents, when he'd rather be doing anything else. Like, taking a shower, or plucking ear hair.
Mark rolled his eyes when I fearfully asked if he might try to kill the mouse using my foam roller. Instead of telling me no, he told me not to worry about it and I closed the door. The next thirty seconds were cartoon sounds of him sliding in his shoes, moving furniture, and opening the sliding door in an attempt to motivate the rodent to make an easy exit. Fortunately or unfortunately, Mark moved a bookcase to the center of the room causing a child's two-foot walking stick to fall down, effectively braining the mouse mid-stride. It died instantly, thank goodness.
"The trajectory of blood splatter is impressive, you should take a look," he said enthusiastically, handing me back the foam roller, which he had used to block off the main door. I used to take pride in my ability to withstand blood and guts, but the hibernating nurse in me refused to engage. I stood there, all angsty and a little nauseous. Unceremoniously, the mouse was scooped up in a Spar grocery bag, and the crime scene was wiped clean before Mark retired to the shower. The admiration, love, and respect I have for my hero in spandex knows no bounds.
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