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thought i was a donut, ya tried to glaze me


&the streets are paved with cheese

The other night I came home late from trivia. I had a hard time opening my front door because it was dark, and I had to pee really bad, so when I finally got it open I just threw my keys down and ran right up the stairs, not even bothering to turn the light on. Once I reached the top I flicked the light on, and once I did I saw a mouse run past me from the direction of my third floor door into the direction of my bedroom (and, also, the bathroom).

You read right-- a mouse. Now for those of you who have been over here, you can attest that it is not a dirty household. Us Honans are not dirty people (necessarily), and although we may have a lot of stuff cluttered around, I don't think an accumulation of magazines can result in mice. So once I saw that mouse, scurrying about in my sacred place, I didn't know what to do. The door right in front of me was my parents, so I opened it and just freaked the fuck out.


I leapt on to my parents' cedar chest, at the foot of their bed, where I knelt down into the position of a crazy person and started to rock.

My parents (well, my mom, who has a faster sleepy-time response than my dad) jumped up, asking me, "wha? wha? what happened?"


"Do you really have to curse?"


My reaction was the same reaction I've seen every character on tv have whenever they see a mouse--a ridiculous overreaction to the seeing of a creature that is maybe a 100th of the human size. There was the same jumping and screaming and odd noises that can only be compared to as 'eeks.' [note: Did they ever see a mouse on Mad About You? I feel like I saw that on there once. God, that show was awful.]

Not wanting to move from my spot on the chest, I demanded that my dad go find it and kill it, because it is the man's job [note to my future husband: I'm keeping my name, I'm keeping my job when we have kids, I'm keeping a separate bank account, but if I ever see a mouse or roach or spider I am coming to you in tears and you will take care of it, no questions asked. Thank you in advance]. My dad, still groggy, just got out of his bed, walked into my room (which I was now imagining to be like the mouse ghetto in An American Tail) and went to sleep in my bed. I still don't know why. I kept yelling, "find the mouse! get rid of it! eeek, ehhh, ekkk, ahhh, mouse!" while my mom urged me to relax.

"It's probably just a field mouse..."


"Can you please calm down, it's the middle of the night!"


We both thought it might be a good idea to fill my sleeping sister in on our new guest, since her bedroom is right next to mine. I was still perched on the cedar chest, alternating between thoughts of crying and thoughts of peeing myself, and I made my mom go in and get her up. Once she found out, she didn't want to sleep back there either, and walked into my parents room. My mom followed, and finally convinced me to use the bathroom.

"No, no, I can't go back there," I said, but it was getting bad now, the whole holding it in, and I made my mom go with me and stand guard by the door as I quickly did what I had to do and ran out.

"Maybe we'll all stay here tonight, " my mom said, referring to her bedroom. My sister eyed the bed and suggested someone sleep on the floor; I reacted to that by saying, "I JUST SAW A FUCKING MOUSE ON THAT FLOOR" and hopped into the bed. And there we were--two college-educated adult women climbing into bed with their mommy. Stella, who as mixed-breed foxhound should have really picked up on the vermon, was fast asleep in her own giant bed, complete with blankets and pillows. She must have given up on any kind of watchdog role the minute my family bought her a christmas stocking and hung it up on the wall. That dog's more human than anything else, and I'm sure if she had the ability to talk she'd also tell my dad to go take care of it.

And I tried to sleep. I really did. Nestled between my fully-grown mom and sis, I tried to get my fully-grown self to sleep, but I couldnt' get comfortable and I kept thinking of the mouse. Also, my mom snores real bad. I tossed and turned, much to the dismay of my bunkmates. I sighed. I poked my mom. Two hours later I said "enough!!", and walked down to the living room where I tried to sleep on the couch. No luck--I kept thinking of the mouse, and of where it might have come from, and of how long it's probably been in my house, eating food off the floor, maybe even picking up some cooking tips from our cookbooks like that adorable little rat in Rattatouille. When Stella got up for her 5am trip out back I was in that sleepy-crazy mode, where I'm overly emotional and whiney. I walked back upstairs to where my dad was sleeping and, nearly sobbing, kicked him out of my bed. I watched the sun come up from my bedroom window, still thinking of that long gray tale.

I am still the only one who saw the mouse; my dad put up traps first thing in the morning, but we've yet to make any catches. My mom said the next day that it's "weird" we'd have a mouse since "I don't see any droppings, and they'd have to have droppings", implying that I imagined seeing it, or made it up, for whatever sick reason. My sister even started making jokes, saying that the mouse has been lurking in our bedrooms, watching us, maybe seeing me as I got dressed (poor mouse). She described it watching my DVRed shows, using my computer to check it's mousespace, reading my books, even joking that he had my glasses on when I couldnt find them the next day. All funny for people who didn't see the thing that might one day crawl all over their face as they sleep. They didnt' see it, so they can't be out to get it the same way I am. They can have fun with it being just a punchline.

And here's the weird part--I used to love mice. I mean cartoon mice, of course, but now I hate them, and although I see rats every time I'm on the subway there's something very uncool about it being in your house. So if my sister's right, and the mouse is all techy, I hope it's reading this right now so it knows that I finally know the difference between cartoon mice and real mice. You're not Fievel, you motherfucker, and I will find you.

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I wonder if my writing has even improved?