Thursday, May 16, 2013

Wear Pants When Dealing With Rodents


There are several incidents I could probably reference that have contributed to making me the way I am today (read: CRAZY LUNATIC).  In fact, many of the people who love (and even like me, pretend to like me, or just hang out with me on a regular basis) don’t know a lot of these stories, so I’ma gonna enlighten you.  Maybe that will help shed some light on my mental status.

They say you aren’t supposed to remember much before the age of two or three.  I am a bit of an anomaly because I remember several little tidbits from my childhood, and I’m not sure whether that’s necessarily a good or bad thing.  I’m just sayin’.

This particular incident, however, happened probably when I was around three to four years old.  My grandparents (on my mom’s side) lived in the country.  And by the country, I mean on a farm with pigs and chickens and sheep and sheep shit and hay and a barn and tractors.  All that good stuff.  I remember the sheep vividly because I once returned to the farmhouse and announced to everyone who would listen—as I held one chubby leg precariously in the air—“I got sheep shit on my shoe!”  (I was a very eloquent youngster.)

As we are all aware, farms have all sorts of critters, both large and small.  And many of those critters don’t always know that they are supposed to live OUTSIDE of the damned farmhouse.  Like mice.  Oh, stupid, stupid mice.

It was during a family picnic or dinner or something.  Or we may have just been eating in the yard because there was no air conditioning and it was hotter than hell in the house.  I’m not sure.  Either way, every living soul was out in the yard.  And that’s when I decided that I needed to go inside to pee, so off I toddled in my overalls.  (OVERALLS.  Don’t judge.  They were very practical for tractor riding and pig slopping, I’ll have you know.)

For whatever reason, I went to the basement to pee.  Probably because it was the coolest place in the whole house.  (See previous paragraph regarding NO freaking air conditioning.)  And in the tiny little basement bathroom, I dropped my overalls and hopped right up on the potty, dangling my feet in that innocent way kids will do right before they are about to be attacked by a rabid mouse.

That’s when I heard the trash in the trashcan start to move.  And that’s when a rodent the size of a damned baby piglet squirmed to the top of the can.  And that’s when I let out a scream like a mass murderer was chopping me to tiny little bits right there in my grandma’s basement.

To everyone’s credit, the entire family came to my rescue.  Unfortunately, by the time they made it into the house via the front door, I had made my escape out the back door, down the back porch steps, and there I stood BARE-ASSED with my overalls around my ankles still screaming in the backyard.  Somehow I had made it up the steps from the basement, out of the house, onto the porch, and into the yard…ALL WITH MY PANTS AROUND MY ANKLES.  (Do not underestimate my talent.  I say I am a terrible runner, but you have not seen me run with my pants around my ankles while being chased by a mouse.)

I am not sure whether I was more traumatized by the fact that I was being run down in a half-naked death chase by a mouse OR whether it was the mortification of being found and subsequently laughed at as I stood sans pants in front of the entire family.  Either way, I’m sure this incident somehow contributed to my current state of what most people label as ‘is-she-effing-crazy?

And yes, if I even THINK there is a mouse in my house, I will be at the store within minutes to purchase no less than a full arsenal of goods with which to dispatch said mouse and eject it from my home.  Only now I do it with pants on.  Most of the time.

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