Posts tagged Mice

Things about wars on mice, day 2

I love my landlord. I emailed him at 7am this morning, just as a “Hey, head’s up, I bought d-con for the little icky critters, and since you own the place you probably want to know” email.  Two hours later I received an email back from him that said the exterminator would be by at 3pm, and oh, hey, how much does he owe me for the mouse poison?

Flash forward to 3pm. Mouse traps are installed in addition to more d-con.  My roommates go to bed, I stay up in my bedroom to finish some work.

12: 42am comes around, and I hear a loud, resounding SNAP!

A trap in the kitchen definitely just went off.

Score one for the humans.

Unfortunately, my phobia of mice includes dead ones… so I’m hoping my roommate who goes to work at 3am and is NOT a’feared of mice deals with it. ‘Cuz I’m selfish like that.


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Things about wars on mice

Alright.  This is getting ridiculous.

I have one phobia. One. It’s irrational (hence, phobia), and stupid. But very real.

Mice. Ugh. I hate them.

If there’s a mouse in my house, I have a hard time sleeping. I imagine them crawling on me, and every time the wind blows and bends a window screen or makes the house creak, I am convinced it’s mice infesting and breeding in the walls.

But I’m pretty sure the universe has decided my phobia is so neurotic, it’s going to make it a goal to mock me as much as humanly possible.

Every place I have ever lived has had mice, with the (somewhat odd) exception of my apartment senior year of college (although my roommate had cats for half that year, which could have contributed.).

When I moved into my apartment in Boston, the absolute first thing I saw in our kitchen was a dead mouse stuck in a trap.  Naturally, I freaked out, called my sister, and waited for my roommate to come and clean it up. And barely slept that first night, despite assurances from the landlord and the exterminator they were convinced that was the last one they just hadn’t been able to catch.

Fast forward 2+ months, and surprisingly, there’s actually been no additional evidence of any mice!  Until now…

As a mouse phobic, I’m highly sensitive to mouse droppings, and based on the tiny size of these droppings, we’re looking at baby mice. No.  FUCK THAT.  I’m not having fucking baby mice making my house into their breeding ground.  That’s literally my worst nightmare.  Nuh uh.


Mouse war #1, earlier this year in a different city, started with peppermint, was taken care of by blocking up holes and entry points, and our feelings were mollified by D-Con tablets left out.

Fuck that. This time I’m starting with the D-Con.

Which I sort of bought without consulting all my roommates.  But I don’t really understand people who don’t want mice to get the hell out of their house by any means necessary. ‘Cuz I’m a bad person apparently.

It’s time for these fuckers to die.

God, I hate mice.

(Ironically enough, in 3 days I’m going to see a very big mouse, and I couldn’t be happier.  It might help that a) he’s not real, b) he’s in Florida.)

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MY BRAIN IS MELTING! MELTING! And other such melodramas

Some days I play on photoshop designing hyper-fantastic graphics and making our company into the most marketable and puppy loving environmental consulting firm in Chicago.  Some days I pretend to be creative and write articles for our newsletters, subversively brainwashing all 656 average readers to live simpler, JVC-type lives.  Some days I accomplish tasks pertaining to making the company some sort of profit via projects and reimbursement-related shmarnarmanar.

And some days I stare at the computer FEELING MY BRAIN MELTING.

In evidence of this, I present Exhibit the First (and Only):  I sent 52 emails over the course of 6 hours to a coworker who sits a) in the same cubicle area, and ii) at maximum chair spacing,  less than one and a half feet away from me.

In a moment of pseudo-genius, I took a short break in order to take advantage of the FREE GIVEAWAYS that promotional companies offer (SUCKAS!!!) and ordered several “samples” of these gems:

Greatest Pointless Marketing EVER.

Greatest Pointless Marketing EVER.


In other news: No mice sighted yet. And the apartment smells of rich peppermint. Even from outside.

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That’s right. It’s WAR.

Well… at least, as non-violent a war with as low a mortality rate as possible can be WAR.

As many people know, I do not like mice.  I have, with the exception of college, never lived anyplace which is mouse-free, and I happen to have a small-to-medium sized phobia of them.  Yes, I realize they are tiny, cannot hurt me, and are far more afraid of me than I am of them.  Yes, it’s irrational. Yes. Thanks.  That’s why it’s a PHOBIA, folks.

Now, despite my utter fear and hatred of invading mice, I have a slight  problem with killing them.  In that, well… I don’t like to do it.  If someone else kills them and disposes of them, and I play very little of a first person role then I have no problem.  If the matter falls to me to actually, uh, dispose of the item… well, then I’m not so good.  Last year living in Juneau, we had a slight problem we dubbed, “The Mighty Mouse Saga.”  Long story short, it involved sleeping on the couch at work, glue traps, six mice dead in 24 hours, one trip to the emergency room, and Sunday mass to make amends for the murder of the mouse family.

Suffice it to say that Shannon and I have been living in relative harmony with our apartment since August.  In early October we had one mouse incident, but it went away very shortly, so I figured (as the hopelessly optimistic will), that meant: Problem Solved!

Unfortunately, no.  In the past 48 hours we have not only found a large trail of mouse droppings in our kitchen, but also managed to have two separate first hand mouse sightings.  Sigh.

Unwilling to immediately buy glue traps again (the horrible, horrible, yet terribly effective things), this time we’ve decided to try something else: 100% Peppermint Oil.  It sounds a little like a myth to me, but I’ve read several testimonies on the world wide interweb that swear by it.

So it sounds hokey… but I’m willing to give it a try.  As long as the mice understand that PEPPERMINT MEANS WAR!!!

In the meantime though, I’m taking one totally legitimate indulgently whiny moment:


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Puppy Bowl

I SO am not allowed to watch Puppy Bowl.

I. Want. A. Dog.

It’s pathetic, I’m aware. On the other hand, I do not care. (And hey, look! I’m a poet! I should SO be allowed to raise a dog.)

I’ve decided that I’m going to attempt to broker a deal with my landlord. It goes a little something like this: “Dear Hector. If you allow there to be mice in our house, then you must allow there to be dogs.”

Valid argument, no?

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