Mice in the house. What a lovely title for a children’s book…..from hell. It’s so strange this obsession with, and fear of, mice. Cats run fast…no fear. Dogs run fast…no fear. Spiders run fast….no fear. Mice run fast….HELP HELP HELP HELP. Is it a throwback due to our Neanderthal DNA? By the way, I was fascinated to read that we HAVE Neanderthal DNA. Did early people learn that mice carry disease and are too small for coats? Their tails are too small for whips? Bleeeech.
I love my husband. I also like him tremendously. Not to say that there aren’t times when we would like to slap each other (metaphorically…no violence has ever happened in this house). If you add all the wonderful things that he has ever done + his values + his morals, that doesn’t come close to why I would never seek a divorce.
The real reasons? Mice and socks. We currently have 3 mouse traps in our kitchen. Because last week I saw and we caught a mouse. And this week I have the idea of a mouse. Fear cannot be caught in a mouse trap. So I enter the kitchen stomping my feet and talking loudly even when I’m alone. Because a mouse behind the dryer is like not having one in the house….NOT.
But my husband gets rid of the mice. I would throw the apartment out before throwing a dead mouse out. No question about it. Uh oh. Apartments can’t be thrown out. Hence, no divorcing this wonderful mouse hunter.
What does this have to do with socks? Luckily, there are no mice in my husband’s sock drawer. Not that he has many socks. His are all in my sock drawer. I can’t remember the last time I bought socks. Maybe 10 years ago? I wear his. They don’t fit. But they are comfortable and I like them. I suggested once that we skip the middleman and he should buy socks and put them directly in my drawer. He didn’t think it was so funny.
So today, as on many days, I am grateful that I married a mouse hunter and sock gatherer.