A Mouse is in the House


Sunday was a quiet day at my house; we didn’t watch the Super Bowl, no one ate or drank to excess. I tried to install a Sims 3 expansion onto my computer. I waited until it had been available for several months before purchasing and installing it on my Mac. With the next expansion due out in March, I thought for sure EA would have the bugs worked out by now.

Silly me. I admit most of the bugs have been worked out; there remains one minor glitch. The expansion is Pets – like my sims can have pets. Yeah, yeah, whatever, except one of the pets is a horse. I went to the all new neighborhood, built a beautiful Victorian farm house, created a family, and moved them into the house.

Then, I clicked to adopt a pet. I looked at the cats, the dogs… Then I clicked on horses (you know like the whole reason I bought the game), and my game froze. I had to unplug it and pop the battery. Really? Ok, fine.

I rebooted and tried again, this time I would create my own horse. Nope, frozen.

I rebooted and decided, I would just play without a horse. But, alas, I cannot do that either. It seems that the horse files are completely incompatible with Macs. Really? All I could do with my sims was keep them on their own property and pray no stray horses wandered onto the lot.

So, now in order to play I have to completely uninstall and reinstall my game – and wait for the bug fix before I can play again. EA=bastards that live in the 7th circle of hell.

I decided to watch some TV online: Patrick Stewart in Eleventh Hour, then Doc Martin. Dinner, more mindless British TV (not ever to be confused with mindless American TV – totally different TV-mentality).

I eventually fell asleep. I awoke to an urgent bladder about midnight. The house was quiet. JL sleeping soundly, Ian playing WoW (World of Warcraft) in his room. Half asleep, I stumbled into the bathroom, sat…

And something ran over my foot. I screamed. I was fully awake now, yes indeedy. My eyes darting around the small bathroom. Strider beeped an uncomfortable sort of sound – and something scurried from the bath mat to the semi-dark corner near the door.

It was between me and the door. This was not good. I screamed again.

It darted towards me!

I had no escape. I had no pants on. I screamed a third time, “Ian, Ian, help me! HELP!!” I must have sounded truly terrified, I could hear Ian stumbling over things in his room trying desperately to come to my aid. I grabbed the towel from the rack and threw it over my lap as Ian charged through the door.

“What? What is it? Are you hurt?” He looked frightened even though he had no clue what was happening. He usually sort of meanders when I call for help, I decided I must have sounded as though an ax murderer had come through the window.

“Did you see it? It went right at you!”

Looking more than a little dubious, he said, “See what?”

“The mouse. The mouse! Did you see it? We have to get it! Kill it!”

Ian stared at me, somewhat mystified. “A mouse?”

“Yes! I was sitting here – helpless on the toilet and it ran over my toes! Then it was between me and the door.”

The gravity of the helplessness of someone accosted by a mouse while sitting on the toilet must have resonated, because while I sat there, towel over my lap, he dropped to all fours – he crawled around on the floor, looked sheepishly behind the bathroom door.

Strider, still perched on the shower rod, beeped again.

I sat very still, bath towel over my lap.

“It’s gone, I can’t find it.” He looked crestfallen.

I made him go put his shoes on – God knows what sort of diseases this monster might have!

We retreated to our respective corners. I turned British TV back on, Ian played WoW.

Suddenly, Ian called out from his room, “Mom! Mom! Come quick! Mom!”

I grabbed my shoes and rushed to his aid.

“It’s there! There under the towel.”

I looked at him, then at the towel, then at Ian. “What’s there?” I queried.

“The mouse! It’s under the towel, all we have to do is catch it and put it outside.”

“Uh-huh.” This is a testament to how seldom we see mice in my house. Ian thought we would just scoop up the towel, and shake the poor little bugger off in the back yard. “There’s no mouse under the towel, Ian.”

“There is I saw him go under it – we got him!” He sounded victorious—righteous.

I just smiled and said, “Pick up the towel.”

He was stunned to discover the mouse had vanished from the folds of the towel into thin air.

Ian in his steel-toed boots and me in my Converse, Strider on my shoulder we marched to the kitchen.

“There’s a mousetrap under the sink.” I said. As I said, we very rarely have mice in the house – we have guard-cats. But we do live in the country and periodically a particularly courageous critter sneaks behind the lines and into the house.

JL was still asleep. It took me and Ian fifteen minutes to figure out how the trap worked. Ian was sure it was too flimsy to kill even the meekest mouse. But then he snapped it on his fingers, twice, and decided it was tougher than it looked. He used several colorful words to describe it.

We set the trap, with smoked cheese – good smelly cheese, and placed it beside the towel, the little bastard’s last known whereabouts. And we waited.

About an hour later, it snapped. Ian asked, “What do I do with it? It’s dead.”

“Throw it out?” I suggested.

“How? I mean, I’m not going to pick it up.”

I handed him a plastic grocery bag and we dispensed with the little villain.

And everyone lived happily ever after… Well, except the Sims crashing part…

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