Bordering on the ridiculous

Ridiculousness.

I bet you thought I was going to write about the esteemed neurosurgeon and his latest winning ideas for this country, right?  Or maybe the continued blitzkreig of The Donald at the top of the pile.

Guess what?  (The dear darling daughter’s favorite saying these days.  Right after…”I know, right?”  That one cracks me up.)  But I digress.  As usual.

No, I’m not going to write one word about the cowardly “Couch Rambo” commentary offered by the afore-mentioned must-have-been-smart-at-one-time neurosurgeon.  Nor am I going to write a word about the unfathomable fact that The Donald is still riding high.

No, the ridiculousness I am referring to has nothing, nada, zip, zilch, zero to do with politics.  I know, right?  (tee hee hee)

What is ridiculous is that no matter what I do, no matter what I say, no matter how I conduct myself, I am constantly faced with–this is so embarrassing–a, for lack of better words, mouse issue.

Yes.  Mice.  They’re at it again.  Making me crazy, nutso, off-my-rocker, insanely mad.

What is it with these little creatures?  I feel haunted almost.  I used to listen to a great song…wish I could sing it for you…”wherever you will go.”  I don’t remember who it was by.  But the point was–“wherever you go, I’ll be there.”

Oh.  That’s another song, right?  “I’ll be there.”  1970’s I think.  Can’t remember that singer either.

And then, there are always the good old standbys–Bible verses.  Something along the lines of “whither thou goest….”

OK.  Getting the picture?  Wherever I go, there is a mouse.

And certainly, after five years here, I think I’ve sort of come to terms with the fact that we have mice.  In our house.  In our walls.  In our attic.  In the garden.  In the backyard.  In the garage.  In the apartment.  In the shop.  In the tractors.  In the barn.  Just generally in everything.  And basically, this is just the way of life here.   And the sooner I come to terms with it, the sooner I can find some semblance of sanity regarding the Mouse Issue.

All of that being said, I was most definitely NOT prepared to be sitting in my car on Tuesday afternoon, in the Ace Hardware parking lot in Steamboat (roughly 75 miles away), after having already made two previous stops in Steamboat, when what to my wondering eyes should appear but a little brown mouse with two black, beady eyes–scurrying out from under the hood of the car, straight up the windshield and onto the roof.

I am not flipping kidding.  I think it took a couple of minutes for my jaw to stop hanging open.  And then, I did what I normally do in situations where I am faced with the smallest of mammalian creatures, who seem to be threatening my serene and tranquil life.

I called the man of the house.  Even though I was roughly 75 miles away and he was at work, doing important work-type things, and what in the blazes did I think he was going to do for me anyway?  I mean really.  Really.

I simply can not NOT call him.

Face palm.

Actually, double face palm.

One of these days, I’ll fight my own battles.  I swear I will.

Just not yet.  And not when it comes to the Mouse Issue.

As ever, when I call the dear sweet husband and disturb him when he’s at work, doing work-type things, and ask inane questions such as “Honey, do you think the mouse is going to be ok?  and Honey, how do you think the mouse got under the hood of my car? and Honey, what should I do?”…as ever…I can hear the eye roll (roughly 90 miles away from where he’s sitting on a horse trying to coax some ornery bulls into doing whatever it is they are being asked to do).  And after I hear the eye roll then I quietly endure the silence and the ever-so-quiet sigh of impatience.  Finally I get my answer: “The mouse is fine.  He’ll just run away.  He’s probably living under the hood of your car.”

And then this: “We have mice in the garage you know.”

And then this: “Now, can I go?  S**t…”  static, garble, garble, garble, static

I think to myself: “Self.  Now you’ve done it.  He’s out there working so hard at work doing work-type things and you’re bothering him with a question about a mouse.  Way to go self.”  And then I wonder why he said “S**t.”  And then there was just static and garbled-ness.  Cowboys with cell phones.  You never know what you’re going to get.

But I digress.  Again.

Back to the Mouse Issue.  I decided to go on into the store and hope the mouse decided to visit Steamboat.  As I was gathering my wits, and my purse and keys, dang if that little brown, black beady-eyed creature didn’t scurry right back down the windshield and under the hood of the car.  ?!@!$#!

I couldn’t help myself.  My fingers dialed the phone before I knew what I was doing.

Me: “Honey…”

Him:  Massive sigh…”Yes dear?”

Me:  “Well, so, the mouse?  He ran back down the windshield and is now under the hood of the car again.”

Him:  “OK.”

Me: “Well, so, is that ok?  I mean, can he get in the car???????????”  (Rising voice at the end of the question.)

Him:  Massive eye roll.  “No. He can not get into the car.”

Me:  “Are you sure?  Not at all?”

Him:  “Well, maybe through the air vents.  Honey, I need to go.”

Me:  “Ok.”  Thinking to self: “Self!  The air vents?????  Holy guacamole.  Shut them quick!!”

I went inside the hardware store and scurried back to the car.  No mouse anywhere that I could see.  (That I could see.  But that left a lot of ground I couldn’t see.)

Egads.  A mouse jumping out while I’m driving?

Could this issue get any more ridiculous?

I tried to put it out of my mind, let it go, think that perhaps the mouse stayed over in Steamboat for a vacation.

We headed home.  With closed vents.  At times cold (but no way was I going to turn the heat on), at times hot (again, no way was I going to turn the air on).

Upon return to the safe haven of the garage, the dear husband checked under the hood.  And found, just as neat as can be, a mouse house.  A little abode atop the distributor (or something like that–I sort of lose interest when it comes to car engine parts).

So now I’ve got to worry about mice in the engine.  Worrying about mice in the walls, in the attic, in the laundry room wasn’t enough.  Now they want the engine in my car.

For the love of Pete.  When will it end?

The things that make me crazy, insane, bat-guano crazy mad.  Good grief.

 

About madranchwife

Mother, Mad Ranchwife(as in--at times-- crazy, nutso, loco, off-my-rocker insane), Veterinarian, Physical Therapist, "Liberal, pinko, gay-loving, Subaru-driving Socialist" (as I've been called), proud to be a totally tree-huggin', climate change believin', granola girl environmentalist, ObamaGirl, Pro-Choice (don't even get me started here...), and in my younger days a feminist vegetarian as a result of time spent at CU Boulder (this lasted approximately 14 months, until all the Jimmy Buffett I was listening to caused me to crave a cheeseburger). Now I just get pleasure out of swimming against the stream and ruffling a few feathers here in the wild west state of Wyoming!
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