So today. The first Monday after Daylight Saving Time and the weekend of Swap Shop, a four day marathon of volunteering at the kids' school for me.
I was tired. So very tired.
The kind of tired where I almost wept with joy when Tom offered to take the kids to school for me.
I don't have to change out of my PJs? YES PLEASE.
So off they went and there I was in a staring contest with my bed. My big, glorious, king-sized plush perfection of a bed.
Did I mention that I had to pick Bonnie up out of her bed and dress her this morning? That Natalie slept so late that she ate breakfast (a Fiber One brownie) in Tom's backseat on the way to school?
I wasn't the only tired Tobin on the first morning after the time change. I was, however, the only one with access to a bed in prime time.
Doesn't matter how long you stay away from church. Catholic guilt is Catholic guilt.
Knowing that I couldn't climb back into bed for a glorious nap without my conscience bitch slapping me, I stripped the sheets off to remove temptation.
Didn't feel like enough. I'd totes curl up on the cloth mattress cover. Desperate times, desperate measures, that whole spiel. Potentially cozy mattress pad had to go too.
Stripped the bed to the plastic mattress cover and dragged the comfy parts down to the washer, feeling very martyrly and self-satisfied (also a completely Catholic reaction.) Dumped it in the washer and it was good to go. Reading some chick lit on my kindle didn't feel self-indulgent because hey man, I was absolutely not sleeping and I was definitely doing chores.
When the washer dinged, I trudged back to the laundry room to move the mattress pad to the dryer. I pulled it out, tossed it in the dryer and...what the fuck?
What is that?
Jesus take the wheel, there is a DEAD MOUSE stuck to the side of the washer basin.
I may have screamed. I may have tinkled in my pants a bit. Can't really say; I was in a fugue state of terror and stress. I mean, there was VERMIN in a place that was supposed to take my not-really-dirty stuff and make it perfectly-clean. What in the ever loving FUCK???
How did this happen? Was it an accident? Was it ISIS? Any and every possibility ran through my mind. Didn't matter though.
Regardless of how it got there, a dead mouse was stuck to the side of my washer basin and there was nobody home but me to remove its carcass.
I texted my nearest and dearest, the friends who would freak out with me but not more than me, the ones who would not judge me to be forever unclean (a verdict I'd already passed on myself when I texted my husband to say we were throwing out the mattress pad, our washer and our house.)
S responded in sympathetic horror with mouse stories of her own. T responded with the same as well as practical suggestions for disposing of the dead intruder.
Seriously, I have the best friends. Way better than I deserve.
I got rid of the mouse. Eventually. After a prolonged period of sitting in a chair with my feet up -- the better to protect myself from mousie family retaliation, natch -- I decided it was time to take TSwift's advice and shake it off. Time to gird my lady balls, arm myself with six target bags and remove Monsieur Mousie from his watery grave.
Holy Mother of God, he's not stuck to the wall anymore.
While I was dithering, he'd plopped onto the floor of the washer basin.
This shouldn't make any difference. But it does. Dear sweet Jesus, it totally does.
See, I was prepared for the one thing and then I was faced with the other.
Good at rolling with the punches? Sorry, never been my cup of tea.
I retreated from the laundry room. I cursed. A lot. I wondered what I'd done to deserve this horror. (The index of possible offenses is too long to list here.)
Regardless of the pity I felt for myself, the facts remained the same. There were mountains of laundry to go before I slept and a dead mouse was a piss-poor excuse for avoiding it (or so my stalwart Mom would say.)
Again, I girded my lady loins. I did a little jabbing-jumping like Rocky before fighting Apollo, put on some kickass music (Pretender's "Precious"), slapped on the Target bags and approached the washer.
I grasped that vermin motherfucker up into as loose a grasp as possible, reversed the bags and tied the handles into a knot, not that he was going anywhere, RIP mousie.
I ran out the front door, dumped him into the trash bin and high stepped back into the house like the zombie apocalypse was on my tail.
Next step? Rewash the mattress pad. And again. And again. AND AGAIN.
Is it back on my bed? Yes. I'm too cheap to throw it out; a quality king-sized mattress cover is expensive and I saw for myself that Monsieur Mousie was intact so it was clear that he didn't spill his blood or guts on it. Still, vermin is vermin...
Are four hot washes enough? Maybe. I'm adding a bottle of Malbec to the equation to stack the deck in favor of me getting some sleep tonight.
If I can't drift off on the site of Monsieur Mousie's watery grave, there is always Jack's queen-sized so far vermin-free bed. Is it weird if I climb in bed to sleep with my 11 year old son?
Don't answer that. I'm going to assume the answer is "Of course not. Fair play. He lived in your uterus for 32 weeks; you can sleep in his bed for one night." After all, my rest depends on your agreement and anyone who knows me knows that a well-rested Christy is a critical part of any equation.
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