The sinus infection has receded, after repeated applications of A’n’A (antibiotics & alcohol). I am now enjoying my convalescence (and I do mean enjoying), lying on the chaise longue like an interesting Victorian invalid, with a becoming pallor and the occasional, delicate sniffle and most lady-like of dainty coughs to remind any observers that I was, in fact, quite ill.
I was attempting to take my mind off the horror of my Giants losing the wildcard spot in the playoffs to Houston* (As if Texas hadn’t inflicted enough damage already, what with spawning the Bush dynasty and the unfortunate idea that cowboy boots are acceptable footwear with a business suit) by reading the latest in the fluffacious Shopaholic** series, when a mouse shot across the room as if fired from a cannon.
Maybe the Victorian thing goes deeper in this moderne girl than previously thought, because I leaped up and screamed with my hand on my heart in the most approved endangered heroine style before I even realized I did it. If the chaise (and I) weren’t so squashy I would have jumped up on it and probably shrieked, “Eeek! A mouse!” to complete the cliché ridden scenario.
It’s amazing how instinctively horrified I was by a creature that’s so tiny. I’m probably like a Tyrannosaurus Rex to it, and possibly too big for it even to perceive me, and it’s far more likely that I could kill the mouse than it could kill me (other than rodent-induced heart attack), but I was probably more scared than it was.
It hasn’t made a return engagement, but everyone I have told about it informs me that there’s Never Just One, in ominous tones. My sis suggested a Have a Heart trap, forgetting that not all of us live in a little house in the big woods, where you can release a mouse and never see it again, until I started laughing. Also there is no point in putting bugs and other home invaders outside. All they want is to get back in. Even insects and rodents can tell that Nature is best to be avoided if at all possible, which is why they broke in in the first place. I can’t bear the idea of a trap and having to dispose of the sad little body (or bodies, since there’s Never Just One). What to do, what to do?
*Sporty Suzy has officially gone into hibernation. I have no interest in any of the teams now in the playoffs, other than hoping very earnestly from the depths of what passes for my heart that neither the Dodgers nor the Yankees win. Also if Houston plays NY I doubt if there is a stadium big enough to contain the egos of both Mr. Jeter and Mr. Clemens at the same time.
**With apologies to my dear Kathleen, who quite rightly objects to the heroine’s excesses. But being nouveau pauvre (can it still be nouveau after all this time, though?), all my shopping and excess has to be done vicariously now.