Some old-fashioned bullet pointage, to show that my entire life doesn't revolve around That Little Furry Son of a Bitch.
Mousey McTwatFace is yet to die. The little shit is outsmarting us at every turn, and I discovered the night after the Indian Drums incident that the intolerable scratchyscratch noises occurring every night will apparently continue, despite removing mousey's stenchy nest.
I think he is getting under the floorboards. Or inside the walls. I am truly going bananas. I get up every night, wearing naught, and stamp on the floor loudly. Then I crouch down on the floor and push my ear to the floorboards. Scratchscratchscratch. I punch the floor, and then curl up in the foetal position, or rock gently back and forth. Scratchscratchscratch.
Can't. Sleep.
Scratchscratchscratch.
I crawl back to bed, defeated, and lay there, unblinking, until it stops. A lifetime later.
This is no longer a laughing matter. My sanity is at sake.
Also, John is convinced that the mouse is mocking him as it somehow climbs up on top of the fridge every night, and takes a piss on his passport. No, I do not know why he has not removed his passport. But every morning, another puddle of mouse wee. I have told him that most countries will now refuse him entry because he smells like a mouse toilet, but still he does not listen. He has requested that we buy a non-fatal trap so that once we catch the mouse, he can torture it by, you know, poking it. And stuff.
I am almost ready to admit defeat. I will probably do a special episode of girl.blog.etc featuring the various mouse traps we have used in an attempt to catch the little shit, because, yes, we have tried THAT MANY different ways.
He'll die of old age before we catch him. Or we will first.
- Quite amusingly for all involved, I somehow bluffed my way into the Top Six Salespeople in a recent competition at work, and was put to the test against the other five for Two Solid Hours of sales. I very loudly said, 'Two hours of sales! Somebody slit my wrists,' to no avail. I came joint-last with two others, but received half a day off as a reward for getting there in the first place. What a load of bollocks.
- But, half a day off! As I am working this Saturday and receiving the following Friday as an RDO, it makes sense to throw the half-day in for good measure and have a FABULOUS holiday. Alas, I am mighty poor, so my options are quite limited. I am thinking of flying off to another part of Australia, but am not entirely sure where. (I was going to go for the Alice Springs experience, but this has since been ruled out, because the flights are so pricey I would need to sell my organs and whore my shell of a body to pay for them.)
- I am thinking about taking unpaid leave when I go to South America next year, extending the trip to include Brazil, and coming home, QUITTING, and getting a job with a travel agent. Excuse me while I completely alter the course of my life YET AGAIN. I am a big twat.
- My mobile phone was being a right arse and didn't deliver any of my messages until Friday evening, when I discovered four voicemail messages. Three of them were from the real estate organising some repair work, and the third was eight minutes of a little girl CRYING. She wailed 'mummy' a few times, too. To say I was freaked out would be quite an understatement.
Mousey McTwatFace is yet to die. The little shit is outsmarting us at every turn, and I discovered the night after the Indian Drums incident that the intolerable scratchyscratch noises occurring every night will apparently continue, despite removing mousey's stenchy nest.
I think he is getting under the floorboards. Or inside the walls. I am truly going bananas. I get up every night, wearing naught, and stamp on the floor loudly. Then I crouch down on the floor and push my ear to the floorboards. Scratchscratchscratch. I punch the floor, and then curl up in the foetal position, or rock gently back and forth. Scratchscratchscratch.
Can't. Sleep.
Scratchscratchscratch.
I crawl back to bed, defeated, and lay there, unblinking, until it stops. A lifetime later.
This is no longer a laughing matter. My sanity is at sake.
Also, John is convinced that the mouse is mocking him as it somehow climbs up on top of the fridge every night, and takes a piss on his passport. No, I do not know why he has not removed his passport. But every morning, another puddle of mouse wee. I have told him that most countries will now refuse him entry because he smells like a mouse toilet, but still he does not listen. He has requested that we buy a non-fatal trap so that once we catch the mouse, he can torture it by, you know, poking it. And stuff.
I am almost ready to admit defeat. I will probably do a special episode of girl.blog.etc featuring the various mouse traps we have used in an attempt to catch the little shit, because, yes, we have tried THAT MANY different ways.
He'll die of old age before we catch him. Or we will first.
posted by GBE at 10:09 am
5 Comments:
If you want a really nice tiny break, jump on lastminute.com.au and find a special, every time I look they always have something cool.
If you want to go somewhere nice in Queensland, I'd suggest Caloundra. I was there for a week in January. I spent the first few days regretting it, because there is nothing to do and lots of old people, but then I learned to enjoy doing nothing and it was awesome. Forcing myself to do nothing but lie on the beach or lie on the couch eating Magnums was perfect.
Do let us know what you choose to do, I need to vicariously experience mini break :)
OK, are you completely befuggled on mouse pee fumes, or what?
Hello..... you know exactly where the mouse goes every single bloody night. The top of the refrigerator.
Just put the mouse trap on top of the passport, and when mousey goes to take his nightly whizzer.....
SNAP!!
No more scritchscritchscritch!
(Unless you secretly want to keep him alive so you can kill us all with the insane hilarity of these blog entries... which certainly wouldn't have me complaining....)
There is now only one solution. Robots. You know it and I know it. Go get some robots and set them on "Mouse Incineration". Let them have a go.
Or put like 30 traps on top of the fridge.
If you fancy freezing like a mofo and not having all that much to do, you could come to Adelaide. There is literally one decent restaurant and accompanying pub here and I'll take you to both.
Aurelius, I'll double-check and see if there's anything for late July just in case, as soon as my internet connection stops being an arse. Thanks!
Jen, Caloundra definitely rings bells. I'll have to look into it. At this stage, if we stay in Queensland, it looks like it'll be a Surfers Paradise trip. Which will be ok, as long as I drink so much that I no longer notice how cheesey it is.
Marcheline, that is a very good idea, except he was far too skilled to be caught in a mere mouse trap. We set them and set them and set them, in as many different ways as we could think of, to no avail. Oh well. Not a problem anymore, hurrah! It'll take a while for that smell to go away, though...
MHE, I wish I had robots. Pet robots, with names like Robo and Coggy, who would laser my enemies at will. And I bet if I had put 30 traps on top of the fridge that he would have carefully navigated each one and managed to avoid setting ANY of them off. He was either the cleverest mouse in the world, or could fly.
Audrey, that's the best offer a girl could receive, and I will check to see if I can get any good flight deals. I am saving my hard-earned pennies like a trooper.
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