Damn, Freaking, Ugly, Bastard, Ass, Shit Mice.

I'm scared of mice. Ridiculous and illogical as it is, I'm scared of the furry little bastards. They make me scream. Literally. Like a woman from the 1950's with her puffy skirt and high heels when she vacuums, type of scream. Once, when I was much younger and even sillier, I slept in a bathtub to avoid being ravaged by a mouse while I slept.
So this morning when I woke up at six and felt panicked by my life, and out of control, and decided that the best remedy for lack of control was to take some, I drove to where my things have been in storage since our house fire (SIX FREAKING MONTHS), and packed up a few of the boxes with kitchen paraphernalia. I figured I'd unpack a little, line my shelves with pretty paper, organize my dishes, do a little cleaning, so that when the house renovations are finished, I'll be set to move in and have a few less boxes to worry about.
Lovely idea, yes?
Too bad about the damn, freaking, ugly, bastard, ass, shit mice that have moved into my house before me.

India and I were looking around our place this morning, thinking good thoughts, deciding where to begin, when a furry little bugger flew/scurried in his little mouse ways across my kitchen floor to a pile of renovation trash.
I screamed, in a very unholy, non-mother sort of way. India was thrilled.
So, for half an hour I talked out my fear with India and told her how angry I was about that mouse. She listened in her extra smart, three year old way, and we decided, after much positive self talk, that the dumb ass mouse, wasn't gonna win.
We went to Safeway, bought some of those sticky traps, and headed back home.
I carefully peeled apart the sticky traps and shoved them into the kitchen with a broom handle. Nothing happened. I called my mom for back up moral support, as India's was beginning to lag, and the little shit mouse ran across the floor again into a garbage bag. My mom told me what we always tell each other in these sorts of situations, "Pretend you're a pioneer woman." (We've got a lot of respect for them pioneer ladies.) I had been pretending I was a pioneer women as best as I could, but hearing it from my mom spurred me on. I picked up that garbage bag, I tossed it outside. I cleaned up the kitchen. I set more traps. And I caught a mouse. And I thought I was going to be sick, I felt so sorry for the poor little fur ball. And then, I caught another, and another. And then, I opened my boxes of kitchen "stuff" and saw that every box that had food in it, had been munched, crunched, pooped, chewed, scurried over by more damn, freaking, ugly, bastard, ass, shit mice.
I called for back up. A friend is moving all the micey boxes outside into minus 30 Celsius weather, for me. He's a setting traps, laying out poison, stuffing holes. DECLARING WAR.

Oh, you little furry beasts. There have been casualties, it is a sad result of war, and I may have left feeling defeated (and in need of a shower), discouraged by your sheer numbers and fantastic speed, but I tell you, I tell you, with fist raised to the heavens, "You ain't gettin' my damn house. So bugger off!"