Sometimes I Really Do Scream Like a Girl

THIS WAS ME....

THIS WAS WHY....

So, a week ago last Thursday I'm sitting on the sofa, alone, watching an old episode of Friends while enjoying a hot, greasy, thick slice of pepperoni pizza. I started working out in January and I had my first child 19 years ago...so it'd been a while since I had either a piece of pizza or a room to myself and I was in heaven. Heaven, I tell you.

Oh, I should also mention that my house is haunted, but that's another story for another day. I just mention it at all because it's probably the reason I failed to immediately run from the room when I noticed a black blur rush by me out of the corner of my eye....I see a lot of black blurs around here. Or at least I think I do. Besides, I had a hot slice of greasy pepperoni cheesy crust pizza in my mouth. Even a ghost wasn't worth giving it up.

So, I continued to snarf and watch Friends and enjoy the quiet solitude that can only come from sending the children to their rooms to snarf their own hot, greasy pizza in front of their own boob tubes. Then I saw it again. And this time it couldn't be ignored.

A black mouse...running from behind my bookcase to behind my television. My eyes shifted, momentarily, to my piece of pizza, then back to the mouse, and to my pizza again. Shit. As much as I wanted that piece of pizza, and every single one of it's fat, artery-clogging calories, there was just no ignoring the fact that somewhere, behind the very television in front of me, sat a black, furry, beady-eyed rodent. And while he might have been small enough to fit in my pocket {{{{...shudder...}}}}, he was just big enough to send me leaping, feet never touching the floor, in an Olympic-worthy vault from the sofa to the top of the kitchen table ...screaming like preteen girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. Screaming and screaming and screaming.

Let me ask you this...What would happen at your house if you let out a terrifying girly scream, loud enough to wake the dead? Someone would check, right? Someone would come flying to make sure you're okay, right? Well, same here. Someone did. The 7 year old. I was only about 10 seconds into the scream, give or take, when Gabrielle came cautiously down the steps and peered into the kitchen. Without a word, she stepped onto a chair and shimmied her way to the top of the kitchen table, where she took stand with me, a silent show of loyalty and camaraderie. Particularly touching, considering she had no earthly idea why I might be standing on top of the kitchen table, screaming bloody murder. Or, perhaps, particularly disheartening...as I can't decide what her lack of surprise and question must say about me.

Eventually Dylan made his way down the stairs too. But only for more pizza. He's almost 12, though. Nothing shocks him...and if it does, he tries really, really hard to pretend that it doesn't. So it didn't surprise me much that he didn't even pause when he saw us standing on top of the table, but I thought he'd at least ask why I might be screaming like a stuck pig while his sister stood next to me, silent as a deer in headlights, trying desperately to pretend this was just another, ordinary day. He didn't. Like I said, he was just there for the pizza.

And Jeremiah? My heroic husband of 13 years? SEVEN minutes. SEVEN minutes is how long his wife and daughter stood on the kitchen table, helplessly watching Mickey run back and forth between the fireplace and the television...both of us screaming (Gabrielle finally figured out this wasn't some kind of Midwestern rain dance) every time he left one to go to the other.

Apparently, nothing comes between Jeremiah and a winning round of Call of Duty 4 -- not even a screaming wife and daughter. For all he knew it could have been a masked intruder, holding us at knife point, forcing us to watch back to back episodes of Dancing with the Stars. When this is all over, I think we're going to have to review the "comfort and protect" section of our wedding vows.

When Jeremiah finally did blow in to the rescue, things went from bad to worse. By this time, I had watched that hairy rat make his way, whiskers twitching, eyes beading, closer and closer to the kitchen table so that upon Jeremiah's arrival, I was about two shakes shy of complete hysteria.

"OhmyGod.OhmyGod.Didyouseeit?Didyou?Holycrapthere'samouse.

There'safreakingmouse!Getit!Getit.Aren'tyougoingtogetit?"

As I'm screaming and pointing, the mouse makes a dash from the television to the fireplace, where it slides in under the metal panel at the bottom. God bless him, brave as any mountain lion stalking its prey, my (better late than never) husband pulls the panel off the fireplace, lays on his stomach and (OHMYGOD) puts his HAND in the fireplace!

"God.Don'ttouchit.Don'ttouchit.Getback.Whatifitrunsrightoutatyou?

Ican'tbelieveyou'regettingyourfacethatclose.Don'tputyourHANDinthere.OhMyGod."

Just as I suspected, after a minute or two of fishing around in the fireplace, the mouse came darting out, bobbing and weaving, looking for another quick place to hide. Jeremiah pounced. And missed. Pounced again. And missed again. (I said brave like a mountain lion, not agile.) Meanwhile, Mickey continues to bob and weave, bob and weave. And now he's back behind the television.

"It'sbehindthetv.Behindthetv.OhmyGod,thereitgoes.It'sbehindthebookcase.Behindthebookcase."

Jeremiah, in all of his infinite wisdom and bravery, uses my sofa pillows (I briefly think to reprimand him for this but quickly decide that's probably not in my best interest) to block the mouse in behind the bookcase and with a look of conquest and determination on his face says....

"Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty"

(Again, here I have a brief thought, which I decide would be better left unshared).

Unfortunately, years of getting his giggles from teasing and playfully tormenting the kitty, doesn't make Kitty real receptive to his master's call. Besides, Kitty hasn't done anything more than eat, sleep and poop around this house in a good 10 years. She would have casually watched Mickey scramble by with barely a glance. Thankless animal. Again, another story for another day.

Anyway, that mouse, sneaky and clever as he is, makes it through Jeremiah's pillow blockade (if you can believe it) and heads back toward the television. Jeremiah leaps and LANDS....

"OhmyGod.Don'tkillit.Don'tkillit!"

Finally exasperated with my willy nilly screaming and borderline hysteria Jeremiah finally breaks his silence...

"Damn, Woman. What do you want? 'Catch it. Get it. Don't kill it.' Which is it? Catch it or Don't kill it? Because I can't do both."

...Silence...Pondering....Pondering.

Mickey takes off again..."KILL IT!"

Too late. Mickey has made his way under the basement door (beating the afghan barrier as easily as the pillow blockade) to the depths of the house. To safety.

The excitement seemingly over, the crowd dispersed. Dylan, in a typical demonstration of disinterest, had gone back upstairs before his dad ever arrived down them. Jeremiah gave up as soon as Mickey ran under the door and was back upstairs, rifle in hand, for another round of Call of Duty, before the mouse hit the first step toward the basement. Even Gabrielle abandoned ship...or table, as it were...the loyalist (and littlest) of allies seeing no more reason for concern.

And now, it's a week later.

I did, eventually, give up the safety of the kitchen table and have, somehow, found the courage to return to the living room. Unfortunately, Mickey still roams free amongst our family. Happily eating the crumbs left on the floor, popping in just long enough to let me know he's still watching. Waiting. Silently stalking. Lying low until it appears I may have dared to forget his existence. Buying his time until I carelessly sling open the pantry door or pull open a kitchen drawer to find his beady eyes staring back at me from the top of a jar of peanut butter...to once again, have me screaming like a girl.