The Time I Had a Staredown with a Mouse (while naked)

Tonight I received a much-needed reminder of the virtues of humor. I spent a night out with my ladies--who, by the way, are amazing. I am so thankful for each and every one of them. We went to a comedy show, which was awesome, but I probably laughed just as hard at my friends’ stories throughout the night.

I rarely feel more like myself than when I'm laughing. Equally delightful is when I can make someone else laugh, which is one of my favorite things in the entire world. So tonight, as I laughed and made others laugh, I felt good. I felt like me. It was fantastic.

A few of my friends boosted me up, too, in overtly reminding me that I can be a funny lady sometimes. It felt like a revelation to hear this, as lately I have felt about as far from funny as is humanly possible.

Here’s the best part: These gals encouraged me to be silly. Write down your funny stories, they said. We want to hear about these things on your blog, they said.

I am only too eager to acquiesce, especially if it means I can make someone laugh. Bonus points if it heals me a little in the process.

And so, without further ado, tonight I will retell for you a True Story in the life de Allison—The Time I Had a Staredown with a Mouse (while Naked).

The year was 2007, and the month was October. At the time my husband and I lived in a small, bungalow-type house, and it was old—built in 1921. The one bathroom on the main floor had just a bathtub—a beautiful, deep, clawfoot tub that we’d fallen in love with as young, stupid, first-time pre-kid pseudo-hipster homebuyers—but no shower. The only shower in the home was in the basement—and no, not in a finished bathroom. It was one of those rigged-up standalone stall jobs that sat in a cement-floored room right next to our home’s second toilet. The toilet was extra cool, because it was elevated, situated about a foot off of the ground on its own round cement pedestal-- sitting on it made you feel like you were sitting on a throne. So regal. All of this was open to the rest of the room, which also housed our washer and dryer. The shower, washer, and air conditioner all drained to the same floor drain, right in the middle of that cold, ugly little room. And there were these random square mirrors stuck to the walls, for God knows what reason—I guess so you could see yourself unattractively using all of the various facilities?  The whole setup down there was so, so classy. (Ask my mom. She loved showering down there when she stayed with us. Always a highlight of her visits.)

One of the issues with the downstairs shower situation (among many) was that sometimes you’d forget your towel, and since we didn’t keep the towels in the basement, you’d be shit out of luck. On that brisk late October morning, I walked my still sleep fuzzy self into a steaming shower and sighed with relief—only to summarily realize that I hadn’t grabbed a towel. Damnit.

I was wet but not uber-wet, and so before things got too serious with hair washing and leg shaving and whatnot, I hopped out to run upstairs for a towel. I shook myself off like Golden Retriever does after a dip in the lake—pretty sure I was less graceful than a Golden, but you get my drift. And then I lumbered up the stairs, water still shaking off with each step.

Did I mention that I was eight months pregnant?

My cold, dripping, naked, pregnant, unassuming self schlepped up those stairs, which landed me in our kitchen.

And that’s when I saw it.

And it saw me.

And it saw that I saw it and I saw that it saw that I saw it. 

An effing mouse. Sitting on my stove. Holding a piece of dry macaroni in its stupid little front claws.

We’d had a mouse infestation that year—prior to that day, in late October, we’d already caught four or five. Keeping the mice at bay was always rough in that old house, which we’re guessing had multiple tiny holes and spaces to the outside, created over years of wear and settling. (Also, one time there was a snake in my basement. And no one believed me until years later, we found snakeskins in the storage room. The day we found the skins was one of the most vindicating days of my life. Also one of the grossest.)

So on the day of the naked staredown (mice are always naked, right?) with the mouse, I’d had enough. I was up to here with those little fuckers.

Neither me nor the mouse wanted to make the first move. I was frozen— right foot in the kitchen, left foot still on the second stair, arms suspended in motion, hardly able to blink. Not taking my eyes off of the vermin. The eye contact was intense. We may have seen into each others' souls. 

I’m also not sure who was more freaked out—it or me. Didn’t matter that I’d already seen a ton of those little guys, living and dying and dead—every time I saw one was slightly terrifying.  Which as I sit and re-read sounds pretty lame for a grown-ass woman, and one that could grow an entire child in her womb, but hell, honesty is always a good policy and mice sort of scare me because they’re fast and gross and ew.

I’m not sure how long we stared at each other without moving—could have been two seconds, could have been ten, who knows. Without breaking eye contact with it, I started a slow, sneaky walk into my kitchen, carefully placing one foot in front of the other. In the moment I felt like a panther, gracefully stalking its prey. Yet when I look back on it and think of my awkwardly lumpy pregnant naked body trying to do an elegant prowl, I just laugh. Had to look more like a not-so-sneaky hippopotamus.

Anyway, I’m “sneaky walking” towards my kitchen table, upon which I could see, out of the corner of my eye, sat an empty pot.

But my graceful hippo walk was too much for the mouse-- it dropped its contraband macaroni and ran. And I ran. I scrambled for the pot, grabbed it, and made chase. The mouse flew over the counter, me after it, slamming the pot indiscriminately down. Maybe bashing a few dents into counter, I didn’t know, I didn’t care, I just wanted the mouse.

I didn’t get the mouse. It was too quick, too wily. I blame pregnancy reflexes. And also the fact that I kept slipping on the linoleum, because I was still dripping wet.

After the mouse had disappeared into some unseeable, unreachable corner of my kitchen, I stood there, heart pounding, breathing heavily from anxiety and exertion. I was cold, wet, and I’d just been bested by a rodent. What do you even do after that? 

I sat down the pot, got myself a towel, went back downstairs with my effing towel, took a shower, got ready and went to work. Like my pregnant ass hadn’t just chased a mouse around my kitchen naked. No big deal. It was all very anticlimactic.

But I shit you not: from that point on, every time I came up the stairs after a shower, I was vigilant. The song The Eye of the Tiger was lodged in my head as I made my daily ascent, and I kept my pots, pans, and reflexes at the ready. Being bested by a rodent was a shame that I could never, ever let happen again.

And then a year later, my husband installed a shower in our claw foot tub and my basement-showering days drew to a close. Over the years, my mouse PTSD has ever so slowly died away.

The End.