It’s recently come to our attention there’s a fourth occupant in our house. We chose not to put him on the census because, while he’s noisy enough to be a kid, he’s actually a mouse.
Two nights ago he woke us both up as he frantically molested an old PowerBar wrapper that had fallen down behind our vanity drawers. What a PowerBar wrapper was even doing in my bathroom, and especially a drawer, I will never know. That’s just one of the unsolved mysteries you sign on for when you get married and have kids.
So last night we set out two traps in our bathroom; a glue trap in one corner and the tried and true “back breaker” mouse trap inside the vanity. As I was brushing my teeth, mental pictures of a mouse actually being caught in either (and especially the glue trap) started playing out in my mind.
“Toby,” I said “If we actually catch something in either trap, I’m exercising Girl Privilege.”
“Girl Privilege. I do not handle dead rodents. It’s part of the unwritten contract you signed on for when you married a girl and not a hairy guy.”
This morning I woke up to find a dead, stiff and slightly bloated grey mouse just beside the classic trap. I was grateful it had died quickly…and, let’s be honest, that it hadn’t woken me up with it’s frantic squealing.
“Looks like you got yourself a mouse, babe.” I yelled to the bedroom. I was accepting zero ownership in this gruesome undertaking.
He got up and came to inspect. “I don’t know how you can claim Girl Privilege” he complained. “What’s that supposed to mean anyway?”
“It means if I were the kind of person that didn’t mind picking up dead rats, I wouldn’t be the kind of girl you’d wanted to marry. ”
“Good point” he grumbled, and picked up the mouse with a plastic sack.