Murderer

Yes, I am a murderer.

You know that scene where a  seemingly yet debatably completely sane person in a movie goes ballistic and wields a knife, stabbing  the evil dude repeatedly? You know, the one who is reeking havoc in their small town?

That would be me. Only my weapon of choice was a flip flop (formally known as a thong but now we can’t call it that because that would make this a totally different kind of story).

We set up 4 or 5 traps for this very social mouse that seems to want to be a part of the family. Maybe we’ll name him Stuart and dress him up. Or hope he walks into that tantalizing plastic castle to have his neck snapped.

I like choice number 2 best.

This morning we were chilling out watching cartoons after my oldest went to school when my 5 year old said, “Mom, I just saw the rat, it went under the TV again.” This nonchalant attitude was completely different from the one she had the night before when she was bawling and saying, “Whyyyyyy did Jesus make mouses?!!”

I stared at the entertainment center wondering how I was going to get through the day knowing that mangy piece of swear word was in my house. Suddenly, I saw this little furry face poke around the corner. That mouse came back out and wandered around the for a second. While I was attempting to use what little brain power I have in the morning to come up with a plan to catch the little swear word, he took off for the bedrooms. Specifically, my baby’s bedroom. Which was a huge mess. He could hide in there for days!

Not knowing what else to do, I went to keep my volunteering appointment in my daughter’s class, all the while seething with frustration that that stupid animal was still alive.

I came home to get my daughter’s backpack for school, thinking about what I was going to do to get rid of him faster. As I turned the corner to walk up my stairs, I came face to face with that little piece of swear word!

Let the screaming and profanity commence.

I grabbed the nearest weapon while he was stunned by my totally planned  war cry, a mangy flip flop, and beat the living swear word out of that little menace! And I beat it good.

I needed to grab something to put it in so I could take him to his grave, aka garbage can, but I didn’t know if he was playing dead, so I grabbed a heavier shoe and beat it a few more times, went and got a grocery bag and using it like a glove, I picked up the carcass and ran outside to the garbage.

All while squealing like a deranged lunatic continuing my war cry.

When I finally got back in the car, where, luckily, I had left the kids, I was sweating, panting and shaking. My 5 year old looked at me and said, “What are you doing??”

I’ve been wired ever since. I think I have PTSD or something.

Here’s a picture of the crime scene. Yes, that is blood.  I may or may not have some aggression issues but I’m not sure.

All I know is sometimes a good murder can be very cathartic.

But if PETA shows up, I’m denying everything.

**PS- Thanks for all the kind words sent my way yesterday! It always helps to express your feelings and have people tell you you’re not alone! You all are the best!