So. Friday morning I awoke earlier than usual and after jamming to what I can only guess was a Rhianna song on my shower radio (she's popular, right?), I decided to treat myself to a healthy, home cooked egg-white sandwich in the company of my man: Matt Lauer. Someday, we'll share breakfast nude, and in bed (or nude, and at a diner, if we're feeling frisky), but until that day I'll have to settle for just watching him on tv. Clad in boxers, a tank-top, and fuzzy slippers, sandwich and coffee in hand, I made my way to the couch to discover (gasp!) Matt and I have company. A mouse.
The good news is, the mouse was cleanly stuck to a trap. The bad news: he was still very much alive. And he was thrashing, and squeaking for dear life.
I sprung to action. And by that, I mean I screamed like a little bitch and ran around the apartment, squealing louder than the trapped mouse. I then put on bright yellow rubber gloves, grabbed a broom and some trash bags and got down to business. After much maneuvering, I managed to get the straws of the broom stuck to the trap and swing it in into a waiting trash bag like some kind of, I don't know, lacrosse stick? I'm getting tired.
Still panicking, the mouse still squeaking, I decided the only thing to do would be to run outside and toss the mouse into one of the corner trash cans. (And, yes, the mouse was still alive. Yes, this is "cruel." If you're concerned or offended by this, you're going to want to find another blog. Which I'm sure will be hard considering how hilarious and frequently updated this one is.)
Anyway! This is the good part! So, in a wild frenzy, I grabbed my keys and ran outside, heading for the trashcan on the street corner, just as the garbage men pull up to said trashcan. The trash man jumped off the truck, you know, trash man style and I just sort of stood there, holding the bag out, sheepishly, "it's a mouse." He took it from me anyway. It was at this time that I remembered that, not only was I still wearing rubber gloves, I was also wearing slippers, little boxers and a tank top sans bra. The garbage man visibly looked me down, and up and slightly back down, finally settling his eyes on my boobular region and drawled "Nooo problem, miss. You have a great day."
Ew sir, ew. It is 7:30 AM, I'm wearing rubber gloves and carrying a live mouse in a grocery bag and you're getting a hard-on? Men! Am I right, ladies??
On the other hand, I suppose it was sort of flattering. I wonder if he's on OK Cupid?