The other morning (Nick and I now carpool to work), Nick turned the key in his SUV and white, batting-like bits blew from the defrost vents and, I imagine, created a life-sized CR-V snow globe. He, uh, parks outside these days. A cute red car resides in the garage, see. Ahem. Moving on. I will accept no guilt.
Well, he said nothing to me, busy throwing on my last bit of mascara, as he reentered. It wasn’t until we were converging on the vehicle that he submitted his suspicions—and concerns—that a mouse had taken residence in his vehicle. Friends of ours had this happen to them during a camping trip last June, and it caused considerably expensive damage to their Jeep. I moved gingerly to the passenger side, because of my bum bum of course, but also because I am not a mouse person. I’ve never had any sort of rodent as a pet and have long loved their mortal enemies above all other animals—here kitty-kitty-kitty!
So it was with great trepidation that I arranged myself in the bucket seat. After work, Nick bought mousetraps and set one on the driver’s seat floor before retiring for the evening. Grimly he checked the trap next morning and disposed of the uh…well, anyway. We took my car yesterday. However, I had a surgical workup at noon, and my father dropped me off at home afterwards (it was my half-day at work). This is all fine and dandy, but I wanted to make Nick cookies, the one he hinted for me to make for him during my time off from work—hinted with none of the covert and all of the obvious.
Peanut Butter Temptations, he tells me, maybe not by title. I only know their name because once upon a time, we had a cookie bake every December on my Dad’s side of the family…and apart from the krumkake, rosettes, and fattigmand (traditional Norwegian cookies), we made scores of others, including the famed Peanut Butter Temptation. So I needed ingredients for dough. I would have to take Nick’s SUV. He had set another trap that morning…so, carefully, I scooched the empty trap under the seat before I climbed inside.
Well, during my short drive home from the store, I hit a bump…the trap snapped. I screamed aloud thinking a mouse had just died MERE INCHES FROM MY PERSON, and turned the radio on to blare Christmas Carols at me through the final minutes of the trip, willing myself to forget. It must have worked as, upon returning home, I jumped from the car and carried my bags inside, completely forgetting to check the trap. In hindsight, to be fair, I doubt I would have anyway, even if I remembered. I’ve watched enough CSI that I don’t ever want to discover a body, I’m pretty sure.