Of Mice, Not Men

So I didn’t make big promises in my first post right? No great expectations going on out there that I should be aware of? Then let’s get started. The blog is orange now, which I kind of like, although I’m worried that it’s too bright. On to something else, because how neurotic can one person be? Although obviously, since this is written, I’ve had a chance to edit it and whatever neurosis are still on the page are intended to be. Or, I just didn’t notice them. But clearly I’ve noticed them; I mentioned them. Unless when I mentioned them I was thinking of one thing while the things that are apparent to others are entirely different issues of which I’m not even aware. I’ll lose a little sleep over that.

No more talk about the blog itself. Ok, limited talk about the blog itself. It’s new and I’m obsessed with it. Sorry. In six months I’ll probably be like, “Ugh. Fucking Blog. LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Since you’re still here, I’ll tell you about the mice. It’s not much as rewards go.

Once when I was little, we had mice. Not pet mice, mice in the house. Wild mice that sped across the floor, over toes, and under furniture with an abandon undeterred by the most hysterical shrieks, or any amount of scrambling for safety onto the aforementioned furniture by the humans of the house, namely my mother and I. I think it was the rapid and unpredictable movement that was so alarming; theirs, not ours.

After a while, the mice acquired names. All of course, cute mousy little names. The names were given by my mother, who could actually tell them apart. A mouse would go scurrying across the floor while my mother and I cowered on the couch with my dog Star, who was also terrified by the tiny invaders, and my mother would identify Mickey, or Minnie, or Mighty. I believe Mighty had the upturned nose.

I feel like there were at least two or three more, but my memory isn’t the best. That could be thanks to a few substances or it could be I’ve blanked the names out for emotional reasons. Maybe the ones I can’t remember were my favorites.

It was decided, at some level beyond my clearance, that living with a houseful of wild mice was not the thing. It wasn’t long before the bodies started turning up, and one by one Mighty, Minnie, Mickey, and the others were, by the shape of a nose or the quirk of a tail, gaily identified and disposed of.

And was strewing all that poison around when a dog and a child were in residence the best idea? Evidence of a simpler time, I guess. Before the days of pesky public service safety announcements, when one could still plausibly say, “Oh my god. I had no idea she would eat that. Who ever heard of a four year old putting something so inappropriate in her mouth?”

Somehow, Star and I made it through unscathed, physically at least, and to Mickey and company, I feel safe in saying that I’ll never forget you. I know. I’ve tried.