First, apologies for the lack of posting and commenting the past week!
Husband took a few days off from work last week [well, he didn't go into the office at least], so we had a fun week and a great weekend. He went back to work today.
But things never really get back to 'normal,' do they?
My day with the baby was pretty uneventful.
My evening, notsomuch.
OMG again just thinking about it.
My trusty sidekick, Cowardly Cat, alerted me to the situation by [appropriately] cowering in the corner of the kitchen.
As I glanced toward the ridiculously expensive garbage cans I purchased back in my less frugal days that come to think of it I should sell on Craigslist, I saw movement. That was all I had to see.
Grabbing the baby, I moved as fast as my tubby little legs could carry us into my bedroom and locked the door. Luckily, I also grabbed the phone to call Husband.
I notified him, in hushed tones [because it might hear me? Geez.], that something was alive in our kitchen. He quickly discerned from my tone that it must be an unwelcome something alive rather than, say, the baby or the cats, and he came up with a fantasgreat plan.
Or, you know, he told me to grab the Dustbuster and head for the kitchen.
I got as far as the living room before I decided that, indeed, although I would do anything for love, I wouldn't do that.
So I scooped up the tot and headed to Male Nurse Neighbor's house. He's been incredibly helpful in the past, and who could refuse to my cuddly-wuddly baby boy?
Alas, he didn't answer the door. If you're reading this, Male Nurse Neighbor, I saw your car in the driveway.
So down the street I went to the house of many inhabitants. Since there are always about, oh, infinity cars in the driveway, and I met the elders of the house at Rosie's party [thank God for Rosie's party!], I figured someone would help.
Pregnant teen answered the door, and I asked if her father could come investigate the "something alive in my kitchen." He wasn't home, but her brother J would be happy to.
I can't bear to tell you in full-sized text what J found, so, once again, I'll whisper.
A mole. In my house. Where I live.
Craziness ensued. J thought he got it out. About 15 minutes after he left, it reappeared. Back down the street I went. J wasn't home anymore [or was hiding from the crazy lady with the shrieks heard 'round the block], so little brother D offered to help. But only after I scrounged up a mousetrap. So over to Rosie's I went. And together we wound up at Amway Fran's borrowing a mousetrap at 9:30 PM. D was, like his brother, largely ineffectual, but I do appreciate their efforts.
Back into my locked bedroom I went, apologizing to my child for bringing him into a vermin-infested world. Husband, at this point, was hurdling through time and space to get back to this suburban nightmare. He suggested I try to take my mind off things by turning on the TV.
What was on? The Mole. And? Verminators.
In the words of Mr. Wuhl, I shit you not.
So here I sit, posting to you from a lovely hotel, where me and my child will remain until Husband and the team of exterminators he somehow rounded up in the middle of the night prepare to remedy the situation.