Go to the damn tea party and vacate my premises.

I sat on my bed a couple hours ago recuperating from yet another invasive procedure (and sadly not the last) that involved laxatives and a long, long tube and was disturbed, not by my unending gas pains, the general rumbling of my guts, the grogginess of the anesthesia, but by a small, dark thing moving along my peripheral field of vision somewhere near my door. This small, dark thing was a mouse. A freaking mouse... in my bedroom.

Now, I knew darn well that we had mice in the apartment. This was not happy knowledge. Cute or not, rodents are rodents. I don't even dig on squirrels - rats w/better PR. Mice? Totally not my thing. I saw a dead one about a month ago and my roommate saw three last week - all alive mind you. However, since the exterminator came on Saturday (whom my landlord refers to in a thick Jamaican accent with no intended humor as "the terminator") and supposedly eradicated the vermin, I figured I wouldn't be seeing any mice in my bedroom today. Normally I'm a pretty tough chick. I mean, I like pink and dresses are cool, but I'm not an uber girly girl.

That said, nothing sends me into squealing chick mode like rodents. Well, rodents or roaches. Both of which we have. It's so disgusting. I've been voluntarily marooned on my bed for the last 2 hours with the exception of a quick trip to the bathroom, natch. I know I'm bigger then he is. I know he can't hurt me. I know all of the reality, but I still don't want to see that mouse. Nu uh. No thanks. I'm moving in 2 weeks and it is a good thing. It's also a good thing because there was a shooting on my block yesterday. A 15 yr old kid took a bullet to the head. Yep. Makes my mouse drama ridiculous.

I'm braving it. I'm headed to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. If I don't post again soon send a search party. I'm one of the only white women in Flatbush. You'll find me.