I've been sick. Real sick. I had a cold and that cold morphed into some sort of chest madness that I'm pretty sure is tuberculosis mixed with Chilean lung leprosy. I've been hacking up a lung for literally 3 weeks.
I finally broke down and took some antibiotics, even though I hate antibiotics. And those antibiotics made me feel better for a day and a half, and then they made me feel queasy and itchy and hot and dizzy and generally insane. I realized too late that I'm allergic to these demon antibiotics.
And so, I did what any normal girl would do. I went to Whole Foods and bought 2 bags of Red Hot Blues potato chips because they're the only thing that sounds good. I bought chips and Breathe Easy tea and oil of oregano and planned on healing myself without the devil antibiotics. I bought some soup and tried to keep my shit together.
Which brings us to this evening.
Tonight, I peeled my queasy, coughy self off the couch and warmed up some of the soup I had procured from Whole Paycheck. I poured the soup into a pan, and then opened the silverware drawer for a spoon.
There was a fur muff inside the silverware drawer!
The fur muff was moving!
The fur muff was a fat mouse, just chilling in my silverware drawer at 7 o'clock at night!
I screamed. I screamed like a virgin in a horror movie. I screamed, and the mouse ran down the outside of the cabinet and across the kitchen floor.
Like any sane woman, I levitated across the kitchen. But the mouse followed me! The mouse followed me, ran across my foot and climbed up my bare leg.
I hoisted myself up against the counter and kicked. I kicked like my life depended on it! I kicked and that mouse hit the floor, then scampered behind the stove.
Next thing I knew, I was in the dining room, looking into the kitchen. And I was still screaming. I stopped screaming just in time to hear the stove make a weird beeping noise, probably because the mouse was hot-wiring it, like a car.
I decided to scream once more for good measure. It felt good, and right. I wondered if the neighbors could hear. I didn't care.
After I collected myself somehwhat, I texted my husband the CliffsNotes version of the saga. I also informed him that I was burning down our house. As I glanced at his rather satisfying "holy shit!" response, I realized that the dogs were both lounging near the kitchen.
Those losers had done nothing to help me in my time of need! They hadn't become alarmed in the slightest when I was being so cruelly attacked, nor did they respond when I made sounds that I'm sure have never come out of my body before. Note to self: screaming doesn't interest dachshunds or labradoodles.
Today, I have been sorely disappointed by asshole antibiotics and lazy, no-good dogs. Also, by the vermin who continue to attack my kitchen. But I do feel like a mighty warrior, a survivor. Like Cher.