We recently discovered, much to my husband’s amusement, that I scream like a girl when I see a mouse in my kitchen. Well, I am a girl, so there! Really, it’s the anticipation that is my undoing. I mean, I’m in my kitchen—a sacred space, also a space formed of myriad nooks and crannies—knowing that a mouse (or more!) is lurking, lurking, watching, waiting…shadows twitch on the outer edge of peripheral vision…the tension builds….[cue dramatic music]…EEK!
My story, and I’m sticking to it, is that I occasionally do something uber-helpless-feminine (e.g. “the mouse scream”) to give him the opportunity to be the Protective, Problem-Solving Man.
So I was trying to decide whether it’s more disturbing to share a home with rodents or roaches. We found more than our fair share of the latter (any at all being more than our share, in my book) when we moved into our first St. Louis apartment.
Generally, I find small mammals less disgusting than large insects. But while I tend to think of roaches as being inherently grosser than mice, I don’t think a roach ever elicited a scream from me. Those nasty bugs caused me great unhappiness, to be sure, and once I actually fled the apartment, tracked down my husband of two months, and informed him that I would not be returning to our apartment until he could present me with the death certificate of a certain mouse-sized (no joke!) roach.
Fortunately, thanks to my Protective and Problem-Solving Man (and the fact that we don’t live in a climate where the crunchy bugs flourish), our kitchen is a sacred, scream-free zone once again. (Well, at least it’s free of mouse-screams.)