Mouse #3 has arrived.

Ugh. I spent Sunday afternoon washing the contents of the silverware drawer with bleach.

But I bought this, on the urging of a co-worker (hey, Dave!) and my brother. Frankly, I hate mice. Really. I don't care how they die, as long as they get the hell out of my house. So I was using glue traps, which lend to a slow, painful death. Honestly, this is no skin off my back. But I thought that perhaps N doesn't want to be involved in the cruel murder of animals, and I respect that. Plus it might be kind of interesting to see the little fuckers in a box, rather than imagining them crawling all over my bed at night. (Sidenote: According to Gerard and Dave, allowing Wilbur and/or Rufus to kill and eat the mouse is better than a glue trap. "Circle of life," they said. However, Wilbur and Rufus are well-fed fatties and prefer to bat the carcasses around rather than eat them).

And N has been on this "let's not buy products that were tested on animals" kick. So here is a list of companies that are cruelty free. Harumph. Hippies!

We had dinner at N's colleague's house, and N's co-worker Lynn makes the best homemade bread ever. We were suppossed to see a high school production of Oklahoma!, but thankfully, we decided that it was a lame idea and that we should sit around and drink instead. Amen to that.

When we last left our hero, she had courageously battled Mouse #1 and defeated said rodent with kitty kibble and a glue trap. Now, join Culotte as she battles Mouse #2– her most curious foe yet.

So last night, I came home and planted my ass in the very spot in which I sit now– in front of the laptop. I had a brilliant brainstorm and I was itching to write it down before dinner. N was doing his thing: cooking and listening to All Things Considered. It's just what he does.

I noticed that Wilbur was batting something around the floor in the office (aka, the entryway/laundry room/"west wing") and I figured, "Oh, that must be that fake mouse that he loves to shuffle around the kitchen floor."

Nay, dear readers, it was not a toy. It was in fact, a real "live" mouse carcass that Wilbur batted around like a hockey puck. Little Gretsky made it into the guest room before I mustered the sense to actually take a look at what he was playing with.

"Um, N," I called. "It's a real freaking mouse."

"Not it!" N replied, placing his finger on his nose as he stirred beans. "Not it" is typically N's cute way of being lazy; he usually calls it when a DVD needs to be changed or the clothes need to be put in the dryer. But I knew that in this case, "Not it," meant "I am as scared of this mouse as you'll ever be, so put on your rubber gloves and big girl undies and get that rodent the fuck out of this house, please."

So I scooted Wilbur out of the way, simultaneously praising him for being such a good little mouser, and I donned bright yellow rubber dish gloves. I am so cheap and practical that I decided not to "dirty" the gloves– and I grabbed some saran wrap, people– yes, saran wrap so I could properly dispose of the mouse.

Wilbur gave me a look of horror and shock ("Where are you taking my friend?!") as I picked up little Mouse #2 and hastily carried him to the front door.

I could have properly brought him to the edge of the woods and tossed him towards a more nurturing grave, but it was cold and I was wearing slippers and I don't care about mice that much, so I stood in the doorway and hurled him towards my neighbor's house. I figured that their dog, Jenny, would inevitably eat it, or their outdoor cat, Tyler, would bring it home as a gift. Either way, he was out of my life.

I prefer not to think of how in God's name the little piece of shit made it into my house, rather, I just gave Wilbur extra treats and scolded Rufus for being such a lazy pile of fur. ("Why can't you be more like Wilbur?!") I'm going to be such a terrible mother.

But that's neither here nor there. The point is, Mouse #2 is out of my life forever, and should Mouse #3 appear, he is royally fucked.