I think I saw a mouse in the kitchen. I'm going to cry. I've been feeling overwhelmed to begin with; now I'm overwhelmed and nauseated.
My phobia of rodents makes it hard for me to function. The only way I was able to return to the location of the peripheral mouse sighting (I can't be sure it was a mouse and not a figment of my imagination, but let's be real--it's five degrees outside, while in here it's a balmy 62, and crumbs abound) was to have my dog, Roxie, go in ahead of me to sniff things out. She didn't appear to sense anything, so I bit the bullet. The dog tried to leave as soon as I joined her. "Get back here!" I shrieked, not only to get the dog's attention, but to make a general noisy situation that would not appeal to vermin.
I quickly made my sandwich. Roxie stayed semi-loyally by my side. I made sure to look only where I absolutely needed to. I've known for awhile that we have mice, but the knowledge alone is not the problem. Witnessing the low-lying scurry is what freaks me the fuck out. I was proud of my record in our previous home of never having attuned to a mouse. It wasn't that we didn't have any (the house was built in 1790 with a foundation like swiss cheese); it was that I made sure to avoid looking too closely at dark recesses and never snuck unannounced into a room.
It appears my luck, or calculated obliviousness, has run out. It's time for The Partner to don his exterminator's hat again while I begin the deep clean.
Or I can just keep sitting here and blogging about it in hopes that the situation will resolve itself.