I like to think of myself as ‘semi-tough’.
Ok, I’m not tough. But I can take care of things when my husband isn’t around. If there’s a bug, I can take care of it. If I think there’s an intruder, I’ll inspect the house (there isn’t an intruder, I know, but at night, alone, everything sounds like an intruder. You do it, too.) I tell myself that I’m perfectly handy, but that Nate is SO handy that my handiness is rendered unnecessary. That sounds okay, right?
When push comes to shove, though, I totally disappoint myself.
I opened the bifold doors today to do some laundry. You know how you keep the lid of the washer open to keep it from smelling musty? Well, I looked down, and on the far side–behind the spindle–was a dead mouse. It was small, and honestly, pretty cute…or as cute as I could determine from the .5 nanoseconds I looked before giving a shriek and turning around.
From upstairs, a very hesitant Nate said, ‘Please tell me it’s a big bug”.
I like to teach my son to love all animals. If there is a bug inside we put it on a piece of paper to take it outside to its “home”. When I saw this mouse, though, I was pissed. It made me feel like everything was dirty, and I wanted to kill every other living non-human, non-feline thing in the house. Nuke it, napalm, get rid of them all.
I feel like I dropped a few feminist points for leaving Nate to deal with the mouse, because all I could think about was how happy I was that I didn’t have to dispose of the body. But you know what? Forget that. If my partner was a woman, I’d STILL have negotiated my way out of doing it. So fine, I’m a wuss. At least I’m an equal opportunity wuss.