Okay good people, enough days have passed that now allow me to write this post.
The other night I got up in the wee hours of the morning. I had made these amazing swedish meatballs in a mushroom sauce, and I wanted a brief little nibble.
I quietly got out of bed, and when I got to the hallway I felt excited about my culinary accomplishment. This prompted me to strut into the kitchen werking my diva stomp. I had one hand on my hip, and my body swayed back and forth, because I know I'm deserving of that self-love.
As I passed the dining room, my diva stomp came to a slippery halt. It went like this. I hit the floor hard with my foot, heard a crunch sound, and said foot made a fierce slide across floor. It almost knocked me on my ass.
My immediate thought went to a visualization of one of the animales in the house going potty on the floor. I went to flick on the light very peeved. I was determine to see the offense on the floor and identify whether it was Gino or Geronimo.
Darlings, when I looked to the floor I saw a mouse, squashed like a pancake with his head splattered across the floor. It looked like a combination of the following two images:
Every atom in my body came to a stand still. I held both of my hands on my face, and nearly passed out. I summoned my inner high-riding bitch and went into action.
I ran to the kitchen and got Clorox, Lysol, you get the picture. I grabbed a plastic bag and removed the mouse that had went from the frying pan into the fire. Geronimo the cat done went on the hunt. Obviously!
Within minutes the dining room smelled of germ and bacteria killing chemicals. As for those chancletas, they have not been worn since, but were thoroughly cleaned. I'm not ready to wear them just yet.