Look Who Wears The Pants Now

It shouldn't surprise me.  At the house in Eugina he hid under a blanket while I chased a bat out the back door with a broom and a bucket.  I kill the spiders.  I unclog the drains.  I take out the garbage.  When I picked him up at work and told him about the rat the size of a cat that jumped out of the garbage can and scrambled through the house to hide beneath the hutch at the entry he was disgusted.  "Well, were going to have to deal with that."  Meaning I'm going to have to deal with that.

We're on the couch, watching a mindless sitcom, laughing over nighttime tea and oreos.  There's a rustle in the kitchen cabinet.  We both stiffen.  It's back.  Rustle...rustle...SNAP - like a pop gun.  The Better RODENTRAP by intruder.  It's a heavy-duty, grey, plastic pitfall of death.  There's a frantic scramble from within the coffin of the sink cabinet.  Pitiful squeals.  Sharp little talons struggling for purchase on the formica cupboard lining, trap banging against the back wall in one futile fight against inevitable assassination.

And then it's over.  The death dance is complete.  We stare at each other.  Each willing the other to act.  Each feeling the fingers of revulsion tickling along our spines.  Neither moving.  Oreos sitting like so much sand on our tongues.  Defiant.  Disgusted.  Disheartened.

I wait two hours.  Foolishly thinking he will step up.  He does not.  Of course.

I don my pretty pink rubber gloves - trying to put a little happily-ever-after into a task void of sunshine.  He is in full rigor.  Surrounded in the coffee grinds he managed to free from the garbage before succumbing to my prowess.  Like he was digging his own grave in a pile of Folgers Classic Roast.  I disengage the trap and he falls into the garbage bag without ceremony, nestling among slimy yogurt cups and shriveled spinach.  I remove the bag to the can on the deck where weather will petrify and garbage man will soon relocate far from my presence.

I return to his smug grin, slightly traumatized, acutely annoyed.  "How's it feel to know I'm more of a man than you are?"

All he does is laugh.

Want more rat stories?
Massacre At 212 Queen St S
Where Angels Fear To Tread
Where Angels Fear To Tread Part 2

5 comments:

  1. He didn't deal with it???!! WOW would have filed for divorce at that point. I am that shallow.

    ReplyDelete
  2. l I would have put it under his pillow...you know I would have.

    ReplyDelete
  3. ROFL - come and get ours no one wears the pants at this house...

    ReplyDelete
  4. You know I think I would have put it under his pillow too.

    ReplyDelete
  5. you go sista!

    ReplyDelete

I love comments and I appreciate, consider and read each one. I welcome your thoughts, whether you're in agreement or not; however, this website is a happy place and I will remove any comment that I believe to be inappropriate, malicious or spam like.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Look Who Wears The Pants Now

It shouldn't surprise me.  At the house in Eugina he hid under a blanket while I chased a bat out the back door with a broom and a bucket.  I kill the spiders.  I unclog the drains.  I take out the garbage.  When I picked him up at work and told him about the rat the size of a cat that jumped out of the garbage can and scrambled through the house to hide beneath the hutch at the entry he was disgusted.  "Well, were going to have to deal with that."  Meaning I'm going to have to deal with that.

We're on the couch, watching a mindless sitcom, laughing over nighttime tea and oreos.  There's a rustle in the kitchen cabinet.  We both stiffen.  It's back.  Rustle...rustle...SNAP - like a pop gun.  The Better RODENTRAP by intruder.  It's a heavy-duty, grey, plastic pitfall of death.  There's a frantic scramble from within the coffin of the sink cabinet.  Pitiful squeals.  Sharp little talons struggling for purchase on the formica cupboard lining, trap banging against the back wall in one futile fight against inevitable assassination.

And then it's over.  The death dance is complete.  We stare at each other.  Each willing the other to act.  Each feeling the fingers of revulsion tickling along our spines.  Neither moving.  Oreos sitting like so much sand on our tongues.  Defiant.  Disgusted.  Disheartened.

I wait two hours.  Foolishly thinking he will step up.  He does not.  Of course.

I don my pretty pink rubber gloves - trying to put a little happily-ever-after into a task void of sunshine.  He is in full rigor.  Surrounded in the coffee grinds he managed to free from the garbage before succumbing to my prowess.  Like he was digging his own grave in a pile of Folgers Classic Roast.  I disengage the trap and he falls into the garbage bag without ceremony, nestling among slimy yogurt cups and shriveled spinach.  I remove the bag to the can on the deck where weather will petrify and garbage man will soon relocate far from my presence.

I return to his smug grin, slightly traumatized, acutely annoyed.  "How's it feel to know I'm more of a man than you are?"

All he does is laugh.

Want more rat stories?
Massacre At 212 Queen St S
Where Angels Fear To Tread
Where Angels Fear To Tread Part 2

5 comments :

  1. He didn't deal with it???!! WOW would have filed for divorce at that point. I am that shallow.

    ReplyDelete
  2. l I would have put it under his pillow...you know I would have.

    ReplyDelete
  3. ROFL - come and get ours no one wears the pants at this house...

    ReplyDelete
  4. You know I think I would have put it under his pillow too.

    ReplyDelete
  5. you go sista!

    ReplyDelete

I love comments and I appreciate, consider and read each one. I welcome your thoughts, whether you're in agreement or not; however, this website is a happy place and I will remove any comment that I believe to be inappropriate, malicious or spam like.

Powered by Blogger.