How a Blueberry Muffin Gave Me Laryngitis

So, those of you who know me or read my work a lot (just nod and smile in agreement) probably know that I am not really an "emotional" girl. I can't think of a single movie I have ever cried at (except E.T. but I was 8 and it scared the ever loving crap out of me), I don't "freak out" about little things. In fact, even my husband would admit that I don't really "do" PMS (there's a ten spot in it for ya if you agree, babe). I am not afraid to sleep alone, or walk in the dark. I kill spiders. Snakes don't make me wet myself. But today, I am ashamed to admit, something small, cute and fuzzy made me scream loud enough that it seriously rivaled the shot heard 'round the world.

It was a lovely morning. It is that delightful part of Indian Summer where it is still warm outside. It was Saturday, and my hubby had to go to work at about 3 am, so not only did I get to sleep in, but I got to hog the whole bed. Yessss! So, once I had woken from my peaceful slumber at about 9am (sorry babe, it makes me feel a bit guilty to know you had already put in like 6 hours of work by this time.......well, a little guilty) I headed downstairs. My 6 year old was quietly watching cartoons, and everyone else was gone.

"I think I'll make blueberry muffins today", I thought. I mixed the muffins up and stuck them in the oven. I made myself a cup of Snickerdoodle coffee, thinking how lucky it is that my grandma's kick ass coffee making talent was passed along to me, and headed out to the deck.

The sun was shining gloriously, but not too shiny, ya know? I sat my content butt down on a patio chair, put my feet up on another one, and opened up my brand new book. It was about 70 degrees outside. Utterly fabulous. Weather perfection. I could hear birds singing in my fruit trees, and a squirrel was literally standing in my yard looking at me as if to say, "good morning, Bucky!"

Through the open kitchen window, I heard the oven timer go off, alerting me that the muffins were done.

"Yess!" I said to myself.

I really am that dorky.

Get over it.

I headed inside and turned the timer on the oven off. I opened up the bottom drawer to grab a potholder.

"Aaaaaaaaaggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I swear to God on all that is holy that I screamed for a good ten seconds straight. My six year old came running frantically to see what was the matter. (You know, since there arose such a clatter and all). Sorry, couldn't help it.

What had made me scream so loudly?

Had I discovered a mutilated hand in the drawer?

Was there a dear john letter in there? A snake? A tarantula?

A frickin mouse.

A tiny, cute little mouse.

My scream apparently scared the crap out of him, as evidenced by the pile of mouse poo laying my drawer (ugh) and he ran like hell to God knows where.

I guess it was just the element of surprise, ya know? I mean, I know the mouse can't hurt me (right?). It's just certainly not what you expect to see when you open up the ol potholder drawer.

Did I mention I have a cat?

You know, those creatures who are suposed to intuitively....chase and kill mice? I might also mention that this is the cat who will toss a piece of raw meat around the kitchen for twenty minutes without ever even so much as licking it, but put a plate of spaghetti sauce on the floor and it's amore. Apparently the mousing gene is not present in my lazy, 9 year old fatass cat.

Considering that I now apparently have a rodent issue, this is a problem for me.

My cat? Is sooo fired.  Now if you'll excuse me I have to go suck on a lozenge since my vocal chords are now shattered from screaming.