|Yes, it's mine. And no,|
see, it's not pink!
And the dead mouse smell that has been driving me insane for two weeks...FOUND!! At long last.
I've been unable to use my dishwasher for a week now because the last time I ran it, it smelled like a little rodent sauna. Oh, yes. I'll let that simmer a while just so you can feel the full effect.
Needless to say, I was pretty certain the little fucker had up and died somewhere beneath or behind the dishwasher, which is screwed into my granite-top counter. By a professional, no doubt.
So I text my landlord ('cause he's cool like that) and ask him for his suggestion.
"Do you have a tool belt?" he asks.
Uh...hello...I'm a lesbian.
But then I had to really psyche myself up for it, had a double-chai, flipped my leopard print hat on backwards ('cause, well, just 'cause), and strapped on the brand new, never-been-used belt. As soon as I tried to unscrew the thing with my tiniest philips screwdriver, I quickly realized this was gonna be nothing like replacing the batteries in Chago's roaring dinosaur. I'd have to pull out the big guns for this one.
So, I grabbed my flashlight, my Ryobi, kicked off my 5" heels, laid flat on my belly, and got smacked right in the face by the putrid odor. My eyes welled with tears immediately and I reached frantically for the Lysol, Fabreze, and some crystal gel odor-eating thing I had at the bottom of the nearest cabinet.
So, finally all geared up to go, I then find that it helps to have had your power tool plugged in and charged first. For a while, apparently. And I'm thinking this is a life lesson, applicable across a number of scenarios. So just take note, and we'll revisit this one later.
Thirty minutes later then and we're back in the saddle. I get the bottom cover off and unscrew it from the countertop with surprisingly little effort. The heft and vibration of the power tool make me wonder why I haven't taken up carpentry before. Or, at a minimum, a QA position with Babes in Toyland. But the jiggling of the dishwasher to carefully maneuver it out of its very tight spot reminded me that you probably need a whole heck of a lot more patience than that with which I come naturally equipped.
|Poor little dude. Time's up, buddy.|
Flashlight back in hand. Odor-neutralizing gel within reach. I scanned the area behind the dishwasher for less than 2 seconds before coming across the flattened, furry, rigor-mortised, little body.
"HA! HAAAA!" I cackled to no one. "I've got you now!!" And I suddenly had a flash of the crazy 90-year-old woman I would eventually become.
But for now...how to get him out.
My mind immediately went to the 3am commercials and that hand-held reach extension thingamajig with the pincher on the end. Yeah. You know the one. That would TOTALLY work. Perfectly. But the nearest As Seen On TV Store is at least 10 miles away. (Do NOT ask me why I know this.) And right now, I'm on a mission. And, typically, very easily distracted. See, there I go again. Stop sidetracking me, people.
|Giving a whole new meaning to |
what's in your toolbelt?
And then I see a little glint out of the corner of my eye. Something tucked just behind the tackle boxes. I stepped closer. Sneaking up on it for absolutely no reason whatsoever. I quickly push aside the scooters to reveal a silver fish. Dangling midair. From fishing line. Attached to a rod.
I think I may have actually wrung my hands like the old witch in Snow White just before she doles out the apple.
But out he came. His stiff little paw curled tightly around the line. If only you'd found me last week, his rancid aura whispered. It was all very melodramatic. I'm fairly certain Celine Dion was playing somewhere.
Lesson learned: ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS just go get the damned live mice traps. Or a cat.