Rodentia Maximus

Oh, God, they’re back! An absolutely unwanted relationship, renewed unwillingly (as I cry out to the universe for help.)

Do I sound cruel? Unfairly blunt about a former relationship, suddenly resumed, minus any invitation from me? This isn’t cruelty (I don’t think.) ‘Tis abject frustration, accompanied by an admission of my own failures.

Yep.

Rodentia regretus. Mice! I seriously thought I’d washed my hands, three years ago, of rodentia dementus (latin for making me feel crazy.) But, no! The sudden return of rodentia afflictus, nibbling my rice cakes, rustling around in the kitchen, and worst of all, afflicting me with guilt. Such guilt! Finding little black, rice-shaped, scat on the kitchen counter. Absolute yuck! (And what would my late mother think?)

Bear with me while I take a deep breath. One more breath. OK, feeling sound enough to continue.

The mice. I hate writing about a mousy invasion because it calls for an embarrassing admission on my part. Should I just suck it up and share?

You got it.

I am not the greatest housekeeper in the world. Better, grant you, than the first part of my life. However, I still characterize myself as somewhat of a problem child in that particular arena - the cleaning thing. (Yes, I’m blushing.)

Using creative transport to the outside, I don’t need to kill mice, roaches, wasps in the house, or weird-looking large bugs crawling in the bathroom. Is my m.o. a result of being a peace-loving Quaker? Hell, I don’t know. Constitutionally, I’ve always been this way. Can one be born with a DNA aversion to smooshing bugs and breaking the necks of little mousies in traps? That would be me.

What are my realistic, non-violent (aka, no death to mice), options?

I’ve clearly deprived myself of the most obvious rodent removal tools. (Doing a semi-faceplant, at the moment.) Whoops, how could I forget humane mouse traps? Humane, yes, if the mousy doesn’t get its tail caught in the automatically closing plastic trap door. Which it always does. Makes me feel even worse because I’ve been torturing a little tail-caught critter, overnight, until found in the morning. As you can probably divine, my inclination toward peaceful action can become complicated, very quickly. Oy.

Considering the plethora of my concerns about killing critters, which viable mousy-trapping options are left to me? The Grandmother Effect, that’s what. Since I’m a champion googler, I’ve discovered that peppermint oil approximates Kryptonite for the rodentia family. “Get my mousy body outta here!” For the duration of the summer, I’ll be spraying little cotton balls with peppermint oil and leaving them on the kitchen counter at night.

Uh, oh, so sorry. I’ve not explained the underpinnings of my mousey interventionist, Grandmother Effect. So sayeth google, “Grandmothers have long relied on peppermint oil as a multi-purpose home remedy for…repelling household pests.” Pests = mice. So there.

You’re more than welcome to visit me during the summer, but be warned. You will have crossed into the Peppermint Zone.