Of Mice and Women, Part 2
Photo: Jessica Sain-Baird
When we last left off , I'd positioned myself as some kind of eco-superwoman setting off to rid my home of furry little vermin. Well, things didn't exactly go as planned. I'm sharing this because part of the promise of this series is to be honest with you and shed light on what my cherished meditation teacher S.N. Goenka defines as "the truth as it is, not as you want it to be."
I killed the mouse.
Well, I didn't kill anything. I managed to get others to do the dirty work. The day after I wrote my last post, I called my friend Eric and whined (just like I said I would) and then I called my friend Mary and whined some more. "Mary, I don't know what to do! This isn't what I had planned!"
Of course, no one plans for a mouse. And no one also plans for friends to descend upon you like angels and make things better. Mary, her husband, Danny, and their son, Finn, came over and took care of me in the most extraordinary of ways. First, they brought me food—because once the mouse pooped on top of the stove it became off-limits for me. Then Mary helped me unpack—because, of course, now I was petrified that every single box I had was going to be infested with mice—while Danny bought, baited and set traps.
Drop me in any city in the world, and I will be okay. Pit me against a mouse, and I fall apart.
For all my chatter about humane mousetraps, I ended up using the regular ones. You know, the kinds that kill. My reasoning behind this was twofold.
I killed the mouse.
Well, I didn't kill anything. I managed to get others to do the dirty work. The day after I wrote my last post, I called my friend Eric and whined (just like I said I would) and then I called my friend Mary and whined some more. "Mary, I don't know what to do! This isn't what I had planned!"
Of course, no one plans for a mouse. And no one also plans for friends to descend upon you like angels and make things better. Mary, her husband, Danny, and their son, Finn, came over and took care of me in the most extraordinary of ways. First, they brought me food—because once the mouse pooped on top of the stove it became off-limits for me. Then Mary helped me unpack—because, of course, now I was petrified that every single box I had was going to be infested with mice—while Danny bought, baited and set traps.
Drop me in any city in the world, and I will be okay. Pit me against a mouse, and I fall apart.
For all my chatter about humane mousetraps, I ended up using the regular ones. You know, the kinds that kill. My reasoning behind this was twofold.
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