There’s nothing more stereotypical than the wife at home, frantic about a mouse terrorizing her, calling her husband to rescue her.  Never thought I’d live to see the day when I’d inhabit that stereotype, but thankfully there was a twist.

I didn’t jump on a chair yesterday, but I did require rescuing. In the middle of writing seven chapters simultaneously (sure that will work out real well), checking email for edits, and trying not to lose my mind, my wireless computer  mouse up and died. Now I never, ever squealed, but I damnsure did scream and rant and change batteries and pull a mouse off an old computer and cuss and every other ineffective technique I could think of  that resulted in no work getting done for way too long.

When I called my husband at work, hoping he knew where an extra live mouse was in the house, he offered to get me a new one on his way home. A knight in shining SUV, he is. On his way into the office supply store he ran into a chatty neighbor. When Ed mentioned we were having “mouse problems,” she launched into a recitation of their actual live mice problems. Yikes. I’ll take my mouse problem, any day. When Ed walked in the door with a live one, I might have actually squealed then, but it was with joy.  At any rate, the moral to this heartwarming fable is either

a) the squeaky neighbor gets embarrassed

b) the squeaky mouse gets the cheese

c)  the cussing wife gets the mouse

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