The problem with living in an old house is, well, it's an old house.
Don't get me wrong, I love my house, but it was much more... more... um... livable back when we had three cats (whom we had to find all new homes due to Darwin's allergies).
(You know where this is going now, don't you?)
Occasionally, we get little... um... problems in the house. Which always freak the whole living shit out of me. Last year, they lived in the suspended ceiling in the basement, and I heard them scurrying over my head when I was down there working. But, of course, they eventually have to make their way upstairs to the kitchen. ::chills:: We got some of those sonic sound thing-a-ma-bobbers which has helped considerably. But, they are not fool proof.
I realized while Aaron was out of town on his never-ending business trip that... well... we had another visitor. Little fucker kept getting into my junk drawer (you know, where you keep your scissors, stamps, tape, candles, nail files, top shelf chocolate) and leaving behind "calling cards." Little fucker had the audacity to eat a half-bar of my favorite chocolate bar.
Obviously, we are dealing with something with Very Good Taste.
When Aaron was home this weekend, he put out four traps: two in the junk drawer and two under the sink. The next morning all four were cleaned of the peanut better, but never were shot off.
Obviously, we are dealing with something with Higher Intelligence.
So, he set them off again and they have sat... and sat... and sat... until this morning.
Here's what I found in the junk drawer (it's okay to look)...
No. Peanut. Butter.
And here's what I found under the sink...
(You may not want to look.)
(Avert your eyes.)
(I'm not kidding here, internet.)
(I told you not to look!)
Um... um... what he hell am I suppose to do now? Seriously, internet, I am FREAKING OUT HERE. It clearly states in Paragraph Two, Section Five of the Laura Capello Handbook that Laura is Squeamish and a Big Wussy. She shall not deal with vermin.
I need some help.