I'm not afraid of bugs, heights, or spiders. If a piece of cheese or bread has mold on it, I will cut it off and eat the rest. I don't always shower every day. The point I'm trying to make is that I don't think of myself as overly squeamish or high maintenance. Generally.
But mice. I hate mice. They have fur and bones and blood, and if you step on one, it might squirm under your foot. Bugs don't do that.
The first apartment I lived in after graduating from college had mice. Luckily, the nice gentlemen downstairs emptied the traps for us, and I managed to put them out of my head. Until one morning, a few months later, when I looked down as I was shutting off a lamp and saw a long, curled tail poking out of a trap. I called Greg, cried the entire way to work (a 40 minute drive) and by the end of the day had plans to move.
So I am not joking when I say that I hate mice.
Well, this week, Greg found a dead mouse in our storage facility (pictured above). The fact that I was not present did not stop me from shuddering, curling up into a fetal position, and calling my mom. The mouse was in between two boxes, but the nibbled hole in a tablecloth suggests that he was also inside one of the boxes. The storage facility said that he probably ate some of their bait then wandered inside and died. So far there is no other evidence, but it is taking all of my zen to continue reaching my hands into boxes full of newspaper and packing peanuts.