"You don't cut ME much slack," my husband is pointing out.
He is talking to me on the phone. I am standing on the family room sofa, where I ran a few moments earlier screaming like a little girl because when I came downstairs just now a) I realized the door to the deck had been pushed open by the cat; that b) the cat had a mouse (or chipmunk or mole or some kind of rodent) with her when she came inside and that c) the two of them are currently playing cat-and-mouse in the living room.
In many contexts, I think I could describe myself as brave. I have gone to talk to strange men in parking lots in order to get a story. I have cruised around seedy neighborhoods looking for drug dealers for the same purpose; heck, I have cruised around seedy neighborhoods with drug dealers. I have even ventured into the halls of Congress! But mice freak me out, big time. So I did what any modern, independent feminist woman would do: I called my husband at work, to ask him to come home and get rid of this rodent. And for some reason, he won't. Something about a meeting. Pfffft! He can have a meeting any day. This is an emergency.
"Aren't I allowed to be ridiculous in just one area of my life?" I ask.
"Sure you are," he says, generously omitting to mention that maybe there is more than one area in which I indulge in being ridiculous. "And now that you're done being ridiculous, go put on some shoes, get the broom, open the front door and sweep it out."
So: the latest news is that the cat is sitting in the middle of the living room, looking bored, which means that whatever it is has found a safe hiding place, probably in the sofa cushions. Lovely. So I sneak through the living room, grab my sneakers and put them out, prop the front door open (axe murderers, c'on down!) and lock myself in my office. Maybe when the kids get home from school, they'll find the rodent. That' way, I won't have to deal with this problem, plus it's a great way to hand an irrational phobia down to the next generation, doncha think? Yeah. Finally: a plan.