Tonight the Hubs and I were sitting at the table eating a gourmet meal consisting of a Dijorno frozen pizza.
I was mid-bite when we heard something.
Something loud.
Something panicked.
Something frantic.
It was not a mouse. Too big to be a mouse.
It was not a bird. Too fast.
It was not a bat. Too heavy.
It was a fat butt squirrel running his toocus all over my living room ceiling.
What was really comforting was the Hubs explanation that "he can't scratch through the plaster in one night...I mean, that would take a while."
Right. A frantic, starving squirrel couldn't scratch his way through the plaster in our walls over the course of one night? Has the man never heard of Hammy?
According to my calculations, squirrels are capable of a great many things, not the least of which is scratching their way through the plaster wall in my bedroom while I sleep. They also have an impeccable talent for sending Opie into an absolute barking frenzy. Fantastic.
There are not enough Samoa girl scout cookies in the world to soothe me tonight.
I can hear it. In the ceiling over my head right now.
The weird thing is, I fought for that stupid squirrel earlier today. When the Hubs said he thought he might have heard something in the gutter outside, but that it would be OK because the squirrel would just starve and die in there. And I had the audacity to say that I didn't want him to have to starve in there and could we please find a way to help him or at least leave some popcorn on the doorstep.
The nerve. That stupid squirrel is dead to me now. As soon as he took it upon himself to parade his chunky nut rear-end across my living room interrupting our Friday night dinner, it was over.
The rodent is what Elliot Reed (from "Scrubs") would coin as "the pickle on the crap sandwich that was my day." I mean, really. Squirrels were not the only thing that went a little not great today. Including, but not limited to, an improper interpretation of what the gown sitting out on my OB's table was for, an unfortunate meeting with a pair of saggy pajama pants and a stranger, and a jogging stroller incident involving a pregnant lady attempting to carry it down the stairs and it whacking her in the head in a less than friendly way.
So the squirrel? Not great.
The tears? Plentiful.
I have no idea what we're going to do. But I can tell you this: I am about to lay into the most delectable chocolate covered caramel apple known to man, and I'm not sharing a darn tooting bite with that squirrel. Not a darn bite.
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