Please Rescue Me

I grew up in the rural Midwest with traditional rural, Midwestern values, and not just of God and Country.  I was raised with a spirit of independence and self-reliance.  That is to say, if there's something that needs to be done and one is capable of doing it oneself, one ought not to ask for help.  To do so is just plain undignified and a sure sign of weakness.

For the most part, Baird appreciates my spirit of independence.  Once when we were dating, he stopped by my apartment to pick me up, and he found me standing on a chair, changing a light bulb.  He offered to do it for me.  I told him I was perfectly capable of changing my own light bulbs, thank you very much.  Generally speaking, Baird likes that I don't go into "helpless female" mode very often.  Occasionally, however, he tries to rescue me when I know I don't need it.

Since we've been married, there have been occasions when I have almost screamed at Baird, "I didn't ask for your help, so I don't need your help," when he has offered his assistance with a particular project.  Sometimes he thinks I'm in over my head, and so, in an attempt to be the hero, he tries to swoop in to rescue me.  I tend to react strongly when I know I'm not in over my head, but I can see he clearly thinks otherwise.

There is, however, one area where I always need rescuing, and that's when it comes to mice.  I've mentioned before about how much I hate these critters.  They honestly give me the heebie jeebies.  It is a physical reaction.  I freak out.  I scream.  My heart races.  Quite frankly, a mouse is the one thing I always need to be rescued from.

So, this morning I was doing laundry.  I hadn't gotten around to washing all the yucky, dirty towels from last week's furnace project, so I put that at the top of my to do list today.  To say these towels were disgustingly dirty would be an understatement.  They were absolutely filthy rags.  I thought about shaking them out first, but honestly, I didn't think there was much that would shake out, so I stuffed them all in the washer and went on my merry way.  When the wash cycle was complete, I opened the door and began transferring the towels to the dryer.  And that's when it happened.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a brown thing clinging to one of the towels.  I thought it was a leaf, so I started to pick it off the towel.  As I touched it I realized it wasn't a leaf...it was the freshly laundered carcass of a dead mouse.  EEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!!!!   Eww, Eww, Eww, Eww...oh, yuck, yuck, yuck...ick, icky, icky, ICK!  OH!  GROSS!  How does this kind of thing happen to me?  That's what went thru my head as I flung the carcass across the room and then stuck a five-gallon bucket in front of it.  I jumped up and down screaming for well over a minute.  I finally ran upstairs and washed my hands over and over and over, and then I washed them again.  I went back downstairs and ran some bleach and hot thru the washer, but that was as far as I went down the laundry trail for the rest of the day.  Even though there were at least six other loads waiting to be done, I decided to declare a leave of absence from the laundry chore.

Next I did what any modern housewife would do in such circumstances:  I updated my Facebook status to read:  Teresa Shattuck has a serious case of EEWWWWW!!!! after realizing I just laundered a mouse carcass.  There was a lot of empathy for my plight out there in the social networking world.  No fewer than 28 people commented on my status, and most people felt the exact same way as I did about discovering this vile item in my washing machine.

When I relayed the days' events to Baird at Awana tonight, I ended with a plea to be rescued.  My knight in shining armor obliged, and the offending carcass was removed to the alley garbage can before I arrived home from my Commander obligations.

Thanks, Baird, for rescuing me when I truly needed it.  You're my hero!