Of Mice and Tax-Men

The Mrs. has found herself buried beneath mounds of tax related documents.  Spreadsheets and Home Depot receipts and file boxes are spilling out of the office, infecting various other locales with their annoying little Numbers of Doom. The only cure, of course, involves an investment of  sufficient seat time to actually Finish The Taxes, then trot the whole caboodle off to the CPA. It’s quite sad, actually.

 And on a brighter note, it appears our home is infested with mice.

Many, Many Mice.

Mice who tromp down the stairs after midnight and glare at the Mrs. with beady little eyeballs. Mice who openly dance about the livingroom floor with great abandon.

 JoJo does not appear interested in mice, nor in the catching or killing thereof. The poodle has also expressed her tolerance for and solidarity with all mouse-kind. It appears, therefore, that the Mrs. is on her own, particularly as she is the only one who’s actually witnessed a mousy macarena and the Brz clan is snickering together in a most unpleasant and rodent-like manner, suggesting that tax-time has once again taken its toll upon the synapses of the Mrs. resulting in delirium and hallucinations.

Totally ridiculous.

Hallucinatory mice wear bifocals and drink champagne and speak with a British accent. Real mice bounce downstairs at one in the morning and frisk about the premises whilest shaking their mousy booty and giving respectable, couch-sitting folks the raspberry.

Something must be done…

This is not a real mouse. The Mrs. can tell the difference.

More to follow.

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