Of Mice and Wigs

Less than one week ago, "Wiggy" was in her bedroom getting dressed for work when suddenly, she spotted a creature staring at her. She has no pets, and it wasn't a peeping squirrel or anything. It was a "mother f**king mouse" (her words). As a hater of all things furry, mice especially, "Wiggy" wigged out.

A male co-worker went to her house that day and set some traps and blocked the vents in her room (apparently "Wiggy" is not concerned about carbon monoxide - just mice). Despite the traps and mouse-proofing, "Wiggy" has refused to go back in to her bedroom since that fateful morning.

As her friend I took pity on her and offered to come to her house and investigate the trap situation and retrieve any items she may need from her bedroom, which is being held hostage by that "slut mouse" (again, her words, not mine).

Upon my arrival, we consumed some wine and strategized my plan of attack. Convinced the mouse was living the life of luxury in her bedroom, "Wiggy" and I had a discussion about where the mouse may have possibly taken up residence. Suddenly, I saw the light bulb go off in her head.

"That mother f**ker is living in my wig tub," she said with all sincerity and a defiant look in her eyes.

"Wiggy" keeps a tub of "old jacked up wigs" - "just in case." The problem is, the tub had no lid, and therefore, could possibly have been an excellent place for a mouse to nest.

My assignment was clear, in order to help "Wiggy" try to re-claim her bedroom, I needed to go in there, check the traps, retrieve her clothing (ALL of it) and along the way, shake each item out to ensure a) a mouse wouldn't fall out and b) mouse droppings wouldn't fall out. Did I mention when I said ALL of her clothing that included a giant pile of dirty clothing on the floor of the closet that spilled onto the top of the wig tub? Oh yeah, the wig tub, I almost forgot. I would need to search that damn wig tub too!

"Wiggy" gave me a pair of rubber gloves, some garbage bags and wished me luck. She couldn't handle the sight of me sorting through her stuff because she believed with every fiber of her being that "slut mouse" would scurry out at any point in time.

I checked all the clothing and stuffed it all in to garbage bags (so it could all be washed at some point in time)....and then it came time for the wigs. The wigs freaked me out because as I started to dig through the tub I convinced myself a mouse could quite possibly have taken up residence among the acrylic locks of hair.

"Wiggy" agreed the best course of action would be to throw away all the old wigs anyway. She has totally upgraded to a different type of wig (that I cannot tell you about or she will kill me) made of real hair so she's much less flammable then she used to be and therefore, doesn't need her old wig stash.

Anyway, before I could stuff the wigs into the "toss" bag, I had to retrieve one "back up wig" for her. She insisted it had to have bangs. And it was "just in case." The woman has many, many, many other wigs...so I wasn't sure why I had to spare one of these "lesser" wigs but I did.

Clothing and wigs packed up, I thought my task was complete. "Wiggy" even brought herself to enter the room after I confirmed spotting no evidence of a mouse.

She took two pillows off her bed. She told me she had been sleeping on the couch for the last five days and didn't even have pillows (that's how scared she was of the "slut mouse").

"Wiggy" was feeling better about life but then she thought of one thing in her bedroom she couldn't possibly live without...one thing the mouse could have "contaminated."

The one thing? Her "special box."

I won't elaborate on the "special box" if you are a woman, single or otherwise, I think you know what I am referring to...a grown up toy box....and if you don't get what I'm telling you, well, I don't know what to say.

"'Wiggy's' special box" is a K-Swiss box she stores under her bed ("Easy access," she said). As she pulled it out, she suddenly looked sick, and expressed how angry she would be if that "slut mouse" made a nest amidst her battery operated toys. Oh, the irony. I guess if the mouse is a slut, as she likes to say it is, then this would be an appropriate place for it to nest!

Unable to bring herself to open the box, she made me do it. I opened it and, seeing no evidence of a mouse, I quickly closed it. The whole thing was a little traumatizing, I must admit.

Once I confirmed the coast was clear, she swept the "special box" up and into her arms.

So, there she was - after all of that - a woman with her basic necessities - a jacked up back up wig, two pillows and her "special box."

As I drove away, all I could think was, "I missed 'Lost' for THIS?"