The anti-climactic journey of an invisible, squeaky office friend:
Yesterday, my coworker told us an enchanting story of a mouse that died behind her dishwasher.
I eat every work-related meal at my desk. And I snack. On rice cakes. And potato chips. And other crumbly foods, such as spaghetti.
Once upon a day-after-Thanksgiving when I was five months pregnant with Erma, there was a squirrel in our office. He came in through an opening in the ceiling. He ate my mixed nuts and hid in a plant. I did not handle the situation with grace.
Post-dishwasher story, I heard some squeaking under my desk.
This morning, our office custodian approached me to ask me if I use a box under my desk to put my feet upon, because she noticed that a corner of the box is crumbling off and she was wondering if it was my feet or a mouse.
I am on a chair across the room my feet curled under me, trying to remember my mantra. My coworker is atop her desk. Our heroine custodian pulls open the box to reveal…
A pile of junk from 2010 that I had tucked away under there.
And no mouse.
The squeaking was my shoe.
Kind of makes me think twice about continuing my snack-a-desk habits.
On the other hand, there wasn’t a mouse. And now that there’s no mouse, I’m kind of getting hungry. I’ll just eat the rest of these rice cakes and everything will be okay.