Mice Are Not My Friends

But yet they seem to really like our apartment.
We have put steel wool down holes, duct taped them shut, and put out numerous traps. We clean all the time and don't leave out food.
But alas, we live in New York City. And it's getting cold. Which means mice season. Eew.
Today, as I was making myself some delicious cornbread to go with my yummy veggie chili that the boy and I slow cooked all day, I saw something run across the top of the toaster oven out of the corner of my eye. Mind you, I am terrified of mice, and think I always see them.
'Just make your cornbread, it's nothing' I told myself.
Then, it ran across the counter and behind the stove, in all of it's grey, furry, long tailed glory.
I left the room just as fast as it had scurried under the stove.
"There'samouseinthekitchenandI'mgoingtopeemypants," I told the boy. "Go catch it."
"What?" he asked.
"There'samouseinthekitchenandI'mgoingtopeemypants," I told the boy. "Go catch it. Hurry, before it comes in here."
And, being the knight in shining armor he is, he did, and he trapped it, but then neither one of us know what you do with a trapped mouse, and before we could figure it out (me yelling from the other room, feet up on the couch), it escaped to under the stove.
Oy. I will not miss all the rodents when we leave this city.