I kind of regret not marrying an exterminator.

I'm terrified of mice. I'm not going to go into the whole embarrassing column I wrote in college about my encounter with the rat at Dave's college house, or even about that memory that's burned into my brain of Mom screaming because a vole ran over her foot in the garage. I won't even mention it.

Instead, I'll tell you about the mouse traps. The traps that are now so complicated I had to ask the mice how to set them (and now I bet I don't even catch any). Dave and I both played around with them (and have swollen fingers and thumbs to prove it), but we can't get the stupid things to latch.

Where did this mouse-eliminating technology come from? We can't keep up.

It's not a bad problem in our house, but I'm all about prevention. I need to stop any problem before it gets out of hand.

Like it did for my cousin Paul and his wife.

My aunt told my mom, who told me sitting around a campfire, speaking with a flashlight under her chin, that there were so many mice that they killed dozens a week. SNAP! the traps would go in the middle of the night, while they lay in bed listening. SNAP! in the kitchen, in the family room ... SNAP SNAP SNAP times 20.

I would've staying in that house for maybe two SNAPs before I would've packed a bag and checked into the nearest hotel.

So all I have to do is get these stupid traps to work. Dear god the directions don't help! And I hear them! I QUIT.

(Photo: doyourownpestcontrol.com -- If I ever need the one on the right, I will seriously quit.)