No, the ultrasound's still nine days away

I see where this is going.

I've got this annoying cough -- one of those that doesn't produce anything, if you get what I'm saying -- that started yesterday, along with a headache and sore throat. I went home a bit early yesterday to nap away my life, and today it's 6:55 and I'm in bed, have been for an hour. Yes, I realize this won't happen again in my life. I know. I know.

But I'm worried my cough is scaring the cashew, if not literally driving my baby crazy. Thank God I go to the doctor tomorrow morning for my regular monthly check-up, because I keep reading my pregnancy books and nothing in there says my plague is a real, actual plague -- nothing is confirming my fears. NOTHING. It keeps saying I'm FINE. But I've got too much time to sit and worry that I'm not fine. Not at all. I'm certain that's what it is. I just know it. And my baby in there? She/he's so angry right now.

I need a doctor to tell me I'm not killing my baby.

So, there. That's where it's going. Erin's freaking out about her baby not-dying, and it's not even BORN yet. I'm kind of unreasonable. I know this.

I sound really grumpy here ... Dave was a saint

I handled registering for the baby just as I thought I might.

I was crabby. Overwhelmed. Angry at all the choices of some items -- who needs a whole aisle of nipples and bottles, for God's sake? -- perturbed at the fact that there are gobs more of the important stuff like cribs and high chairs on their Web site but no mention of that in the registry booklet, disappointed in the registry woman's lack of a personality, upset at being hungry already, at the weight of the registry guide with its lists of necessities, at the man waiting on God knows what sitting in the chair I wanted to see ... Sigh. It was great.

And seriously, I love babies. I love my baby in particular. I'm psyched about being pregnant. I love registering. I just can't stand the annoyances and ohmygod is that a hair in my mouth? I WANT TO STOP LIVING.

We scanned through a few items, but Dave was in pain (see next blog post) and I was hungry, so we said "screw it" and turned our gun back in. Later that night, I happily registered online for a few more items, and will finish the rest later this week.

I just can't do it in person. I can't. Too many gaudy teddy bear patterns. Too many "for mom's comfort!" Too many. It's just too many, man.

Correction

There's a correction I'd like to make.

The 80 GB iPod has been on back order, so instead of being rational and waiting for it, my dad's bosses said "Hey, remember that day back in '87 when Randy was all like 'Bill, I'll do that report'? Yeah ... Let's upgrade." And that's how Dad ended up calling me to ask me if 160 GB was anything special.
Seriously. If he could just turn it, yeah, just a little bit? To the left? Yes, there. I think the knife's in deep enough now. My 20 GB iPod from college is hiding behind its black-and-white screen out of shame now.

The 30th anniversary isn't for pearls anymore

My dad celebrated his 30th anniversary at his work Thursday, and for his years of dedication and traveling and hard work, he got something he wasn't convinced would ever leave the box.

He got a freakin' 80 GB iPod. An ay-tee gig iPOD. I'm pretty sure that's ridiculous. What happened to a cake? A watch? He gets an iPod? Really?

"Maybe when you come home you can show me how to use it," he said.

Or I'll show him how I'll steal it, is what I'll do.

Imagine how it must've been for him in 1977, walking in that flooring company.

"Hi Randy. Here's your desk. Your coffee mug. The restroom. Now, just think ... sure you'll install floors for a few years, then you'll sell some stuff, you'll travel so much your kids'll hate it, you'll work at home cuz you're on salary ... huh (pat on the shoulder)! But seriously, Randy, you just wait! It'll all be worth it! In 2007, we'll give you something that can fit 20,000 songs on it! And it'll fit in your pocket. Yep. That's right. We're getting you an iPod ... Just keep your eyes on the prize, Randy. All right. Get to work."

The only time in my life I'll say I wish I were fatter

I went from about five to seven comfortable, don't-even-think-about-it, you-know-it-matches-so-just-grab-and-go outfits to wear to work to about three outfits. I'm down to two pairs of pants and three shirts. Yes, I still work five days a week. I get really, really creative around Wednesdays. Matching isn't so much a priority.

And nothing is more annoying than having to stand looking at clothes you wish you could wear if they fit. I have a whole closet full of them -- look at them! Purples, blacks, whites, stripes, sweaters, cute little shirts ... Just standing there. If I had the extra space, I'd box them up and keep my few shirts hanging there to inspire Dave to say "wow, you need clothes." But since we don't have the extra space and because Dave would willingly set his Kirby Puckett collection on fire before he'd notice if I ran out of clothes to wear to work, I won't do that.

The two comfortable maternity pants are great for wearing around the house, but I have to pull them up too often to make it feasible for wearing out of the house. Walk, walk, hike up pants, walk, walk. Not yet. And I don't want to go shopping yet. It's depressing.

I realize that in a few short weeks this won't be an issue, and that in a few months I'll be so uncomfortably shaped like a small bus that I'll wish I could complain about my pre-pregnancy pants fitting at all. I know. But let's not talk rationally to the hormonal lady. Got it?

Let's instead pretend my outfits match. GOT IT? LIE.

Goodbye, 'Journeyman' (maybe)

As one of three fans of this show, I feel it necessary to comment on its finale -- ooh, wait, did I say that outloud? I meant "little break before it never comes back or starts anew on the SciFi channel."

NBC, replacing something with a plot with a reality TV show or something will not grant you access to TV heaven.

---
Two hours later, I should add ... They just said there's another new episode next Monday. Right. Okee.

Not embarrassed, just annoyed.

I thought he was going to shoot it.

Though we don't have a gun, that was the first thought that came to my mind as I watched from the comfort of our dining room as Dave give our neighbor's snowblower not one but two middle fingers yesterday morning.

Our neighbor's away, and we've been given the use of the snowblower so long as we clean her sidewalks and driveway, too. More than a fair deal if you live here and are perceptive enough to notice we got seven inches of snow yesterday.

But Dave can't get the dang thing to actually work. That's problematic not only for his transportation -- he parked his car in her garage yesterday before it started snowing, and instead of shoveling two driveways, he only wants to do ours, so now he can't get it out -- but also for his ego.

"Does it embarrass you I'm not man enough to fix a small engine?"

"No."

Because why would it? Who sees you be the crazy guy in the driveway, giving two gloved fingers to a machine that won't even turn over in response? Oh, wait. Those people who read my blog. Riiiight.

I can't think about anything else

Right after I got engaged, I thought family, friends and random strangers would come up to me just to punch me in the mouth to get me to STOP talking about my STUPID wedding already, God! No one CARES.

But you guys. This is a BABY. As I write this, I'm 7 1/2-weeks pregnant, and my baby looks like a little half-inch alien. He/she has a heartbeat. A brain. A liver. This is serious stuff. And I'm responsible for this. When I post this, he/she will be three months not-born-yet-but-old.

He/she's not even here and already I'm having a complex about my ability to help this child not-die, and maybe even succeed. It's scary.

So it's no wonder that I've got that one thing on my mind right now, and only that. And I don't think anyone would blame me for only talking about my little cashew.

Plus, it's like the "don't think about puppies" thing. I say "don't blog about the baby" and all I can blog about is my baby. I'm laying out pages at work and thinking about he/she. I'm reading copy and going over names I might like in the story. I'm reading pregnancy books where I used to read Joyce Carol Oates or Jodi Picoult. I'm giggling. Over nothing. Everytime someone says excitedly "You're going to have a baby!" I just giggle and say "I KNOW!"

What's happening to me?

Written Nov. 1

They're crooks, the whole lot of them

If ever there was anything someone could have mentioned to me somewhere along the line about being an adult that would've made me stop and re-evaluate this whole living thing, it'd be insurance.

I'm not going to sit in my recliner with the doilies on the arm rests while I spew hatred on the entire health care system, saying it's full of people with scabies for brains. Nah. I'm much too bored for all of that. Sure, it's a scam. Yeah, someone's getting rich off my measly $1,200 a year. But, well, what can I do. Write my congressman?

Anyhow.

I spent about an hour last night comparing options, checking doctors and facilities between here and my mom's house (just in case!), choosing out-of-pocket expenses vs. out-of-paycheck stabs in the heart.

I hated every minute of it. I ended up doing a cost analysis, something I thought I'd never do after I passed (the second time around!) math for liberal arts majors in college. I was wrong. Kind of. I mean, I didn't have to do it long hand. There was pretty much a calculator right there, waiting for me. And I really just had to look at some factors, then pick the one with the lowest number. But it's numbers. It's luck. It's logic.

It's Dave on the couch going "You did what?" when I tell him which I chose, and then me sitting on the recliner going "But I can't go in and change it! What did I doooo? It was a mistake! Oh nooooooo!"

I'll live. Just, you know, with less control over where I go should I get the shakes and chills and feel impending death coming on. Until next fall, I'll convince myself I made the wrong choice, and should I get in an accident, I'm going to need someone to tell the kind man giving me CPR that if he could kindly drive me to Aurora Medical Center, that I'd be most grateful. No, I do not care that I was hit by a bus in Mercy Medical Center's parking lot. They're blacked out. Sorry.

I'm going to go straighten up my doilies on my TV stand now. Maybe dust off the plastic on the davenport. Watch some "Price is Right."

I know I'm lucky he cooks. That's not the issue here.

Our marriage is a good one; we laugh, we share secrets, we stay up late painting each others' nails. Dave promised me I wouldn't tell you that (oops!) -- I'm always doing that, ha, putting my perfectly manicured foot into my mouth.

But I've mentioned before that if he asks me what I want to eat for dinner one more time, I'll chop up his body and put it in the wall, and then calmly call to order pizza. (That's a lie for three reasons -- one, I only commit murder never, so that's out; two, I only order pizza online because I hate talking to them on the phone; and three, we have plaster walls. Messy to work with.)

The other night, we came to a point in the conversation where our fighting over what we were going to eat for dinner escalated to almost-death. I don't KNOW what I want, DEAR, and you standing there with the freezer door open doesn't HELP. And the fact that he gets an hour to eat leaves us with quick! Hurry! Make up your mind! options. This is why we eat macaroni so often.

"I'll just make something myself," I said after 10 minutes of "No ... No ... What do YOU feel like eating?"

"No, come on. What do you want?"

"I DON'T KNOW."

"Chicken?"

"No time."

"Tuna pasta?"

"I don't LIKE tuna pasta."

"Well I don't know ..."

"I SAID I'd feed myself!"

Growl, divorce lawyers on the phone, cereal bowls hitting the countertop with see-I-mean-it force ... Oh, yes. Even I felt uncomfortable with all the loud noises.

Luckily, Dave has the good foresight to see we can't live like that. So sometimes, like tonight, he grabs something he knows I hate (pork in this case), and says "I think I might just eat this ... is that OK?" Asking nicely so as not to tick off the crazy lady! She's batty! Crazy lady!

And the suddenly, without fighting, I get choices. So many. I get waffles. For dinner. And no one had to die.

I'm serious. A Monday can be made or broken on our 10-minute supper conversations. This is why God invented second shift for Dave, Crock Pots and toaster waffles. Because I love Dave ... Just not while I'm in the kitchen, too much.

But see, then we eat and the fight's gone and my belly's full of waffles and life's good again. Funny that.

The light at the end of the tunnel just disappeared

I've been calling my mom for stupid, meaningless reasons lately, in increasing amounts.

It used to be our Saturday or Sunday night thing; now it's our Monday afternoon, Wednesday night, Saturday morning, Sunday evening thing ... And I am so homesick it's not even funny.

I realize outside circumstances might have led to this neediness to talk to someone about something like their personal preference for window sill types, their thoughts on my Saturday afternoon plans, what they're having for dinner, what I'm having for dinner, what I'm doing at that exact moment ... But who cares.

I overheard someone at work talk about the time they spent with their mom over the weekend and instead of my calm, so-what attitude I usually have on from 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., this was total jealousy. Ugly, smoke-coming-out-of-my-ears jealousy. Kind of makes ya want to quit your job and move back to your parent's basement, doesn't it?

Only then I remember we'd be broke, we're just now getting those new windows, she eats meatloaf for dinner a lot and I have Dave to cook for me; and she has cricket and spider problems in her house ... And I see the wise response is just to hate her boss for making her work the day after Thanksgiving, hate The Man for making me work at all, hate the man (for surely it was a man) who made weekends just two days to a five-day workweek, and to loathe all 500 or so of those miles between us. Especially the Indiana portion of them.

Ugh. Sorry. Back to be reasonable now.

I should find more instructional books

While antique shopping, we found this great book for $1; "Better Homes & Gardens Baby Book," from 1951. Of course we got it. It was $1, and much like "Teen Guide to Married Life," these books can't be passed up, child in the house now or no.

I've heard your unasked concerns, and I've found answers you didn't know you needed. Yes, I'm here to share with you the realities of child-rearing and pregnancy, circa 1950. You can thank me later.

Concern No. 1: How will I know I'm pregnant?
Answer: Well, funny you should ask, because "it's not at all uncommon for a bride, thought she isn't pregnant, to skip a period ... because the possibility of pregnancy is in her thoughts." If you're pretty sure -- like, three months into missed period-land -- there's the rabbit test which is about 95 percent accurate. (But only if she's a bride. If she's single, Jesus in 1951 wouldn't let that happen. It's probably just gas.)


Concern No. 2: I'll never be skinny again.
Answer: "You'll be sylphlike again." It says that -- "sylphlike." I don't know what it means, but it sounds refreshing. "Many of the lovely figures you see going up and down the street belong to women who have had one or more babies. Follow instructions about not getting heavier than necessary and don't worry!" Easy enough. Put down the cupcakes, fatty.

Concern No. 3: You won't be able to do anything when you're pregnant.
Answer: "If you're a working woman: If your appearance is important in your work, you'll want to quit." This is especially important if you're, say, a Victoria's Secret model or a waitress at a restaurant that gets its name from jokes you heard over a beer pong table.

Also, note you shouldn't climb stairs "more than is absolutely necessary" and you shouldn't become chilled. Because, you know, it's uncomfortable and goosebumps on pregnant ladies accentuates those extra pounds, right? You also shouldn't swim, but if you are accustomed to driving, you can probably do so in moderation. To like, the store to make your husband a meatloaf -- but that's it.

Don't you feel better already? I'd share more but I don't want to give away the ending.

Made my heart skip a beat for a minute

It's November now.

You know what that means ... Because I'm a sick, twisted person, I will have a Christmas tree up in 14 days.

Fourteen. I just gotta get Dave to check all the boxes for mice and rats and bats and other creatures that ruin my yuletide glee. Because that's what this all is. Yuletide glee. Has nothing to do with being ca-razy.

It's no offense. I bet under different circumstances, we'd be friends

I've never been to Milwaukee (with the exception of a wedding I was at, but I don't think it counts because it was dark when I got there and we went right there and back). I've not had the desire to really go to Milwaukee, because I'm not the type of person who right now is desiring much more than maybe a nap? A cheeseburger with extra ketchup? I'm not asking a lot.

Dave loves cities and he'll tell you so if ever you so vaguely mention the name of a bigger city. I think Milwaukee would provoke that in him, but I won't let him talk about it because I don't want to go.

It's no offense to Milwaukee. However, until last year, I didn't know Milwaukee was like, this real place that people went to and loved and made memories in. I read Play in the City when Erin did it, and I remember thinking "What? Milwaukee? People do things in Milwaukee? Wait ... I thought it was a joke? I thought they had beer and that was it?"

I guess that'd be like someone saying "Toledo? What do they have there, anyhow? Jeeps and a lot of nothing?" Yeah, but it was home.

So, while I can admit Milwaukee's more than I thought it was, I'm not looking forward to my trip there tomorrow. For one, I'm going alone to the conference, and driving's not my forte. Directions, not my forte. Stress behind the wheel? Also not a strong point. I'm what you would call dreading it, actually. Public parking, no one to yell at when I don't know where I'm going and could you kindly hold the map open a little -- no, so I can see it -- hold, hold -- God dangit, I just missed it, did you see that? I just missed my frickin' turn. I told you, no, here. I'm getting out. YOU drive. I'm not doing this.

That, I don't get to do tomorrow.

I'm hating life a bit right now. So forgive me if I don't have any feeling of excitement over this ... And I know I'm being slightly hormonal right now, and I apologize.

I saw another of my doctors today, is what

It wasn't until I made a joke about it to one of my prior doctors was that awkward, uncomfortable moment turned just awkward.

When you're in a grocery store and your doctor walks by, is she totally looking at you and thinking, "Oh, God, now that was one horrible case of the eebie-jeebies." Or whatever technical term is hot now.

"So, what do you do?" she asked a few months ago, putting on a glove. Snap.

Always at this moment of the exam I consider lying. I will talk about my embarrassing symptoms and I will be completely honest about it. But my job? People either hate their local newpaper or think it's utterly cool to work on something that lands on other people's porches and lines bird and hamster cages. It really is that cool.

"I'm, uh, a journalist," I say, putting my cold hands under my paper-gown-covered legs.

"Oh, really, where?"

"The Northwestern." (Like how I plugged our Web site there? I'm relentless. Ha.)

"Reeeeally." The doctor never says if "reeeeally" is good or bad, or if they don't actually work in Oshkosh and thus have no idea what I'm talking about. Also likely.

"Yeah."

"I always think that someone's going to write about their doctor visit."

"I'm always afraid you'll think of some weird symptom I had when I see you in public."

Touche, we both thought.

"I promise I won't write about it. It doesn't make for very good breakfast topics."

"And I promise I see enough of these that I'm not even thinking about who you are."

Still, when I saw my latest doctor/nurse today, I walked by with my head down. Just in case this one has a great memory.

"Why pay for TV? You get three whole channels -- four, depending on the cloud coverage!"

We don't have cable, but after a week in the Promised Land (you know it as Ohio), I've seen the other side.

Like tonight, when NBC won't come in without doing that WRRRSSSHHHHHHHHH sound every time an important sentence is uttered or going to chasing ants whenever the answer to a question is asked in which they don't tell the answer like "And do you know the No. 1 reason women in their mid-20s get cancer? ... (Fade to ants) ... THAT'S WHY. Let's go to commercials."

Seriously. I would pay to see "Journeyman" on my TV instead of my computer a day later. It all makes sense to me now, why people pay for TV.

That, and my roommate from college who's just as frugal as I am has the Dish. Yeah, it's time. Peer pressure.

Let's do some dream analysis

I woke up this morning anxious because I thought I was late for work (first sour grape moment).

Then I remembered this dream I had right before I was so rudely woken up by my panic attack (sour grape numero dos).

I was coming back to WORK (three) and there was all this construction going on outside, all the roads were one-way roads and I couldn't get to the building at first. Then when I stumbled over some construction barriers and holes in the ground, I made it inside only to find every other flight of stairs inside was missing, so I had to gladiator-it or else find another way up. I found some hidden staircase and went to a meeting because it was 3 p.m. and I was really late. Then someone in the meeting asked me if I could sit in another meeting afterwards and I cried.

So, I think that means I either shouldn't go back, OR work owes me three hours more of vacation for ruining this one.

Gosh.

I feel the need to be nice-slash-apologize for a second

We went to the Oshkosh Verizon Wireless to renew our plans, and we actually didn't get ignored.

A store in the city north of us never treated us like we were the ones paying them for service. More like we were interrupting them having fun, and we clearly weren't invited to the Cool Kids' Table so could we KINDLY move out of their line of sight??!

But this time, I got a cool phone (this silver one). We got a plan from someone who told us how to make it cheaper than the way we thought we wanted to do it and Dave got a new phone to fix the one he smashed without having to pay for a new phone, even though we didn't have insurance.

So. OK, I'm sorry for calling all cell phone companies "a notch above homicidal maniacs on the ethics scale." Maybe that was a little over-the-edge. Most of them are. We just hit them on a good day or something. Ha, ha.

Take Me There

I have no shame. Want to hear the most embarrassing thing of Sept. 30-Oct. 1? OK, twist my arm.

I bought the new Rascal Flatts CD.

I know, I know.

Country, yeah. I bought it. And not only did I put money down on the counter (figuratively, who actually uses cash, seriously) and walk out of the store with my first CD in about a year (I heart iTunes), I loaded it on my iPod and listened to it. All day.

When you saw me in the car this morning? I was listening to it. When you saw me laying out pages? That was Rascal Flatting, too.

It's good. Shameless. OK, maybe a little shame.

If you're my neighbor, I apologize for the serial-killer-like screams this morning

I've been banished from my own home.

"Ooh, Dave finally showed her the door."

No.

"Ooh, she fled with a hot English bloke named Jude Law."

I wish.

No, no. I just had a minor meltdown. Oo-K. I will be honest. I had a major breakdown. Melt is even too polite for what I had.

Dave and I were having one of those sugar-sweet mornings, where he made cinnamon rolls, we were watching some YouTube comedy with the laptop between us on the couch, saying all those mushy things people get married to say without a hint of irony.

And then Dave had to leave to go cover a midget football game. Only I don't think they actually call the league midget football in Wisconsin. Little league football, midget football, whatever.

He left.

I went upstairs skipping because that was the mood God put me in this morning just to make the following situation that much crappier. Skipping up the stairs, humming, saying "Come on, Mr. Big! Let's get ready." For what? Nothing. Just Saturday! Weee, life is fun!

Halt.

Top stair, Erin has her right leg in mid-air, towel and clothes in hand, and freezes. The right leg comes down with a thud and the object of my OH CRAP moment turns to face me.

A MOUSE is in MY HOUSE. MINE. INSIDE. UPSTAIRS.

I screamed "NOOOOOOOOOOO" and ran downstairs, throwing the pile o' stuff I was carrying, hopping on the coffee table and shrieking. The very to-the-letter definition of shrieking.

I dial Dave.

Voicemail message pops on.

I hang up. Redial.

Voicemail.

I hang up, threaten his life, redial, voicemail.

I hang up, start that uncontrollable breathing problem thing and push "send." He answers. Heaven help him, he answers.

"Hello?"

"Dave. Dave. Dave. (Sobbing hysterically.)"

"What? (Kind of laughing, though the polite kind that won't leave him looking stupid if I'm calling to tell him the dog died or something.)"

Gasping for air between sobs, I scream "Mouse! There's a mouse! Dave, Dave, Dave."

"A mouse?"

"YES." I am angry, because that's what irrational fear does to a person like me.

"Where?"

"UPSTAIRS." Sob.

"Do you want me to come home?"

At this, I stop crying, calmly sit on the couch and say "No, 's all right, dah-ling. I will handle this like an adult."

Or, I said "YEEEESSSSS Help me, help me," I said, panicking because the little rodent found its way down the stairs and was sitting calmly about 10 feet away from my coffee-table perch.

I hung up and expected him to be here already, because hi, I'm having the worst time of my life here and God wouldn't put Dave too far away, right?

Five minutes - or months, if you were standing there watching me jump up and down on the coffee table to thwart any sudden movements in my direction by the mouse - later, he pulls in the driveway to me screaming "NO NO NO NO NO NO NO Not here, not here, not now, I can't do this, I can't do this, I can't do this."

He comes in, walks right past the little sucker and makes sure I'm breathing.

It's the first time I consider what I must look like. Unshowered, in my pajamas, red faced, jumping up on the coffee table, shaking my hair through my fingers because I can feel it in my hair and then hopping on one foot and holding the legs of my pajama pants shut because I can feel it running up my leg. Sweating. Shaking. Hysterical. In other words, hot. Really, really hot.

"Shhh, shh, Erin, it's all right. It's all right. Shhh."

And I proceeded to remind him how long the rest of our lives together would be if he continued to try to calm me down and NOT kill the object of my affliction.

To sum up his heroic act, he threw an empty laundry basket over the thing, chased it around the dining room for a while, then captured it in a Tupperware container and threw it in the garbage in the garage. Ta da.

But that didn't calm me down. He had to carry me upstairs to take a shower. I begged him, literally begged him, to take me with him when he left. I made him buy four mouse traps, four noise-deterrent things (that I am well aware don't work, but make me feel better) and enough poison for the attic to stink up the whole house if it works.

I know, I know. It's only one mouse in one year we've lived here. I will strangle the next person who tells me all homes have mice. Hear that??

Still. I am creeped out. Dave's never home at night when I am -- he's working. So, yeah, I am a freaking out over this. Big time.

I've not been inside all day. Right now, I'm on the deck, enjoying our wireless connection. Before, I was shopping, enjoying nothing but maybe the fact that I wasn't at home.

I don't think I can do this. It's God's way of saying I need to move. Or have Dave here all the time. Or maybe invest in a couple cats, seeing as my DOG was sitting on the couch watching ME instead of KILLING the damn thing. Ugh.

Want to know a backstory? I used to stay at Dave and his roommate Rob's house in college, til one day I walked in the living room and saw two mice*. I more than freaked out. I clawed my way up Dave like a scared cat in a tree. He carried me to the car and I never -- never, not once, not even to move him out -- went back in that house.

But I pay for this house. What a conundrum.

And what the gel, it's not even October yet. I thought I was home free til November, at least.

*Two mice is slightly debatable. Dave says I saw the same mouse in two places. I think that's crazy talk and the reason people get put on medicine for life.