Well, it was bound to happen. It's just that I didn't expect it to occur on only our second camping jaunt.
Yes, you guessed it: We had uninvited guests. No, not annoying fourth-removed cousin Alvin and his nine kids and their 11 friends. Shoot, that would have been just dandy!
No, as a matter of fact, this company was not of the human sort. That's right. I speak of intruders of the rodent variety.
Friends, this is a story of mice and women. And the women? We ain't too happy.
It all unfolded rather innocently, really. As we embarked on our second official overnight adventure, I casually reached down to grab a paper towel in order to wipe off my new little kitchen counter - you know, keeping my space spic and span.
In fact, I'm sure the mice found it to be a nice, sanitary place to hang out, but I digress.
Anyway, as I fingered through the shredded remains of my roll, it began to dawn on me that something had gone awry.
Leaning down to see why my paper towels felt so funny, it hit me that my after dinner clean-up supplies were someone else's home-building materials.
And that's when I saw the chocolate-covered raisins. Only they, of course, were neither raisins, nor chocolate-covered. It was almost a delayed reaction.
"Kyle, go get your father," I heard myself say.
"Why, Mom, what's up?" my 11-and-a-half-year-old casually replied.
"Now. Go get your dad. Now, please," I said, beginning to feel the imaginable tingling created by invisible whiskers scurrying up and down my arms and legs.
"Dad, Mom wants you. She's acting a little weird," he said as visions of the "Rodents of Unusual Size" from the movie "The Princess Bride" started crawling around in my noggin.
"OK, I don't want you to get excited " said my husband - at least that's what it sounded like from my perch atop the camper roof.
Mice don't climb that high, do they?
While I was up there, I did what any sane, rational gal would do who'd just had her living space compromised by a varmint. I called my mommy. And my sister. And my BFF Chris Ruggieri of Warren.
They all did their best to try to talk me down, literally.
"This camper's not big enough for the two of us," I told Chris, who made the mistake of confirming my fear that mice very rarely travel alone.
There's just no "Hmpf" sufficient enough, my friends - even though Kerry caught the four-legged prowler and disposed of him accordingly.
Eight bottles of Lysol, three containers of Clorox wipes, a gallon of Windex, and 46 tubs of anti-bacterial soap later, I started to consider sitting in the camper again - sometime in 2014.
Can you believe Kerry had the nerve to tell me I was overreacting when I asked him how much we might get for the vehicle on Craigslist?
Listen, unless they're named Mickey or Minnie and run amusement parks in California and Florida, I refuse to break bread with any mouse any time any place, OK? This includes Chuck E. Cheese, btw.
Unlike Robert Burns, I make no apologies for that, people.
It's a bummer, too. Because I was just starting to really, really love camping.
I mean, we've had some wonderful adventures already! With all the fishing, the hiking, the buying $78 worth of snacks and soda every time we meander past the camp store - these are certainly all arguments for braving out the rat race.
Plus, we've met the most wonderful folks at our campsite, including a fabulous couple from Bristolville whom I've warned will be gracing this space sometime in the very near future - and our immediate "next door" camp neighbors the Mauers. They're sweet and fun and Kyle has pretty much moved his bunk bed to their camper already.
What's a mouse-a-phobe to do?
Because, seeing the delight on my son's face as we roast marshmallows over our open fire as we talk about how many blue gill we caught and released that morning certainly isn't helping me ditch the place.
Rats! Look's like camping's definitely for me, after all.
Oh, well. Someone needs to keep cleaning supply product companies in business, right?
----- Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist. Contact her at email@example.com.