The Trouble With Jokesters

Have you ever known a jokester?  I married one. 

The good news:  Philip makes me laugh everyday--usually several times.

The bad news:  I never know when to take him seriously.  

I warn Philip all the time that he can't use his unique Philip brand of humor on people he just met.  His M.O. is a special blend of dry humor, wit, sarcasm, and subtle delivery to catch his victim off guard.  Few things please him more than making other people laugh until they cry.  

Unfortunately, Philip forgets that people don't receive humor the same way, they might be having a bad day, or that they might believe him when he's just being a goof.  Having been married to the guy for six and a half years, my default reaction to Philip's humor is a laugh and a sarcastic, "Yeah, yeah.  Ha, ha.  C'mon, what really happened?"

This isn't a problem unless Philip is being serious and trying to get my attention.  

Last night, as I was bent over the sink washing my face after our fun date night, I felt Monty walk between the bathroom cabinets and my legs and lay on my feet.  He was whimpering quietly.  

"Hmmm, that's weird," I thought, slightly freaked out by feeling our dog lay on my feet while I washed my face.

Two seconds later, Philip came in the bedroom and said something I couldn't understand over the faucet.

"What?" I asked, still blind to the world without my glasses and drying off my face.

As I put my glasses on, Philip said it again.  "Monty brought a dead mouse into the house and onto our bed."

"He WHAT?!"

Oh, Philip loved that! 

Between laughs, he said, "Yeah, Monty brought a dead mouse into the house, and he put it on our bed."

"Whatever," I wasn't taking the bait.  "No, he didn't.  He'd never do that.  He's too afraid."

Philip just pointed to the comforter.  I couldn't see where he was pointing over the footboard.  This stubborn German refused to budge and investigate because I thought Philip was still pulling my leg.  

"Yes, he did.  Look!"  Oh, he was loving it.  "There is a dead mouse on our bed!"

After going back and forth for probably two minutes, I gave Philip my, "Fine, I don't believe you, but I'll look because this has gone on long enough" look, and I walked over to the bed.

And there it was.  

I saw his tail first.  

A little dead charcoal-colored mouse.  

On our comforter.

I reacted how any red-blooded woman who loves her bedding would.  "Get it OUT OF HERE!  EWWWWW!"  

I think that was Philip's favorite part.  

"Okay, let me go and get something.  I'll be right back.  Keep Monty away from it."

Monty didn't need to be told to stay away from the dead mouse.  He laid down on the ground by the bed and wouldn't stop whimpering.  It's like he was saying, "Oh, Mama, I just thought I was bringing in a new playmate for us.  I didn't know he was DEAD!  What have I done?!"  I had visions of the mouse coming back to life and disappearing under a nightstand where we wouldn't be able to find him until the next day.  

Philip came back a minute later with the grill tongs covered by a Ziploc bag.  Philip was brave until he made it to the doorway and the mouse's weight shifted.  Philip startled, thinking it had come back to life, let out a little shriek, and dropped the tongs to the floor.  That was my turn to laugh!

I chased Philip downstairs and told him I had to get a picture of this moment before he disposed of the mouse.

My jokester hero husband and the dead mouse

Every time we have an incident like this, I tell Philip that he needs to be less of a jokester because I never know when I'm supposed to believe him.  Philip is like the Boy Who Cried 'Wolf!'  He teases me so much that I never believe him when I'm supposed to take him seriously.  

We still don't know for sure whether Monty found his little friend outside or (shudder) inside.  I don't think our scaredy cat pup has it in him to kill a mouse, so that makes me think it was already dead and he just carried it in.  I told Philip last night, "If Monty found that mouse inside and there are MICE IN OUR HOUSE, I'm checking out until they are gone.  We'd have a grand old time at the Embassy Suites!"  I'm only half kidding.  I know that mice are normal this time of year as the weather gets cold and the little rodents seek warmth indoors, blah blah blah, but I don't want 'em inside!  It's extra icky when you have a wee little babe like Harry who's still crawling around and getting into everything.  Blech.  

I haven't seen any signs of them, but, Lord, please don't let there be mice in our home!  Who's the patron saint of rodent extermination?  Google tells me it's St. Martin de Porres.  St. Martin de Porres, help a girl out!