Another embarrassing tale in the saga of "Disaster Housewife and Mother"

So for weeks I've been complaining about the spine chilling scratches and screeches I have heard coming from the walls between our kitchen, bedroom and bathrooms. They are quiet enough to the rest of the family (imperceptible to Dayton), but to me they indicate the presence of an army of small rodents who have miraculously escaped the two cats who inhabit the first floor of our dwelling, and have taken up winter residence within the walls of our second floor apartment. The only peace I have on the matter is that there has been no visible evidence to suggest that the mice ever leave the security of the walls to seek for their desired comforts inside my home. Now, in the past two weeks I noticed a dramatic decline in scratching, screeching and general carrying on within the walls and had hoped that the feline pest control of the first floor may have proven their worth. Unfortunately this decrease in auditory disturbance paralleled an increased olfactory disturbance which was not alleviated by frequent garbage removal and dish washing. I, of course, jumped to the most natural conclusion. The mouse had died within my walls and its decaying flesh was poisoning the airways of my home. Anna even noticed the smell and we lamented it together while trying to bake cookies in the kitchen one night. The stench increased daily and after about a week or so I could stand it no longer. I had visions while standing at my sink washing dishes of taking an ax to the portion of the wall that I assumed held the offending former creature. That night when Dayton got home from school, I begged him to come into the kitchen and commiserate with me. "Stand here," I said about the place where the smell was the strongest. Dayton stood, reeling in the stench of it. "What about that?" he said, looking up. Directly overhead hung a shiny, golden trio of baskets, holding a few onions in the middle and a sack of potatoes at the bottom. Together we sniffed in the direction of the potatoes and immediately my previous explanation melted away like so much butter in a frying pan. What lay before me was perhaps worse for its being so necessarily tangible. Dayton reached for the bag of potatoes and as it arched its way across the kitchen to the trash can, a sickly, brown, deluge rained down on everything in its path (namely, a corner of my sweat pants and a toy dollhouse that had been awaiting repairs). The kitchen was filled anew with the sounds of scrabbling and squawking as we both dashed for antibacterial wipes and extra trash bags.

As a bit of an afterword, I have three things to say in my own defense:

1) There were most definitely mice living in my walls.

2) I had purchased the bag of potatoes no more than two weeks before. (Who hasn't kept a bag of potatoes for two weeks before?)

3) I shop at a grocery store, the freshness of whose produce is now most decidedly questionable.