Two from the Archives

From ye olde MySpace

Apr 22, 2008
how ’bout some cheese, please?

Current mood:bummed

Or, further proof of why I am too immature to live alone:

So last night after another exhausting rehearsal for a show my two readers better be in attendance for--I went home and had some ice cream (cause fat is as fat does these days) and was watching John Addams, my new favorite show, while sitting on the loveseat, and Phoebe was next to me under her blankets, when I heard a very freaky sound behind me. Behind me, for those of you unfamiliar with the layout of me digs, is my dining room table, beyond that a half-wall, behind which is my tiny island orange kitchen. Also the door is located over that way. So in essence my back is to all potential proceedings in my tenement. so that is the set-up.

Now back to the mini-din. It was sort of a crackling sound. I froze, muted my forefathers, and sat tense and electrified. Nothing more was heard. I strained to hear something. Heard nothing. Convince myself it was simply the death rattle of some plastic bags on the counter, rustled into animation by a breeze from the barely open window. I know this is a lie but sometimes, I say, lie to me. I'll believe.

Unmuted the tv--and crackle crackle there it was again. Now I am completely freaked out. Again I put the great orator to silence and forced myself to stand up, albeit atop the loveseat, and peer in the direction of the kitchen, where nothing appeared amiss from what I could see. Not that I can see much or specifically where the noise was coming from. But what I can see is all-clear of disturbances. But I can no longer lie to myself. Thr truth will set ye free, I tell myself, and so hiss "Phoebe!" through clenched teeth.

Nothing. I gently prod Ms. Snoozy Beagle's blanketed form with my toe. No response, though more scuttle-butt noises ensue now from behind the kitchen wall where I could not see. I begin simultaneously laughing and crying. Cause I think I know exactly what that sound is--and I think it is rodent in origin.

[Lengthy side note here. My first mouse house experience was in the famed Tara 201, beloved college house that was nevertheless infested with wildlife. I would sit on my narrow bed studying out my marrow bones and out of the corner of my eye see something skeetering around in wild concentric circles on the floor beyond the bed. My response was generally to scream and point and stand up on the bed.

Why this is my fight or flight response I have no idea, but that is what I do. It is so cliche. Anyhow, in college the large begrizzled environmental services guy would show up, chomping a dead cigar, and inform us that "where there's mice, there's squirrels follow, then rats." A comforting though, n'cest pas? This gentleman would then pump foamy stuff all over our place (ok I realized as I typed that how wrong that sounds, but that is what happened) and advise us to keep our small stock of foodstuff in metal containers with padlocks and retina scan-only access. As the piece de resistance he laid traps all over the place. Always a delight to come home and find large dead things by your mini-fridge. I took to shaking out my shoes before putting them on and beginning a life-long affair with hoods since college beds don't come with canopies. I guess they went away after a while, the mice, or at least retreated back to behind the wainscoting where they belong. I don't mind 'em in the walls. I just prefer that they stay there (but not die there as that is another matter altogether.)

2nd mouse experience. Circa 1997? D, Tim, Charlie, and I lounge around our lovely home watching the telly when my spidey senses begin to tingle and I see a mouse doing a dosi-do in the center of the adjoining dining room. I point it out to D who tries to convince me I am imagining things (though he later admits he had seen Minnie prancing about for a full 10 minutes before I caught on. bastard) Luckily two boys, a lot of plywood, an overexcited puppy, and a teary animal-lover make for a not-so-shabby A team. Mousy was trapped and released into the wilds of the Aquavita Pools, where presumably she found Mickey and they had a lot of little mice which leads us to

Episode 3 of mouse house, many years later, during my dark ages, when I couldn't sleep in my bed but could lie as lifeless on my couch and take 2 hour naps throughout the white nights. Lucky for my bed, I reconsidered this Plathy position on my 3rd night in my new-old house when 5 feet away a pint-sized production of the Nutcracker Ballet was staged in my dining room. Sadly no one transformed into my prince, and I later lost not walnuts but loaves of bread to the corps. I was told by my landlord that it happened and i could set traps, but the idea of disposing of the little creatures stopped me from that end. I learned to keep my bread in the fridge and to scour my counters with anthrax and more or less got over the fact that these guys liked to come out and play. It did force me off the couch and into the bed though for a more permanent slumber, which I suppose was a nice side effect. Good times.]

So back to the big 4, my experience last night.

I look around and grabbed Phoebe's blue toy and threw it into the kitchen hoping thing will come out. At this point Phoebe deigns to wake up, stretches lazily, and trots into the kitchen, where she retrieves the toy and returns it to me. Apparently noticing nothing amiss. Doesn't even sniff the air! I mutter "you're no help" and then creep over the love seat, gingerly setting one foot on the floor while reaching for a dining room chair which I then leap to in some kind of insane pas de deux. From my new and higher vantage point I can see more of the kitchen but not the whole floor.

Now awake, Phoebe is very confused, especially when I start hopping the chair across the room to get closer to the kitchen. She thinks it is a game and will not go into the kitchen and get the mouse for me! I start to feel very sad now. Partly because I realize that I am very old and grown-up and am behaving like a child at this point (ok I realized it earlier but still) . So I gear up my courage to get off the chair and stop trying to make my kiddo do the dirty work. I awkwardly dance into the kitchen, on my toes, with the rest of my body contorted in a frozen limbs way, a la Fosse.

This twisted sister sees nothing and hears nothing. Though in front of the dishwasher I spy what could be two mud flakes--or could be the waste by-products of a mouse. (It is difficult to tell when the front of your house resembles London after the blitz and so you and your dogs and your friends track in actual dirt on a daily basis.)

So because we have dug in for trench warfare outside (who knew this was how porches got built), I think the mating mice have come home to roost--to my home. They need to pay rent or leave. Or maybe I just need to leave. Here I come to save the day indeed--nothing good will come of this!

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May 9, 2008
Weekly News
Current mood:breezy

Have been remiss in my blogging and feeling the yen to write so here's what's happening

Homeland Security closes this weekend. Everyone who comes to see it seems to very much enjoy it so if you get a chance do come on out--especially you theater types who want there to be a CTC so you can perform in great stuff in the future--so get your act together and get set to laugh and see your pals!

Jeremy "Kip" Mousekataire has been caught and relocated to Trinity Vicinity, so let us hope that there will be no more midnight feedings at Casa de Kiki. After checking the PETA-approved humane trap obsessively every time I went near my kitchen, and no signs of mousie for a good 2 weeks, I had nearly convinced myself that the evening I saw the back end of said mousie scrambling into my stove was an illusion brought on by too much vitamin water. Then on Tuesday morning I went to make my morning java and realized that I had no coffee, so needed to break out the emergency single packet fancy-like caffe I have set aside for such occasion. Of course in my half-asleep rushing state I opened the foil packet incorrectly and awhoosh of coffee grounds spilled all over the place. grabbing paper towels and muttering a string of Catholic-inspired epithets I cleaned up the counter, and managed to kick the little mouse house at my feet, which then made me think I should check to see if any grounds had spilled on the floor. No grounds but a mouse dropping--more cursing as I thought damn these vermin laughing at me as they poop all around the trap I have cunningly laid for them.

Then I see him--Kip--tiny paws pressed against the house looking at me imploringly--I begin to yelp and dance around the kitchen, arms and legs flapping like a marionette--I grab the phone and call Jim praying he is still home, and while he is not he listens to (and laughs at) me as I continue my puppet dance outside and around the block and back inside. I decided in the end that I simply cannot relocate Kip myself, because every time I gingerly move the trap Kip gets very confused and begins scuttling to and fro and COMPLETELY FREAKING ME THE F OUT. Also the mouse house is slightly broken, due to an earlier accidental falling to the floor, hence my fear is the release door will fall off while the house is in my hands and Kippy will go scuttling either to his free fall fate or worse touch any part of my foot or arm or anything to do with my body. So I decide f this, and I crate P and take myself off to work, where all day I imagine the soul-bonding glances I had with Kip earlier and fear that he will manage to break free while I am out.

Jim being a better man than I, came home before me and took Kip (who he thought looked more like a Jeremy) to the other side of town where we hope he will find new friends and a new and thrilling life from from the maddening crowds of Cool Springs. I continu eto feel extremely skittish in my home feeling every noise or scratch or breath means Kip's kin are scurrying about, but so far so good. Though a sad footnote is my landlord telling me the tenant next door discovered some of Kip's pals yesterday in her house, and unlike me has no qualms about actual extermination of innocent creatures, so has set about poison in her house which makes me sad and also afeared that they will all just be wise to that game and instead come over to where the eats are good and the relocating bonus is a sure thing--but so far, no signs.

The other exciting thing that happened is that after 8 weeks I am no longer PT--having finally retrieved my poor car Esme from the body shop where she has been held hostage since being cruelly smacked in the side by Sinn Fein. After 5 tries at replacing her subframe--which is apparently what all suspension and car workings are based around--a brand spanking new one arrived and was duly installed and she was repainted and announced good as new. I am relearning how to drive a manual after finally mastering the good old automatic, and very glad that I am driving the car that I am still paying for rather than the funereal 40s-esque PT Cruiser.

and so it goes.