Friday, June 8, 2012


We have a mouse.

There is a mouse in my apartment. It's been there at least a week, judging by the little poos it's been leaving.

At first, I wasn't sure whether it was roach or mouse droppings. Just Googling the difference made me shudder in fear. I like to think I'm relatively brave, as far as life is concerned. But I cannot do bugs.

I have a horrible relationship with roaches (…although, is there ever a good one?)—I wasn't ready to conceive of a bug big enough to leave a trail of shit every night. And one that was quickly becoming a regular in my kitchen? Absolutely not.

So the boyfriend bought roach traps and poison mouse pellets, preparing for the worst. The pellets started disappearing. Then, one night I saw the mouse. It was smallish and brown—not a subway rat, which is a whole other bundle of problems. But not a teeny cute little one, either.

Relief. I was so glad. I stopped obsessively checking the ceiling for roaches.

I was confident we'd get the mouse. Buuuut it's not working so far. Our friend seems to enjoy eating the poison pellets for an appetizer, and it doesn't appear to have a taste for the traps baited with peanut butter.

Next step is the big one: glue traps. While I don't relish the thought of having to remove a live mouse with kitchen tongs or hear it squeaking helplessly all night, I'm at stress level orange. It's time. I've become this insanely jumpy creature. Rolling out pastry dough the other night, I kept spilling flour on myself every time a floorboard creaked.

It's not like we're dirty, after all. In fact, since the mouse, I've accepted the mantle of my spotless Polish grandmother and gone to town on the kitchen and bathroom. The tiles in the bathroom have actually changed color thanks to some elbow grease and Bar Keeper's Friend. And I found myself hanging all my spray bottles on a tension rod under the sink. Now there's more room for the Oxi Clean.

Believe me, I don't know who I've become, either. But I kind of like it.

All I need to do is grow some pest-proof balls. I'm at my wit's end here.

(*I saw the acclaimed film in theaters. Yep.)

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