foreplay

I left work at 1:00 on Friday afternoon and took in a showing of Superbad with a friend. I arrived home about 4:00 still high from the numerous giggles the movie provided and excited that I still had a good chunk of the day ahead of me to do whatever I damn well pleased.

I put my stuff away, turned on the A/C and sat down at the computer to check my e-mail.

And then I heard it... a squeaking noise. "Please let that be the A/C," I thought to myself.

I listened intently for a few more minutes and the noise persisted. I turned off the A/C, hoping the sound would cease once I cut the power.

No such luck.

If you'll recall, I built up quite the arsenal of traps during and after The Great M-o-u-s-e Trauma of 2005. I slid several glue traps under the stove and strategically arranged snap traps around it as a secondary line of defense.

Ideally, the ultrasonic devices plugged into the wall in conjunction with a generous sprinkling of Shake Away, a 100% organic, all-natural rodent repellent, behind the stove would have kept the wee buggers at bay. The inhumane traps were really my last and least-desirable resort. I didn't want to kill anything but I also didn't want additional roommates who chew everything in sight and shit in corners. I had enough of that bullshit with my last beast of a roommate, Clare.

Ah, how I love burning people who will never ever read this blog. Fuck you, Clare. Fuck you!

Anyhoo, it was official: I had captured me a m-o-u-s-e on Friday and it was squealing for its dear life underneath my stove.

I am proud to report that I didn't burst into tears, nor did I haul ass out of my apartment. I considered a variety of options to personally deal with the unintentional prisoner of war. Fortunately, I decided that spraying RAID in its face to stun it, shoving it in a plastic bag, whacking it against the brick exterior of my building to finish it off and then putting it in the garbage was a bad idea.

I was equal parts grossed out and ashamed of my trapping skills. But mostly grossed out. I gave my friend Linus a call and, bless him, he agreed to come over and handle the unwanted visitor.

While waiting for Linus to arrive, I tried talking to the m-o-u-s-e to ease its pathetic squealing and assure it that its suffering would end soon. I even apologized to the little guy. I'm nothing if not a polite murderer.

But I couldn't handle the noise any longer so I stood outside on the stoop. Linus arrived just as my super walked past so I snagged him as well and sent the two of them inside to do some rodent clean-up. I also needed the super to inspect the increasingly soft floor in my kitchen. Hello, dry rot! He's coming tomorrow to rip out my floor and replace it. Or so he says.

So Linus and the super extracted the screaming m-o-u-s-e and disposed of it in heroic fashion. Linus even treated me to a really tasty Flemish ale at The Waterfront afterwards. I heart Linus.

So much for a care-free, breezy Friday to do whatever I damn well pleased. I spent the rest of the day resetting the traps, disinfecting the place and adding more Shake Away behind the stove. I was a little heavy-handed in the application of the latter and the unfortunate end result was and still is a lingering aroma, reminiscent of an incontinent bobcat let loose in my apartment.

Saturday night was Date Number Two and a Half with Glamour Puss. We met up during the week after a show, which wasn't an official, scheduled date, hence the half designation, you see. However, we more than earned back that half with all of our hot and heavy making out. Mmmm... Glamour Puss.

So on Saturday night, we took in an awesome set at the Sidewalk Cafe, inhaled some pizza near Tompkins Square Park and then jumped on the Brooklyn-bound F train. Destination: My Tiny Wee Studio.

I opened the door, turned on the light and we stepped inside. Within seconds, I heard it... the squealing had returned. Immediate thoughts that entered my mind:

1. Linus and the super were merely fucking with me and didn't remove the
m-o-u-s-e after all. They had only given it a sedative to stop the squealing and lull me into a false state of calm. Hell, the two of them were probably downing Flemish ales at The Waterfront at that very moment counting down the time until the tranquilizer wore off and having themselves a hearty chuckle. Betrayal!

2. The ghost of the m-o-u-s-e had come back to haunt me vowing to forever terrorize me with that incessant sad squeaking because of the barbaric way in which I killed him.

Glamour Puss suggested that maybe it was squeaky floor boards. She tried recreating the noise by adding pressure with her feet. I appreciated the alternative explanation but I knew that creaky maple was not to blame.

I had caught me another one.

Again, I did not cry. I did not jump on furniture or sweat through my clothing in a state of hysterical panic. Instead, I did the only thing I could... I asked Glamour Puss to deal with it... on our second (and a half) date. God, I'm smooth.

AND SHE DID! Like a motherfucking champ. She armed herself with a flashlight, a plastic bag and a flyswatter and hot damn, if she didn't snag herself a squealing m-o-u-s-e glued down to a piece of cardboard! Mind you, I had my back turned the whole time yelling, "Do you see it?!" and "Did you get it?!" mixed in with apologies and thanks yous, of course.

"What should I do with it?" she asked.

"Maybe we should whack it against the building to put it out of its misery," I suggested. I really need to discuss this alarming preference for killing with my therapist at our next session.

"No, I can't do that," Glamour Puss replied. As it was, she had violated just about every principle she holds dear. It was bad enough she was an accessory in my second m-o-u-s-e murder in as many days. I couldn't expect her to actually pull the trigger.

So Glamour Puss marched outside with the plastic bag containing the victim, the flyswatter and rubber gloves and tossed them all in the Dumpster parked in front of my building. I felt like I was on The Sopranos, what with all the illegal dumping of dead bodies I witnessed this weekend.

Rest assured, Glamour Puss was repeatedly, um, thanked for coming to my rescue. I fully plan on showing more gratitude during Date Number Three and a Half...

burning down the house

Should I ever encounter a wee m-o-u-s-e in my abode again (gawd, I hope not), I'll keep the following in mind: Don't throw it into a bonfire while it's still alive.

I hate m-i-c-e but dude, that's just mean. Bludgeon the wee fucker to death first and then make with the funeral pyre. Sheesh, is there no decency left in this world?

breaking news

As some of you may recall, I reported a strange noise and an errant yogurt lid in my Tiny Wee Studio some weeks back. Against my better judgment, I convinced myself that it was merely a roach of freakish size and strength that found its way into my garbage can, removed a yogurt lid, licked it clean and abandoned it several feet away from the trash can. Despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, I did not want to believe that it was a m-o-u-s-e.

Just the same, I armed myself to the teeth with Tomcat Snap Traps. I was hesitant to use glue traps because I'm not in the business of doling out slow death via an adhesive but at the same time, I'm not keen on having filthy vermin as a roommate.

So for the past few weeks, I made the rounds to CVS, Eckerd and Duane Reade and picked up a variety of weapons to help me in my task. I proceeded to create a treacherous perimeter around my stove since all evidence pointed to that area as the place of entry/exit. I even dropped a poison packet behind the stove and said, "Eat this, bitch." And why, just yesterday I added four more glue traps to the minefield.

You know, between the rodents, the violent asides, the weaponry and the barricades, this story is a little bit Ruby Ridge, Raw Deal, Les Miserables and Stuart Little all rolled into one. If Stuart Little ate from my garbage can and didn't wear pants, of course.

Anyhoo, after several weeks of frayed nerves, I was finally beginning to relax, safe in the knowledge that the area around my stove was secure.

That was premature of me.

I got home around 9:30 tonight. As usual, I flipped on the light and cautiously peered around the refrigerator to see if I had netted me any rodents. Truthfully, I never wanted to catch anything. I don't like killing stuff nor do I like disposing of bodies. In particular, I simply did not want to deal with the possibility that one of the victims might still be alive and squealing bloody murder because its fucking feet were glued to a gooey piece of plastic.

I was seriously hoping that any intruder would see the obstacles in its path and think, "This shit ain't worth it," and then turn around and go back where it came from. Alas, that's not what happened tonight.

Much to my horror, three of the glue traps were flipped over and two of them were stuck together. The Snap Traps were scattered far and wide. In my head, I heard that siren alarm thing that goes whoop! whoop! whoop! The perimeter has been breached! I repeat, the perimeter has been breached!

As far as I was concerned, a monstrous-sized m-o-u-s-e or dare I say, r-a-t, had taken a battering ram to my force field and made its way into my sacred space. So I did what most soldiers would do in the face of such adversity -- I leapt onto my Pier One love seat, sweated through my clothes in a panic and began whimpering.

I tried paging The Super on the emergency line but I couldn't get through because the number had changed. I called his office and tried copying down the new number left on the recording but my hands were weak and shaking violently and the end result looked like something a toddler scrawled.

I knew I had The Super's cell number on my computer so I turned on my PC to retrieve it. While waiting for the computer to start up, I leap-frogged across some furniture to get a sensible pair of shoes and a flashlight.

And then I heard a noise coming from the radiator. Abandon ship! Abandon ship! I grabbed the flashlight, my keys and the cordless phone and got the hell out of my apartment.

I banged on The Super's door to no avail. I ran out to the building's entrance and repeatedly pressed his buzzer but there was no response. I was near hysterics. I was about to call The Masseuse and beg her to let me crash at her place for the night, but then, like a miracle, The Super walked by!!! I totally pounced.

"There is something in my apartment! You should see what it did to my system of traps! You have to come and kill it!"

My voice was trembling. I was sweating and shaking like a leaf. I surprised even myself with my histrionics. The Super took pity on me, investigated the noise and promised to be back shortly to plug up the holes. But first he had to drop off a friend a few blocks away.

I did a quick mental calculation and realized that I would have to be alone in my apartment with the beast for at least 20 minutes. That was unacceptable. So I said, "I'm going to wait for you outside."

With phone and keys in hand, I walked out to the front stoop and made frantic phone calls to The Masseuse and Supah and they both talked me through my bout of crazy until The Super came back. (Thanks again, ladies!)

The Super entered my apartment and within five minutes, he came back out to announce that he had found the m-o-u-s-e. All he needed was a stick and a bucket. Um, what? I was horrified but sort of elated at the same time. Again, I don't condone murder but I was more than willing to turn a blind eye to the brutal beating that was about to go down in my Tiny Wee Studio. That fucker had terrorized me for the past three weeks and well, I was feeling less than compassionate.

Another five minutes passed and then The Super emerged triumphant from my apartment. He carried the body of the lifeless victim in a Target bag. I peppered him with questions about its size and whereabouts. Apparently, the m-o-u-s-e got its foot caught in one of the Snap Traps near the stove (score!) and then got stuck in a hole near the radiator on its way back out (hence, the creepy noise I heard that sent me scurrying for the exit).

I'm sure the thing freaked out when the plastic contraption clamped down on its foot so it started running around in a frenzy thereby upending the glue traps and scattering and snapping the other traps in its wake. Oh.my.God. Can you imagine if this happened when I was home?!?! If I saw that scene unfold with my own eyes and heard the traps snapping like castanets, I would have run out of the Tiny Wee Studio never to return.

I tried piecing together the forensics when I returned to my apartment but it's too gross to even think about. It's almost comical in a sick way but I do feel sort of bad for the dumb thing. Just the same, I'm glad it's gone.

And now I have the task of fighting off a serious case of the willies. I feel a little bit better now that I've finished scouring every surface in my apartment with Clorox Clean-up. Furthermore, I have an area rug, a kitchen mat and a bath mat all rolled up and ready to be thrown out. Why you ask? Well, for one, I'm a lunatic and b) the deceased dragged a trap clear across my apartment in an effort to save itself. Call me a fuss pot but if I can't disinfect an object in the presumed path of the m-o-u-s-e with bleach, it's going in the garbage.

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Dumpster and then I'm going to take the longest shower of my life.