Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The MousekeTears

Don’t get me wrong now. I’m not saying I love mice. I’m not about to get me a pet Mickey or anything. What I am no dankesing is mice in my apartment.

Who wants to share a room with a rodent?

I get it. Buildings are warm
and cozy and there’s food aplenty - very unlike the cold, wet, dangerous outdoors.

Hell, if I was a mouse I would prob be suicidal - albeit smart (well, maybe: No do NOT eat that cheese Katie, no, NO!...snap...I guess we can’t win em all) - rather than remain cold, wet, and starving.

Luckily I am not a mouse. Unluckily I live in a city where rodents outnumber humans 6 to 1. Nastiness!

My friends and I have had some fairly heated debates regarding the Bug vs. Mouse sitch. Ri, for instance, would rather have a bug infestation (this coming from the girl who had bedbugs - that’s a pretty bold statement), pointing out that mice have fur and are warmblooded.

I, on the other hand, would opt for mice cause I.hate.bugs.

This preference was reaffirmed on Sunday when I found a mostly dead cockroach in my
bathroom. But - and there is a but - this partiality is probably due to the fact that - knock on wood - I haven’t had a mouse problem in my Sullivan Street apartment.

My Leroy Street apartamento was a different can of worms entirely. And that can was chock full of squiggly squirmy pests.

All I can say is thank GOD I was living with my ex-boyfriend Ben at the time

One winter night, in the wee small hours, I got up to go to the bathroom. I tend to not turn on the light (I’m a middle-of-the-night-bathroom-break pro unfortunately). But for some reason on that particular night, I flipped the switch - and as soon as I did, I knew a mouse would come running out from behind our hamper.

Needless to say, I was right. (Totally made me believe in that New Age bullshit that is The Secret.)

I squealed as that fat little porker, let’s call him Jerry, skirted and skidded around the corner towards his oh-so-original mouse hidey-hole behind the fridge.

I made a panicked effort at waking Ben up - but come on, what could he do? Jerry had already made his escape! So I tried to go back to sleep.
Fail! Half an hour later, back to the bathroom I went to get me some Tylenol PM.

I turned on the light - dummy! why do I not learn from my mistakes! - and there was another mouse...dangling...from the medicine cabinet. Literally. This time I screeched and screamed and shouted - decibels upon decibels higher than one imagines a human possible of making. I stumbled into the shower and watched as skinny, ragamuffin little Minnie (she was no doubt fatso Jerry’s deprived girlfriend) fell into the sink and frantically scrambled to get out. Picture a hamster running up the inside of a slippery ball.
Then I pulled the curtain closed and screamed some more.

No mice were captured and no sleep was to be had that night - the first of many nights over many weeks and months of mice sneak attacks.

There was the mouse who tight-roped along our door frame and fell into my shoe rack after we shined the flashlight spotlight on him. There was
the mouse who ran across Ben’s bare feet while he was making dinner. (I would have died.)

Ben called himself the Mouse Hunter - and hunter he was. Fo sho. He must have caught a dozen mice. Thankfully I never saw a one corpse - though I did smell a few decomposing. They were disposed of immediately.

But it made me sad, the slaughtering of so many innocent little critters. Really sad, actually. They were just trying to keep cozy and find a snack!

There was one especially upsetting occasion when we tried out a newfangled “reusable” mousetrap - Trissi’s purchase, obvi. Picture a clothespin. And no, a clothespin isn’t strong enough to kill a mouse.

That night I awoke to incessant flopping and banging and mouse-sized crying around 4am . The mouse wouldn’t die. Ben threw that trap out along with the poor, semi-dead little rodent.

It’s a toss-up! Of course I didn’t like the fact that The Hunter caught so many mice. But would I want them scampering around all footloose-and-fancy-free in my apartment? No.

Yet...yet...there was that other time when I spotted a huge, horrifying water bug traipsing across my shower rod. I squeaked and squealed and freaked out and called my mom and cried and jumped up and down. After a few minutes of I think I can pep-talk, I went into the bathroom armed with a broom. I aimed, closed my eyes, and smashed the shit out of the bug. Then I ran out and slammed the door behind me. Ben cleaned up the remains when he got home from work.

I guess the grass is always greener. If I lived in an apartment overrun with water bugs and cockroaches, I would wish for mice. But if I saw jimmie-like Jerry turds and heard scurry-scurry-scratch-scratch every night, I would probably long for bugs.

Or would I. Actually, I think not.

Maybe it boils down preference based on cuteness.

So fine. If I had to pick one, I’m sticking with my original choice. Mister Mouse.

1 comment:

  1. If you ever gave another 'hood a chance besides your beloved west vill, you would find out that some apartments, ahem Stuytown, are completely roach and mice free.

    I gave up on Soho when the food-filled package my mom sent me began making scratching noises and moving ever so slightly at night when my bed was merely 6 inches off the ground. Gave up on Chelsea when I found a live rodent in my trashcan upon arriving at work and was given a new job task to regularly check traps. And gave up on Nolita when my best friend's cat brought me a dead mouse as a present and I subsequently ran up to her roof, smoked half a pack of cigs, called my dad, and cursed myself for not having a boyfriend.
    Had a few roaches in Spanish Harlem but my window did overlook a trash alley so...got the hell out of there in under 8 weeks.

    Melissa now lives in her beloved East Village-ish Stuytown without the pitter patter of feet or antennas.

    The End.