So tomorrow, we are going to renew our lease at the Manor. I feel kind of, well, feh (grief, blending with a bit of the blues) about everything. While not out of our hole, we are vigorously, frugally digging. We were hoping to be further along, but beshert is beshert (que sera-sera). There are irons in the fire. Well, there’s metal. And it’s hot.
Some of you may remember our previous ‘pest period.’ It was not pretty, especially for the Mrs., who at the time, I affectionately referred to as my LMPP (loving mouse-phobic partner). It seems as though the little grey gremlins are back. This may be a karmic result of my recent rant on mosquitoes (which also led to a doozy of a spider bite that took me down and out). Insert ‘WHITE FLAG’ here for all things alive and erring on icky.
So I get a call at work. The Mrs. and Little, they hear a squeaking sound under the stove. Gatsby, he hears it too. His nose is at the base of the stove and his tail is standing tall. “There must be a nest!”
I try to calm the terror in her voice. I gotta say this family needs this like I need a loch in kup (hole in my head). I quietly explain how we don’t have a nest, but we probably did catch a creature under the cooker. Since it’s wailing aloud, apparently a better mousetrap can be built! We stopped and held a moment of silence for the torturous death that was transpiring in our very own home. My shana madelah (sweet Little) had to hear this mishegas (craziness). We decide to try not to let Big find out about this incident. Why fan the flames inferno?
The Mrs., she calls the Manor (the third management company since our stay) and is told we will be placed on rotation for pest control. Oy gevalt (fuck this shit, ugh, gee whiz, really)! By the time I get home from work, the squeal had ceased, as did the mouse that roared.
A few nights ago, the Mrs., she comes into the bedroom, locates me amidst a bulk of blankets, Big, Little, and their selected ‘stuffies.’ She pokes at my ribs, and says, “It went snap. I heard a snap in the other room.” This could only mean one thing (aside from a lousy slumber). More.
Well, the Mrs. and Big are now both chaleria’s (slightly psychotic) and trembling in terror when it comes to these small, unwelcome beasts of burden. I got up (really just to pee) and secured the bedroom door (as much as one can do) and we all (yes, we are all together in one bed, in one room, for this very grey, furry reason) set off for a restless, edgy nights’ sleep.
The next morning, I get up at my normal 4am to work before work. Several hours later, alarms blaring, the Mrs., der kinder (the kids) and Gatsby all amble out of the bedroom, sleepy-eyed and cotton mouthed. “Did you check,” she asked me? “Nope,” I replied.
In a pre-caffeinated blur of bravery, the Mrs., my LMPP, she opens the doors to the closet where said snap sound came from a few short hours ago. She looked at me, pale and panicked. She mouthed, “Two. Dos. Duo.” Bring the body bags.
Since it is only 7:20 am, I fire off an email to our newest friend in Manor management, Matthew. I hit send and barely heard the electronic swoosh of the email leaving, when I am startled from a sharp knock at the door. “Who is it?” “Maintenance!”
I pinched myself to prove I wasn’t dreaming (just exhaustion). It was Franklin! Franklin – my morning knight in shining arm gloves, carrying a plastic bag. The kids are so busy getting ready for school that they don’t even notice him exhuming the bodies.
He came back soon after with fresh traps in hand. The Mrs., she says, “Aren’t you going to add peanut butter?” Franklin mulls it over, probably thinking, ‘hmmm, a nice nosh (snack, meal, or in this case, last supper), even for a mouse?’ He looks perplexed. No PB in his toolbox. What to do? So the Mrs., she gives him the organic, free range, dead-sea salted smooth spread that we’ll be paying off for the next 30 years. At least they’ll go out with a nice nosh?
We are ferklempt ( a hot mess) over here. So, who among you has this issue, and how are you handling it?