concerned because we are landlords now and have a legal obligation to keep the building vermin-free, which is easier said than done. So I go for the glue traps. It has been my experience in the past that the flip traps don’t work at all, so I buy the glue traps even though I have a very traumatic memory of catching a mouse in a glue trap when I was about 10 years old and flipping this screaming mouse into a bucket of water. It was horrifying.
But I’m not ten years old anymore, so I figure I can deal with it. At first it looks like it’s not even going to be an issue because they studiously ignore the glue traps. One mouse even manages to shit in a glue trap without getting stuck. I am convinced this is the mousy way of saying “fuck you.”
But I stick with it because nothing else is working, and one night I hear a loud squeee squeee squeee, and I see a mouse caught in the trap I have wedged between the garbage and the countertop. I will come to call this “the money spot,” because while the mice will continue to ignore every other trap in all of their favorite locations, I will catch at least six more in traps put in this exact spot.
When I hear this squee squee squee, I put my plan into action. I go to the rag bag and grab a rag, which I place over the mouse. I then go to the bookshelf and grab the giant hardcover French/English dictionary I have had since high school. I hear the voice of my ninth grade French teacher echoing in my head, going, “people, spend the extra money for the hardcover dictionary! You’ll be glad you did!”
I drop the dictionary on the mouse, and boom–he’s gone. I pop the rag-covered corpse in the trash, and I’m done. I feel like I should seek out Monsieur Stirling and tell him, but I guess this probably isn’t the use he had in mind.
At first this is kind of fun. I feel good about giving the mice a more humane death than they get from poison, and I feel good about getting some revenge for that shit in my frying pan. It does not bother me at all.
And then Kirsten is diagnosed, and the news just keeps getting worse and worse and worse. And suddenly I feel kind of bad for doling out death, especially when we are trying like hell to fight against Kirsten’s. It seems like bad karma. But what the hell am I going to do? They can’t stay here, and while you can ask them to leave, they don’t usually comply. So I have to kill them. But I start to hate it. What makes me incredibly sad is that they stop screaming before I drop the dictionary on them. They stop screaming as soon as they are covered in the rag. Does it comfort them to be covered up? Or do they know that it’s pointless to scream because their situation has just gotten hopeless?
Chemo Begins
Kirsten starts her chemo on a Monday. I spend the day on a bus, on some incredibly ill-advised trip with my school to try to climb a mountain in the rain. On the way up, one of the science teachers makes us watch
October Sky
, about which they say, “it’s great! It’s about science!” I guess this is why only science teachers went to see it, but I watch it because it’s on, and it turns out to be pretty engrossing, except for the fact that Laura Dern, who I have had a crush on since
Blue Velvet
in 1986, dies of lymphoma in this movie. Great. Perfect fucking thing to watch while your wife is starting chemo for her stage 4 breast cancer. Ugh. I pretend to be interested in the scenery or the bus driver’s ranting about how if he were in the lead bus, he would have taken a different route (the guys who drive charter buses are a weird, weird bunch) so that I don’t start sobbing.
I have my cell phone with me. (Yes, I did eventually get one because I was freaking out over the idea of Kirsten being in the hospital and me not being able to go to the grocery store, but also because it felt like I was doing something, which of course I wasn’t.) We are out of the service area up here on the mountain, so I have to wait
But I’m not ten years old anymore, so I figure I can deal with it. At first it looks like it’s not even going to be an issue because they studiously ignore the glue traps. One mouse even manages to shit in a glue trap without getting stuck. I am convinced this is the mousy way of saying “fuck you.”
But I stick with it because nothing else is working, and one night I hear a loud squeee squeee squeee, and I see a mouse caught in the trap I have wedged between the garbage and the countertop. I will come to call this “the money spot,” because while the mice will continue to ignore every other trap in all of their favorite locations, I will catch at least six more in traps put in this exact spot.
When I hear this squee squee squee, I put my plan into action. I go to the rag bag and grab a rag, which I place over the mouse. I then go to the bookshelf and grab the giant hardcover French/English dictionary I have had since high school. I hear the voice of my ninth grade French teacher echoing in my head, going, “people, spend the extra money for the hardcover dictionary! You’ll be glad you did!”
I drop the dictionary on the mouse, and boom–he’s gone. I pop the rag-covered corpse in the trash, and I’m done. I feel like I should seek out Monsieur Stirling and tell him, but I guess this probably isn’t the use he had in mind.
At first this is kind of fun. I feel good about giving the mice a more humane death than they get from poison, and I feel good about getting some revenge for that shit in my frying pan. It does not bother me at all.
And then Kirsten is diagnosed, and the news just keeps getting worse and worse and worse. And suddenly I feel kind of bad for doling out death, especially when we are trying like hell to fight against Kirsten’s. It seems like bad karma. But what the hell am I going to do? They can’t stay here, and while you can ask them to leave, they don’t usually comply. So I have to kill them. But I start to hate it. What makes me incredibly sad is that they stop screaming before I drop the dictionary on them. They stop screaming as soon as they are covered in the rag. Does it comfort them to be covered up? Or do they know that it’s pointless to scream because their situation has just gotten hopeless?
Chemo Begins
Kirsten starts her chemo on a Monday. I spend the day on a bus, on some incredibly ill-advised trip with my school to try to climb a mountain in the rain. On the way up, one of the science teachers makes us watch
October Sky
, about which they say, “it’s great! It’s about science!” I guess this is why only science teachers went to see it, but I watch it because it’s on, and it turns out to be pretty engrossing, except for the fact that Laura Dern, who I have had a crush on since
Blue Velvet
in 1986, dies of lymphoma in this movie. Great. Perfect fucking thing to watch while your wife is starting chemo for her stage 4 breast cancer. Ugh. I pretend to be interested in the scenery or the bus driver’s ranting about how if he were in the lead bus, he would have taken a different route (the guys who drive charter buses are a weird, weird bunch) so that I don’t start sobbing.
I have my cell phone with me. (Yes, I did eventually get one because I was freaking out over the idea of Kirsten being in the hospital and me not being able to go to the grocery store, but also because it felt like I was doing something, which of course I wasn’t.) We are out of the service area up here on the mountain, so I have to wait
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