This whole mouse thing is driving me crazy.
I've told everyone about the mouse, like I have just purchased a new puppy and it has consumed my personal life.
"I can't go out for drinks. Gotta get home to my mouse!" I'll say, or, "I have the smartest mouse in Brooklyn!"
Why is it so smart? Because I put out a trap with cheese on it, went to bed, and woke up the next morning with the cheese removed from the trap and no dead mouse.
It's just like that time when my cat would scratch on my bedroom door like it wanted to come in, so I'd get up, and open the door, and the cat would run away. He would do this at least three times in a row until I realized that essentially, the cat was playing "ding dong ditch" with me and I was losing. EVERY TIME.
But this little story is cute, because the annoying animal in question was a beloved family pet, and not a nasty, unwelcome rodent.
People have told me to put out peanut butter because it's sticky and they can't just grab it from the trap. That all sounds reasonable, but guess what I'm not gonna do? GO GROCERY SHOPPING FOR THE MOUSE. I don't eat peanut butter. Therefore, I don't have it in my house. I'm not going to make a special trip to the store to buy peanut butter for an unwanted house guest. It just seems crazy to me.
I know it's an old building in New York City and all buildings have them, but I am pretty sure that Milagra's trash picking tendencies have brought him/them into my apartment.
I saw her outside of the apartment the other night (going through the garbage of course) and I said, "Hey Milagra. I've got a mouse in my house."
Her response was not what I expected.
"FUCK THAT. I DON'T WANT THOSE BITCHES IN MY HOUSE."
Keep in mind that this is a 70-year-old woman, who is about 4 feet tall, who essentially said "FUCK THAT NOIZE" when I told her about the mouse.
So I'm trying to come up with ways to keep the mouse (mice?) at bay.
Advice I've gotten:
My boss: Steel wool in all of the holes
My father: Stop being such a drama queen
Co-worker: Mint oil
My landlord: Deal with it yourself and stop calling us
My father (again): Name it and pretend your life is a Disney musical
Friend: Glue traps
So now I'm obsessed (ala Nathan Lane in Mousehunt). I've put out bait and traps. I've scoured my apartment for every hole or crack and stuffed in steel wool (my baseboards currently look like they're growing hair). I've doused the place in mint oil. I've taken to sitting on the couch in silence, listening for the pitter patter of rodent feet (or, as they say in The Night Before Christmas, "stirring").
One thing I will refuse to do, however, is put out glue traps. Imagine: you're walking along, and all of a sudden, you're stuck. Like, really stuck. You can't get unstuck. But you're not dead. And the glue's not gonna kill you. So you'll just sit there and die of starvation. Now, I'm not a hippie animal rights douchebag, but that is pretty fucking cruel. Snap their necks is what I say! I've always been very deliberate.
All I want to do is eat dinner, have a vodka tonic, and watch Designing Women in peace (Season 2 on Netflix, bitchez). Is that so much to ask?
Labels: Bitter Bitching, BK, NYC