me me me

I Think I Smell a Rat

Wednesday, September 25th, 2013

For days now, I cannot get this song out of my head.

No, not because of my love of the White Stripes or my  ”mostly attracted to, but slightly repulsed by” Jack White crush, but because my house has rats.

(I’m sorry, Mom. I know this is pretty much your worst nightmare. I was hopeful the title might have scared you off.)

The good news is I wasn’t here for the worst of it – although living vicariously through the friend staying at my place’s mortified texts and PHOTOS once she forcibly (fought one

This image was associated with a story about "rat meat sold as lamb in China." So much for tastes like chicken. Or ever eating anything in China. Ever.

This image was associated with a story about “rat meat sold as lamb in China.” So much for tastes like chicken. Or ever eating anything in China. Ever.

on with one of my large kitchen spoons while it came at her and bit scratches into the other end of the spoon) caught two of them on sticky traps will provide excellent PTSD fodder for years to come – or was I?

See, I don’t know.

And I’m not sure what rats smell like, but I keep waking up at all hours and creeping around my house both hopeful (?) and terrified I will discover something and thinking I smell something “weird.”

Here are the facts as they stand:

1. They tore down two dilapidated houses next door. Three days later, I have rats.

2. Despite my $1600 a month plus utilities rent, my landlord is a total slumlord bastard. Nothing is fixed. Nothing gets repaired. The place is probably six months from falling in on itself. He’s also prone to threatening to evict me – or maybe worse. The notes say things like “you won’t like what I’ll do.” Maybe he means release a bunch of rats? – because he hallucinates that he hears the dog howling. At 3 a.m. When the dog is asleep. And I’m home. And the only creatures stirring are a bunch of rats.

3. One of the other renters here in Hell seems to function as a de facto maintenance man, but he is clearly terrified of the prospect of actually encountering one of these buggers. Not exactly confidence-boosting. He recommended I put out a bowl of Pine Sol.

Um, what?

4. My cat doesn’t give a sh*t. He was apparently sitting on the counter a few feet away from two of them (yes. They frequent my kitchen counter and knock stuff down. Which makes me want to firehose this place with bleach.) begging for his supper. Who can blame him? They’re practically his size. Or maybe he thinks I’ve added to the family. Welcome, Ratatouille, Squeaker, and Meningitis!

4. My dog wants to kill, but I don’t really want him developing a blood lust or have the experience of murdering smallish animals inside our 750-square foot house. See: 9-pound cat.

5. Same de facto maintenance guy “plugged all the holes” leading into this place and put some sticky traps under my stove. The rat(s) drug them both across the house, took some dumps on them, shook free (I found the traps face down in the middle of the room) and – presumably – are now trapped inside here somewhere.

6. Arson sounds nice.

 

 

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Best. Day. Ever.

Tuesday, August 13th, 2013

So as the title perhaps implied, today was bombastic: SUCH an insanely fun time.
I went to Lanai with three of my friends, and I talked another friend who lives there into letting us use his “man’s man” no roof, no doors ’72 Jeep to kamikaze all over said island.

Let’s just say his Jeep is distinctive, Lanai has a population of 2000, we defiled that vehicle something fierce and (perhaps not surprisingly) he got 10 texts of “four women have stolen your Jeep and are acting like lunatics!” in just two hours.

It was a lady version of Jackass, the highlight of which was no doubt the moment we were barreling down the what-we-thought-was-the-Garden-of-the-Gods-Road, but which decidedly was not and the TIDAL WAVE OF MUD came over the top and did its worst.

Which is to say it was AWESOME.
And hilarious.

But also sucked.

Seriously, some of my favorite clothes and a backpack are defiled by Lanai red clay dirt mud nonsense.

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^^^hopefully my friends don’t mind me posting this post-mud wave shot.

For the record, they sell a product here called a “red dirt shirt.”
This is a t-shirt dyed red by the same clay dirt crap currently all over my belongings.
Beyond reason, I am hoping there is some kind of old wives’ tale solution (anyone? Anyone? Bueller?) to remove this stuff.
And once I discover it, I will not only heal some of my favorite belongings, but market this miracle cure and wow you all with the following ad: I use my stolen old wives’ tale formula to turn a Hawaii red dirt shirt sparkling, dazzlingly white.

Mmmmm Hmmmmm…

How ya like me now?

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A (Wo)Man Needs a Maid

Saturday, July 27th, 2013

So a couple nights ago I had a dream that I had a roommate. She was upset with me because the house isn’t exactly – okay, at all – clean.
At first I felt bad, but then I started to think about it. “When was the last time you cleaned the litter box?” I asked her.
“Never,” she admitted.
“Never!?”

Then I woke up and realized that roommate is me.

Except sub “never” for “twice a month” (ish) and this probably explains why my cat has started peeing in the tub.

In my defense he has two boxes.

But still.

Anyway, take this level of sloth and imagine every other household task in combination with what you now know about the kitty litter and my place is making me loco.

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^^^me circa five minutes ago and looking a bit loco, as it were.

Here’s the thing.
I don’t like to clean.
And it doesn’t help that my dog has been shedding like a mofo.
And Maui is insanely dirty. In addition to being where young people go to retire it is the dirtiest place on earth.
You into black soles of feet?
Calcutta’s got nothing on this little slice of paradise.

Anyway, it’s 2013.
Where’s my flying robot slave?
I neeeeeeeeeeed it.

Mostly to teach the cat to pee in the toilet, but cleaning the tub would be a nice touch while s/he is at it.
And hanging up the giant pile of clean laundry on my bed.
And mopping.
And giving me a haircut.
And dusting this black dust covered hovel.
And making me a grilled cheese sandwich stat.

That is all.
Thank you for listening.

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Birds are the Worst

Tuesday, July 23rd, 2013

I am not a bird person.
I would never have one as a pet. I can’t comprehend why people do.
Clearly they don’t want to be pets.
Case in point: you have to clip their wings or they’ll fly to get away from you as fast as they can.
Plus there’s all the damn squawking.
Case closed.

I obviously don’t have a pet bird, but my place is surrounded by zillions of squawking wild birds.
Birds so loud that when I’m on the phone people often ask, “is that BIRDS?”

This morning I was awoken at 5 by the cackling of those effing birds outside my place.
I fell back asleep and dreamed there was a Filipino restaurant in town that made a stew of some kind out of the same type of effing birds, and I was going to go there and order that dish specifically to get back at them.
I even had a line for the restaurant review planned: “They say revenge is a dish best served cold… but not in this case.”
AND I knew my editor wouldn’t like me writing myself into the story, but too bad. Even in my dreams I am the Charlie Kaufman of restaurant reviewers. :P

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Saturday. July 13. 4:32 p.m.

Saturday, July 13th, 2013

Sitting on my couch.
Naked.
Watching a documentary.
Eating Frosted Flakes out of the box.

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.

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