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
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.
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.
You remember the movie “Something About Mary”?
Allegedly, I’m Mary.
One of my male friends – the one who made the original comparison and also gave me the nickname “Magical Ass.” You Know Who You Are. And thanks for nothing. And sorry, Dad. – looooooooooves to say “there’s something about Vanessa!” in an all-too-chirpy and enthusiastic tone. He’s also mentioned that he “didn’t want to be in a relationship for about a decade… until I met you” and no, we are not in a relationship or romantically involved but yes, I guess he speaks from “something about Vanessa” experience.
I heart you, You Know Who You Are.
So anywho, this is not about me and my superpower of making people crush out.
This is more in line with “things I tell people who are crushing out to help them get a grip.”
Like how I have three cases of sardines on Amazon subscription order and regularly eat them for breakfast right out of the can.
And not the good ones I love because I’m cheap and a broke ass writer (thanks for the beer. AHEM. Not talking to you, Dad. You’re the tops. But the rest of you? You Know Who You Are.), but I deal because I’m a tough cookie and stoic in the face of mediocrity like that.
And how I think daily showers are overrated.
And that I don’t remember the last time I cleaned said shower.
And how two years in Hawaii has hardened me to the degree that I will KILL A COCKROACH WITH MY BARE HANDS.
Don’t even dare me. Don’t even look at me sideways. It’s gonna happen before your eyes can go all askance, let alone before the words are out of your mouth.
I ‘m a straight ninja roach killer.
And that’s disgusting.
What about how I’ve been known to pull entire, still-in-their-wrapper (bastard!) sticks of butter out of my dog’s throat (he morphs into a boa constrictor when he knows you’re coming for something he just stole)…and put it back in the fridge… and use it.
Like you wouldn’t.
Anywho, this tale will join the list of “Please stopping thinking you want to marry me. I’m seriously insane.” tall tales.
So the other night I ran my dishwasher and something I apparently didn’t properly pre-wash (have the dog lick shiny clean first) backed up in the whosit whatsit and the net result was that one side of my sink was filled with this dark gray (seriously. Bordering on black. It was wild. The Ganges wishes it could get its hands on the contents of my sink.) water.
I ran the garbage disposal and no love, so I did what any rational woman living alone and with no handyman skills whatsoever would do… and ignored it for three days.
And then it started to smell weird and I accidentally dropped a spoon in it which caused the fetid liquid to splash onto my Batman shirt in a most uncool and rancid manner, and I realized it was time I Google the problem.
Lo and behold, it turns out a plunger will fix this mess.
But I am a rational woman living alone and with no handyman skills whatsoever and who only takes petite, polite, smell-free dumps, so what would I need a plunger for?
Then I briefly thought about borrowing one from a local establishment (I know. Right? WTF is wrong with me?) but it turns out the two places I looked don’t have plungers for the borrowing – which I now thank my lucky stars for. What was I going to do? Tuck a poop-stained plunger in my shirt? And then repeat that when I returned it??? – so I ended up buying one at Wal-Mart last night.
Turns out a plunger only costs five dollah.
Even on Maui.
Land of the jacked up prices.
Well, probably where you are it costs a buck fiffy, but still.
Cheap plunger in hand I came home, ordered the pets to stand back, and proceeded to splash this vile, dry heave-inducing liquid all over the place (and the dog LICKED IT OFF THE COUNTERS AND CUPBOARDS. No lie.) and on my person, but I was like a dog with a cupboard covered in hideous, monstrous, toxic water with that situation and eventually I triumphed.
My sink now runs free as nature intended.
And, no, you do not want to marry me.
Or live with me.
Or smell the laundry currently in my hamper.
Or maybe even come over for dinner, because it’s very likely that whatever I cook you spent some time inside my dog’s non-discriminating and quite possibly disease-ridden mouth first.
Don’t say you weren’t warned.
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.
But also sucked.
Seriously, some of my favorite clothes and a backpack are defiled by Lanai red clay dirt mud nonsense.
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.
How ya like me now?
Canned cat food.
It attracts ants, fruit flies and hobos.
It is a chore to dole out and keep fresh and makes my fridge reek in a “what’s gone bad?” kind of way.
Have I mentioned how much the fancy healthy stuff costs!?
I should eat so well.
In short, shit’s a thorn in my side.
Maybe not “#1″
And maybe not “in the history of time.”
That’s maybe my autocorrect and all this incorrect garbage it’s learned and how it continually changes correctly spelled words over to nonsense despite the fact that I’ve followed the instructions to clear its memory multiple times.
Forget that it’s learned curse words and foodie terms, I’m sick of the word “the” being changed to tW.
What the hell is that about anyway?
The “reply to all” email function is a pretty huge pain in the ass, come to think of it.
Especially if you’re prone to spouting off.
And especially espeically if you’re prone to spouting off behind (what you think are) other people’s backs.