I'm having one of those days, or weeks, that most women experience once in a while. It's that "poor me" or "I feel fat" or "I'm so tired" or "I have nothing to wear" syndrome that drives us to chocolate and alcohol. Except today, it drove me to something else: White Castle.
Me: "I just took a 5 hour nap. Now I'm hungry. I want a cheeseburger."
Jen: "5 hours?"
Me: "I feel so lardy. I think I'll go to White Castle."
Jen: "Ooooh."
Me: "Probably not the best place to go to remedy a lardiness problem, but I'm going anyway."
Jen: "I'm jealous."
So I look in the mirror, deciding that I'll take my lardy ass out in public as-is (ass-is), because no matter how fat or unattractive I feel, I always lose that self-consciousness as soon as I encounter the other women (read: other cultures) of the city. Most often, I find myself thinking "I'm worried about looking fat in a tank top, and THAT woman is wearing a micro-mini and a tube top?!?"
So off I went, working my way up through East Harlem towards the White Castle. Naturally, despite being 11:00 at night, there are throngs of people on the corners and stoops. Most of them seem astonished to see a white girl out alone at this hour, but the ones who can overcome their astonishment are usually black men who first lick their lips then give me an amazing compliment.
"How you doin tonight gorgeous?"
"Wassup beautiful?"
"Look at you, sweetheart. Gorgeous, gorgeous."
I literally received three such remarks back-to-back-to-back as I rounded the corner to White Castle. I laughed, and smiled, and told the guys to have a nice night, and then complimented myself on moving to a part of town where even on my lardiest, self-hatingest night, heading for fast-food comfort, the men not only think I'm hot, but make sure I hear their opinion.
So to you, men of east harlem, I say thanks. To the three bruthas on the NW corner of 102nd and 1st Ave who ogled me - thank you. To the 4 homeboys on bikes who whistled and smooched - thank you. To the man in the grey t-shirt who looked like he wanted to eat me up - thank you. To the 3 guys who didn't know I could see them gesturing behind me on the White Castle surveillance camera - you're pigs, but thank you.
I owe you one, SpaHa men.
9.21.2005
9.19.2005
ENOUGH!
I've totally had it.
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
I was just sitting on the couch, watching tv, painting my toes, minding my own business, when a dark object moving on the white wall attracted my attention. A familiar sense of dread overcame my body.
What was it, you ask?
IT WAS A FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!! A HUGE FUCKING CENTIPEDE!!
After the goddam cockroach, the asshole mouse, now I am back to square one with a motherfucking centipede?!?!
I stood up, picked up a shoe, and approached the wall. And with a giant smack, I ended its life.
Then I turned around to write this blog, and saw another movement out of the corner of my eye. I approached the window sill with the same goo-covered shoe, and killed another baby one.
Now, of course, I'm about to cry, and totally afraid to sleep. I'm convinced that someone in the basement is shaking things up, and sending all these assholes into my apartment, and I DON'T LIKE IT.
wah.
(And yes, I've just left a message for my Super.)
9.14.2005
ugh! now what?!
So, after my little potato chip incident the other day, I found myself bravely buying a mousetrap at the hardware store. This act alone, you see, is very, very hard for me. It forces me to acknowledge the problem and actually admit that I have....(deep breath)....a mouse.
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
So I stood in front of the pest control section and saw my options were basically twofold: glue traps or snap-death traps. In the back of my mind, I heard Jen, the "mouse-whisperer" who has resuscitated such creatures in her lab at work, asking me to be humane. To me, that meant not a snap-death trap. But really, it wasn't about humanity at all.
My assessment of the mouse traps went a little something like this:
"Well. So there's glue traps and snap traps. Snap traps scare me. They could totally snap me. And let's face it, probably will. Like when Mikey sits on one by accident in the Goonies, and it hurts a lot but he can't scream or Sloth will hear him. I'm not sure I want a snap trap. But a glue trap? Eek. I think Andrea used those when she had a mouse, and she told me she could hear the mouse squeaking once it was caught. So, there's something to the snap-death where the mouse won't cry, but then I have to deal with a dead mouse. But...I also don't particularly want to deal with a LIVE mouse. Ugh. (urge to vomit.) Which is worse? Dead mouse or live mouse? I mean, my only experience is the time that one of the Andersons' cats killed that mouse while I was housesitting. I sat on the couch for hours until the mouse was captured by the cat. Then I went out to the kitchen with a dustpan and scooped it up, and went outside and chucked it far away into the snow. I was disgusted the whole time. So yeah, maybe I don't want to do that dead mouse thing. Especially because I'm afraid of setting up the trap and losing an appendage. I guess I could get the glue trap, and just make someone else deal with the mouse if I catch one. I'll make Oliver do it. Or the Super. That makes sense. Because one of them is going to have to set the mouse traps up for me anyway. I'm just buying it. That's it."
Then I paid the $1.99 for the pack of 2 glue traps, and went home.
Only later, when I was cleaning out under the kitchen sink and encountered a large amount of mouse poop, did I say "Enough is enough! I can handle this!" and retrieve the box with the traps.
Now, if you think I'm being stupid or girly or cowardly about this, you're right. But you need to understand that underneath all that, the reason for all that, is that I honest to god want to vomit at the thought of handling even an empty mouse trap. It wasn't easy to overcome my dry heaves and put one trap under the kitchen sink and another under the stove. But I did it. And I was proud. And I really didn't think it through.
That was three days ago. I didn't have the guts to open the cabinet to see if a mouse had found his way into the trap under the sink. I assumed I would have heard it, but EVERYTHING I was hearing lately was a mouse in my mind. I refused to throw away any garbage into the trash can under the sink. I refused to obtain cleaning supplies from under the sink. And I realized, somewhat delayed, that merely placing those traps was going to paralyze me from living a normal life in my kitchen.
Then, it happened.
In the wee hours of the morning, I awoke not to one of the 7 million 18-wheelers hauling ass down my street, nor to the scream of sirens of rushed emergency vehicles. No, I awoke to the panicked squeaking of a trapped mouse. And hearing it, identifying it, recognizing it, and acknowledging it turned my stomach inside out. But I was screwed. I was stuck in my bed, unable to put a foot on the floor. And even if I got up, what would I do? I didn't want to see the mouse. I sure as shit wasn't going to touch the mouse. So I resolved to switching on a light (what this achieves I'm not really sure) and putting a pillow over my head so I could get 2 more hours of sleep.
But eventually, I had to get up. And when I did, I put on flip-flops, picked up a flashlight and my pledge grab-it (again, not sure what this accomplishes, but it felt defensive in case of attack). I walked slowly through the kitchen in the dark, guessing, correctly, that it was the under-stove trap that had secured a creature. I could barely make out an image on the trap, and I dared not look closer. Instead, I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, and took a shower.
When I got out, I ditched the flip-flops but kept the pledge grab-it. By now, the mouse's 4 feet AND tail were all securely affixed to the glue trap, and seeing that long, skinny, fleshy tail made me dry heave again, and I knew I couldn't look at the mouse any more. I got dressed, dried my hair, etc., and ran out the door.
Now I'm at work, and I have to figure out how to deal with the mouse. I guess I should call the Super, and leave a message saying "Yeah, I'm a chickenshit and can't deal. Please let yourself in, pardon the mess, and get rid of the damn mouse!" I really should have thought this through before I laid down the fucking trap!!
9.07.2005
if only i wasn't allergic to cats.
(I'd like to take a moment to dedicate this post East Harlem Katie, who will understand my pain.)
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
The past weekend was a gorgeous one. I enjoyed three long late-summer days of blue skies and sunshine, billowy clouds, and the drool-inducing aroma of barbecues throughout Central and Prospect Parks. By mid-day Monday, Labor Day, all I wanted was a barbecue to call my own. Cheeseburgers, hot dogs, dribbles of ketchup and mustard, macaroni salad, bbq chicken that was just a little crispy and too good to waste a finger-lickin' on a napkin. Mmmm-mm.
Being that I have no yard, nor a grill, nor had I any outstanding invitations to someone else's yard or grill, I decided to do the best I could and have a kitchecue. I went with my pal Katie to the market, and I browsed the aisles for wannabe barbecue items, like hot dogs, kilbasa, lemonade, and most importantly -- potato chips. Together, Katie and I pondered which of the million kinds of potato chips to savor. I got a bag of regular Lays to have with onion dip (YUM!) and then a bag of the forever awesome KC Masterpiece barbecue flavored ones. Mmm. Labor Day would be fantastic yet!
When I got home, I mixed my onion dip and feasted on chips. DEEELISH! Of course, I ate so much of it that I had to wait a few hours before making hot dogs and beans and pasta salad. YUMMMY! And then I had to wait a whole other day to eat the rest of the food...
Last night, I got home from work and went immediately for the prized KC Masterpiece barbecue chips. I peeled open the bag and chomped away with satisfying crunches while I prepared more pasta salad and the kilbasa. When my food was cooked and my plate loaded up satisfactorily, I went in the other room to watch a movie while I ate bite after delicious bite.
At the end of the movie, I picked up my plate and headed back into the kitchen to clean up. But I heard something funny, and when I looked up, I saw a small, grey, furry, four-legged creature with a tail bolted OUT OF MY POTATO CHIP BAG!!! I froze in horror and amazement. I have never, EVER had a mouse. Not at this apartment, not at ANY. I can deal with the roaches, I can exterminate the centipedes, but a MOUSE?? Oh HELL NO.
He scampered across the counter, over the stove, and behind it. I stood and watched, paralyzed by my genetic inability to cope with rodents. After a few minutes, when I was sure he was gone (and by "gone" I mean "out of my sight so I could pretend he didn't exist"), I walked towards the potato chips and looked inside the bag. I honestly wasn't sure if I was more upset that I had a mouse, or that the little fucker went after my potato chips. My BARBECUE potato chips!! Because now, of course, I had to throw them away. That, and the 3/4 roll of kilbasa that I'd left on the counter, not expecting company would eat it while my back was turned.
I cleaned up and got ready for bed, which meant sleeping with one light on and my eyes closed tight. My studio doesn't have a bedroom door, no barrier with which I may pretend the mouse is on THAT side and I am safely tucked away on THIS side. Instead, I just have to believe he went back to wherever the fuck he got in, and he shan't be returning. So help me, if I see that little bastard again, he is so....so....he is so going to get whatever he wants because I'll be in the other room standing on the couch screaming.
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