Some mornings, between the maddening beep of the alarm and the creaking of the stairs as my lovely husband leaves for work, we have a moment to sit and sip coffee together. Most of the time I’m arguing for him to call out sick and he’s defending why he has to go in to work. Damn bills. This morning, I sat curled on the couch trying to warm my feet in our sporadically heated apartment, while he was in the bathroom primping and priming. That is what guys do in the bathroom, right? So I’m sitting there, trying to look as cute as possible, when I heard a pitter patter and saw a little brown blur run from under the couch to under the tv stand. “Mouse! It’s a MOUSE!”
This wasn’t the first time I’ve seen it. Actually, the first time, I was sympathetic to the plight of the little rodent. I even named her Matilda. I thought perhaps the first sighting was because of the temperature drop, that this little fluff of eww was
just lost. And since that first time was weeks ago and because we had
gone almost six months in our first NYC apartment without even a mouse
dropping, I figured we wouldn’t have to worry about traps or repellants.
while Ibby stomped around the kitchen with a box in his hand (what he
was going to do with that, I don’t know), I saw the mouse again running
from under the refrigerator to under the stove. Ugh, the sound of those
little feet, my mind won’t stop playing it on loop. Tippety-tap, tippety-tap.
if it wasn’t bad enough that our kitchen was only semi-functional
before, with doors falling off their hinges and paint peeling from the
countertop, now I’m contemplating the practicality of storing plates and
food in plastic containers.
Oh June, your peak produce and contractual endings leave me impatiently awaiting your return.