Archive | 11:00 am

In Which I Become a Heap of Girly Hysteria

24 Feb

In the four years I’ve lived in New York City, I’ve only ever had to kill a full-size disgusting cockroach once and it was after NYC basically flooded for three days so no one was that surprised. When I killed the roach (in a bath towl, dripping wet, with a 90-second spray of hairspray, BY THE WAY) I was shaken up. I felt gross and creeped out. But I was glad that nasty little giant thing was dead.

Recently, I tweeted that I saw a mouse in my bedroom. I saw the mouse once, and then twice, and then three times.

#MouseTweets

After almost a full week of knowing there was a furry little rodent scampering around my bedroom, I emailed my landlord. He plugged up a hole under my radiator and set a trap in my bedroom. He set one in the kitchen, too, but that one’s still there. I know you know where this is going.

Four days after he set the trap, I reclined onto my bed to have a chat with C on the phone. I leaned into my pillows, felt my muscles relax and then – I shrieked and hung up on C.

There, just under my radiator, was the back half of the furry little gray rodent. It was clearly dead. The trap worked. I should be happy, right?

Not so much. I burst into what I call Girly Hysteria, but might better be likened to Kristen-Bell-with-a-sloth only on the TOTAL OPPOSITE END OF THE FEELINGS SPECTRUM. Big fat tears rolled down my face while I laughed maniacally. I curled up onto my bed, half crying, half laughing, rocking back and forth wrapped in blankets.

I mean, I turned into a complete crazy person.

Here’s the thing: I’m not scared of mice. Quite the opposite, actually: I had a pet rat when I was little! Her name was Squeaker and she was my very first pet that wasn’t a fish and I loved her so much. I blame Squeaker (and Adam’s rat, Nibbles) for my hysterics. All I could think of was how the mouse had suffered and how his potential family didn’t have him anymore!

Really, those traps are terribly inhumane, but I am sane enough to realize I could not have a mouse just chillaxing under my heater/dresser/bed for all eternity.

Boy-roommate was a remarkably good sport during this ordeal; I give him a lot of credit. He cleaned up the dead mouse even though he was totally grossed out and didn’t want to do it. He found my reaction hilarious, which made me laugh harder and cry less.

After I calmed down, I told him we were bound for life. He replied eloquently,

“Yeah. Shit just got real.”

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