A Tale Of One Mouse

A few weeks ago my apartment was stricken with a tragedy.

Thank gd no calls to 911 were made, no blood and gore.

It was worse.

We had a little visitor.

Dum de dum dum.

Sounds like a horror story eh? Well it was.

Now I’m all for visitors. I love hosting parties. I get socially awkward when I have many people over so I usually hide out in my kitchen but party planning and preparing are one of my hobbies.  Had I known this little thing was paying a visit though, I wouldn’t plan a party.

Yes, it was that bad.

We had  a mouse.

Ask N for details since she was oh so fortunate enough to see it.

Oh and by the way it was dead. Dead with poop surrounding it. Yum.

I smelled a pretty foul smell at the beginning of the day and figured it was rotten potatoes or something. So what do I do when I smell a bad smell? Just spray an overwhelming amount of Febreze while doing the Febreze dance, which consists of a lot of twirling and whirling.

You know you sprayed enough when you can’t breathe and need to stay out of the room for a minimum of 6 minutes because if you go in you may suffocate and die.

So maybe it was my ridiculous amount of Febreze, which killed the rodent. And for that I am sorry. Not.

Anyways, dead mouse. Poop. Smelly. Screaming. Threatening to never move from the couch again. I literally saw my future pass in front of me. I would get married on that couch. Have a baby on that couch. Make dinner on that couch. I was not not NOT moving from my couch until this rodent was disposed of. Thank g-d I was eating an apple when this whole thing went down. I just needed to make that apple last for the rest of my life and it would be the couch, the apple and me together forever.

I’m really not an animal person to begin with. Dogs are scarier to me then Bin Laden was. So when it comes to a mouse, well they are scarier to me then nuclear war.

Anyways, to cut a long story short the mouse was disposed of. Shout out D & J.

We called our landlord like any good tenants would do to pretty much tell him his apartment may or may not be infested.

The following is his theory (and I wrote a blah post so far either on purpose or because I have been studying all day. Your call. But this theory tots makes up for this eh post): “I believe the mouse came from the window. Yes, I guess it flew in or something and made it inside a closed cabinet. Of course mice are able to fly into a seventh floor apartment kitchen. Now I know the windows in the kitchen aren’t huge but it’s very possible.”

Ok great mice fly everyone. MICE FLY. So seal your windows shut because who knows you can get a little visitor flying through your window. I mean really?! They fly with what their tail?! A new mouse family began recently with the special power of flight?! I’m thinking if I was a mouse I would want the superpower of invisibility, but to each their own. Ok learn something new everyday. Apparently my landlord just:

1) found a new species

2) is a zoologist

3) is stupid

Next part of the conversation:

“So dear landlord, what do you suggest we do? Should we call an exterminator?”

“Oh my no. Don’t call an exterminator. They will evacuate you from the apartment for a few days and chances are they will evacuate the entire building. The entire building will be forced to flee with just the clothes on their back.”

I think it’s safe to say I thought he was high at this point.

Fine, I don’t know much about animals (forgive me National Geographic) so who knows perhaps a mouse species could have came into being.

But I’m going to be evacuated because of a mouse?
Like I will be sitting in the homeless shelter for the week that I would have been evacuated and would have no where to go and discussing with my fellow homeless-ers what brings us here. One guy came here because he lost his job. One girl came here because her parents abruptly cut her off (parents, never do that to me please) and I along with my two roommates (we miss you R) would have been there because a mouse came into our kitchen.

In November when the rockets were being thrown at us we asked our landlord what the deal is with the bomb shelter and he said we shouldn’t even bother asking because nothing will happen.

In June when a mouse was being thrown at us and we asked our landlord what the deal is we get, “HIDE YO KIDS HIDE YO WIFE THE MICE ARE INVADING. AND YES THE BOMB SHELTER IS NOW OPEN.”

I mean priorities. Please!

Update: We have not called the exterminator because sleeping on the streets for a week and then coming back to see all my fellow apartment building peeps hate us isn’t really in the cards right now.

We have not seen/smelled/heard a mouse since. BLI AYIN HARA. 

An Afternoon Rant

It’s true, I think I live in a movie. I guess it’s a pretty dull movie because I really don’t do much with my life, but Les Mis was a dull movie (hate me. I just have the guts to say what everyone was thinking) but yet it made millions.

I just wish I had some DJ following me around all day with the perfect song to match the activity I am doing. It’s not fair that in movies the moment the rain falls (as a break up is happening, of course) some slow yet intense song comes on. The moment the two main characters prance around in the flower field (because of course that always happens) some Indie, hippy wannabe song blares.

I have noticed I spend more than half the time during the too frequent “Me Moments” looking for the perfect song on my iPod.

When I am on the bus the perfect bus song needs to be playing. But then again a “bus song” is truly subjective. There are many factors that play into choosing the most accurate “bus song”. Who’s on the bus, how is the driver’s driving skills, is it a smelly bus and so on.

If it’s a perfect day outside with strictly good looking people on the bus then that qualifies for a specific genre. However, if it is this creepy bus that I unfortunately need to ride on every so often with thousands of unwashed, ancient dolls lying around something dark and scary needs to be played. I am telling you these dolls have not been washed since the dawn of man. I am really into home décor and all but this bus is a totally different story. (The 168 if anyone is interested)

But the one rule I have for my iPod, which after four years together it is well aware of, is to never to play any inspirational or power to the female gender songs because it will make me cry.

Every time I watch that now famous Dove commercial about the sketch artist the tears just flow. Every time.

I also always need the perfect song because I’d like to think when I go out some movie making moment will happen to me. 

Like someone will go into labor and I will deliver their baby. By the way, I recently decided I want to be an OBGYN. I then remembered my bio grades in high school, so I think we will save this OBGYN dream for another life.

I also think when I am out I am going to meet some guy who will sweep me away in his Lamborghini. I’m not shallow. I promise. Or that someone will attempt to jump out of a window and commit suicide but I save their life by reminding them how J.Crew occasionally does free shipping to Israel.
Perfect song for saving lives anyone? 

I also think that there are times that a film crew is filming me to see how I will react to certain things. Clearly I think very highly of myself. But why is it that on my Facebook newsfeed the MikvahCalendar keeps on popping up and I didn’t even like the page. It is constantly telling me when I need to go to the mikvah. Sorry I’m really not that holy. And FYI not married and repulsively single.

Also you know those metal bar security barriers? And once you put your ticket through the machine or the security guard checks your bag the bars are supposedly meant to automatically move?

Well then I have a question for you Mr. Inventor Of The Metal Bars, why does it discriminate against one specific white, blonde, Jew? Yours truly.

I can sue for the amount of bruises I have covering my hips. And for the almost dented hip bone. Saying I broke or crushed a bone is too intense. I think dent is a perfect word to describe hurting a bone. Of course I know what I am talking about. I want to practice in the medical field and be an OBGYN anyways. 
The perfect song is necessary. 

I think the fireworks that went off last night were planned. Why is it that the one time I am walking alone past 9 o’clock and bugging out that a cat is going to attack me (who cares about rapists. Cats are so much more dangerous in this day in age) there is a sudden boom.

I love Israel and all but let’s not forget it is this itty bitty thing of a country surrounded by enemies. So when I hear a bang or a boom or even a frying pan fall the first thing that comes to mind is, “and the moment we have been waiting for. Syria is on the lose. Egypt is in wacky land. Grab your emergency kit and that non existant gas mask because you have been too much of a lazy bum to order it.” Well lucky for me the boom at 9 o’clock last night were just fireworks. You know because July 6th is a highly significant day and deserves fireworks. See if only some Katy Perry “Fireworks” would be blaring out of my handy dandy iPod we would be set to shoot the “Lottie Project.”