of mice and women

It's six-ish in the morning. I actually awoke at five, and attempted a different blog, but it featured on the heavy side with genocide and political activism, and I decided that was just too heavy, both for five in the morning, (why would I get out of bed? The world is a mess!) and for my first post. And so, I'm going to write about the reason I got up so early. And it's not nearly as heavy as geopolitical strife.

I live alone, in a fabulous two room basement apartment. No, really, I'm not being sarcastic, it's fabulous for a basement! Anyways, when I first moved in last summer, I discovered that the illusory element of living alone below ground level is that you are never truly alone. My first visitors came in the form of ants. Now, I'm not talking about a few sprinkled here and there in various corners of the house. I'm talking colonies. Primarily, I was alarmed, started liberally applying boric acid to their headquarters, put the garbage out nightly, and hoped for the best. No dice. I began appealing to them, asking them nicely to avoid the parameters of my house, maybe they would like the next door neighbours' house better, so much more room?, more garbage readily available for sorting through? Still, they persisted. I scolded, yelled, began attacking masses of them with toilet paper wads, but there seemed to be an endless supply of them replenishing those lost to the bathroom tissue massacres that were occuring daily. All I could do was pray for winter, when the armies would cease and leave me alone.

And sure enough, winter came, and the ants disappeared. Solitary living resumed, and while I craved a pet of some kind, preferably a dog, maybe a Shepherd-Husky mix, I knew it was for the best not having one. And then, something else came along. It started as a quickly scurrying object across my kitchen floor. I shrieked, much like women do in the movies, which I always thought I was above, and went on with my day. Then, it became rustling into the night. Upon the sound of plastic bags being foraged through, I found my now lax daily garbage removal was rearing consequences worse than ants. I decided there was no other way but to confront the fact that I had a mouse. Maybe several. Having learned with the ants that there is no real way to reckon with a pest, I decided the Zen thing would be to accept the mouse and establish some ground rules. Upon discovering the mouse at my feet one night as I sat at my computer, we decided, mainly I decided, that we could happily co-exist so long as we were never in the same room at the same time. The mouse would have to try leaving less turd deposits under my kitchen sink, and would not be allowed to rustle through the garbage past one at night.

It's one thing to think you have control over a mouse. It's entirely another when you realize the mouse has severe behavioural problems, and simply will not respect authority. We are frequently in the same room at the same time, despite my hand-clapping, foot-stomping, and aggressive-assertive voice of discouragement. The turd deposits continue to multiply, regardless of my now regular efforts to Fantastik them away. And as for giving me peace after one at night, well, who am I fooling? Try leaving a kernel(really, just one!) of microwaved popcorn in a metal bowl on top of the stove. Just try it, and see if you don't jump out of your skin at three in the morning when it crashes to the floor because somebody just had to eat.

I have forcibly named the mouse Herbert, and have deluded myself I have a willing pet. He, in turn, has convinced both of us that he is the real owner of the apartment, despite my paying the rent, and pretty much establishes when we go to sleep and when we wake up. It's an imperfect relationship, for sure. But then I tell myself, all relationships have their hiccups. I can't help wishing it were summer again though. Those ants sure were quieter.