Huddle up, team.
Yes, it's been awhile. The quick rundown in timeline form:
- Monday, May 21, 4:00p - receive wonderful and sudden new job opportunity working in publicity for children's programming at WGBH. Accept.
- Monday, May 21, 4:02p - give notice at Emerge, and blow through two wild and woolly weeks of wrap up.
- Monday, June 4 - begin kickoff week at WGBH in Brighton.
- Friday, June 8 - leave for Italy. Travel with Stephanie through Rome, Florence, Cinque Terre and Lucca.
- Friday, June 22 - return from Italy, happy and full of gnocchi sloshing in vino.
- Monday, June 25 - return to WGBH to find that the more senior half of my department was laid off in one clean sweep. Your author, thankfully, was spared, but panicked.
- Sunday, July 1 - open door of new "move in ready" Beacon Hill apartment to find moldy rugs, ceilings collapsed to the floor, and miscellaneous construction shit strewn throughout. Sit down on floor. Try not to cry from exhaustion. (*Spent next three weeks ripping up carpet, scraping mold, painting walls and assembling Ikea furniture derived from several botched delivery attempts by dysfunctional Swedish company.)
Currently: working tremendously (joyously) hard, living in a lovely, light-filled, newly-decorated apartment with a fantastic roommate, and finally making the time to return to the things I love, like horses and painting and books. Sigh of relief.
However, it must be noted that a move to one of Boston's favorite old neighborhoods doesn't come without a very standard set of uncomfortable moments. The period of conflict began with a call from my cool-under-pressure roommate during working hours (never happens).
::Alannah picks up the phone:: "Yes roomie?"
::unintelligible screaming ensues::
I managed to discern from Melissa's hysteria that we did, in fact, have a small brown mouse sharing our two story walk up. Who could blame him? The food is organic, the air conditioning works, and the living is finally easy. After a brave leap from the couch, leaving her work abandoned, Melissa acquired four snap-style traps. We baited them with peanut butter (purchased especially for the purpose) without setting them; the owner of the hardware store had explained that the mice in Beacon Hill are a particularly advanced breed and must be eased into the traps. These days, it's necessary for the mouse to become acclimated to using the traps as a food source BEFORE they can be utilized effectively. Okay, fine. Much to Melissa's horror, our squirmy little friend devoured six tablespoons of peanut butter overnight. We were pretty sure that he'd reach New York City subway rat proportions before his next appearance, but still we persevered.
I hadn't seen our house guest, and actually wanted to; I'd had an imaginary friend for many years (reminder: only child) who'd taken the form of a tiny grey mouse, the aptly named Squeaky. Squeaky rode on my shoulders at all times. I patiently/condescendingly explained to my mother (at the tender age of three) that Squeaky and I were inseparable due to the fact that Mrs. Squeak, my accomplice's mother, gave birth to a new brother or sister on a weekly basis, and Squeaky took offense to this, preferring to spend his free time with our family rather than deal with "those babies". When I woke up one morning to find a mouse "napping" on the sticky trap in our bathroom, I was overjoyed. I spent nearly an hour petting the "sleeping" mouse, and brought it into the living room to watch Reading Rainbow with me. Needless to say, my mother did not react well upon encountering her bowl cut-wearing three year old tying hair ribbons around the neck of a dead rodent. I have a very vivid memory of hours upon hours of hot water, scrubbing, and skin removal. My hands have never been the same.
Still, I was curious to see the mouse. One evening, after I'd gone to bed, Melissa texted from downstairs. "He's here" it read. I crept downstairs; the mouse disappeared. I crawled around, peeking under radiators and bookcases. No dice. Went back to bed.
Another text: "He's taunting me."
Again, the mouse refused to be seen. Later, Mel almost lost a toe trying to set the snappy traps. Not being overly excited about the prospect of scraping mouse guts from the newly painted walls, I bagged them all and replaced them with peanut butter scented sticky traps. At the very least, I thought, he'd go from a quick heart attack instead of an evisceration. Much better plan.
The following weekend, Melissa left for a business trip. I tripped home on a Thursday night, visions of weekend dancing in my head. While making a slice of toast with almond butter, it dawned on me to check the traps, fairly certain that I'd find them empty, our third roommate perhaps having moved on to greener pastures (our neighboring apartment has a balcony, and I can smell their garlicky Italian cooking; if I were a creature, I'd consider a relocation for sure). I peered over the couch and gasped; two black, jet-bead eyes blinked up at me, and with a tiny, terrified squeak, a tiny brown mouse continued to thrash on the sticky paper. This was not the heart attack scenario I'd envisioned. Amazed that a two inch rodent could drive two smart, level-headed, normally rational girls to hysterics within a week, I embraced my new role (Starring: Alannah as the cliche) and called my parents, blubbering.
"Daaaaaaaaaad," I wailed, "he's stuuuuuuck, and I can't killlll him, and he's (::gulp::) squeaking."
"Well, for God's sake, don't touch it. You'll need tetanus shots in your stomach for six weeks.* I don't know, honey, throw a shoe at it or something."
"You bastard!" screams my mother in the background. "Our daughter is not a killer!"
"I don't knooooooow," I snuffled on. "He's so smaaall." (::squeaking from the living room continues, inciting a fresh wave of tears::)
I hung up on them and called Melissa, relaying the bad news with tears streaming down my face and snot pouring from my nostrils in symphony. "Just leave him," she said, "you can throw a towel over him, or I'll call Boomer?"
"No, I'll think of something." At this point, I sat cross legged in the living room, staring at the mouse. He blinked and twitched his whiskers at me, pitifully squeaking now and again.'
My mother called back. "What are you going to do, honey? We can call Uncle Mike, he can come up from the North End."
"I'm going to save his life," I announced, tears stemmed, resolve steeled by my own noble gesture.
"Wear gloves!" instructed my father.
"WHAT gloves?" I asked, "Where do you think I'm living?"
I marched upstairs, dressed in my best Joan of Arc wear (Wake Forest sweatpants and a long sleeved t-shirt, just in case my rescuee got fired up), and then proceeded to open the door to our apartment and the two front doors of the building three floors down. I wrapped my hands up to the elbow in dishtowels, securing my "mittens" with rubber bands. Sticking a rubber spatula and a soup spoon in my pants, I picked up my friend, newly terrified but still affixed to the gummy paper, and marched down the stairs, out the front door, and to the center of Boston Common, ignoring the horrified looks from my well-heeled neighbors. Seating myself on the grass amidst the colony of fifty-something regular homeless folk, I worked with spatula and soup spoon for over forty-five minutes to free Fievel, taking care with his skinny tail and teeny legs. Luckily, whiskers and ears had not gotten stuck. I freed him near the entrance to the Park Street T station, hoping he'd meet up with some tougher mice who'd teach him some survival strategy. Wouldn't you know, the little jerk never said thank you.
