Monsters in my Closet

Joe stayed at my house last night, despite the fact that we still have mice, and it nearly killed him. And me. We were up until almost four in the morning. For some reason, his fear of mice triggers every fear he's ever had and it comes crashing down on him. I understand being scared of things, or creeped out, but he puts such weight, such anxiety, into one little creature. I think we must all have a creature, it just isn't so obvious or so unavoidable. No one forces you to sleep with yours (possibly) under the bed. My own fears are pushed into my nightmares, dreams so vivid they color the way I look at the world for days. For years I dreamt I was being sent back to high school whenever I was anxious about anything. Sometimes I wasn't even aware I was anxious until the dreams showed up and I had to look for what was wrong. I'm very good at pushing things down and away, or at least I used to be. I try not to do it so much now, but old habits are hard to break. Joe has to pry things out of me half the time. The only physical fear I have that I can think of is of crowds. They don't always bother me, but that's probably because I often just simply avoid being anywhere they are. The sidewalks of New York are enough to make me twitch. Concerts I can only do on a good day, and only if I'm really determined. And just what would happen if I stayed?

Don't Touch My Frog

Last weekend Joe and I went to Jersey, where he grew up, and stayed at his mom's house. His mom now lives in an over 55 retirement community, with rows and rows of one story white houses and perfect tiny lawns where you expect little boys to come out and bounce a ball in unison (or old men to come out and mow their lawn in synchronized patterns). We had a cookout on the patio and I grilled the meat (Yeah! Huah!). And there's nothing like drinking beer with Joe's 94 year old grandpa.
We went to the driving lane later. I had never hit a golfball in my life. I tend to try and hit it like a softball, which means I miss it by about 3 feet. So Joe played the golf instructor and showed me how and I actually managed to hit it pretty good by the end. There were beavers roaming across the range, but I never hit it far enough to even get close. I saw his childhood home, and we pretended we were in high school and made out by the lake.
The next day we went to the Jersey shore. It was COLD. I had to wear a sweatshirt, but it was actually very nice. We walked along the beach and on the boardwalk and, yes, made out under the boardwalk. We ate pizza, funnel cakes, and orange and vanilla twisted ice cream (which is apparently pretty old school). Check out Joe's post on the ice cream. And, of course, we played ski ball. I kicked Joe's butt 2 out of 3, but somehow he got more tickets than me. I think he played another game than I did. With our precious points we scored a bouncing ball, a plastic bracelet, and a frog on a keychain who sticks out his tongue when you squeeze him. Yeah, I know. Totally worth $6.
So I bring my frog to work to sit on my desk. My desk I have to share with another person. My desk I don't get to have until I've been at work for 2 hours trying to look busy. The next day, my frog is turned backwards, facing the wall. Poor blue froggy. I turn him back. Then next day he's turned again. So I figure maybe his googley eyes freak her out, so I left him. The next day he was GONE. Death and destruction. Anger. Yanking of cords and moving of TV sets. Eventually I found him on another girl's desk. WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE TOUCHING MY FROG? So now I have to take him home. That was the point of my story, basically. How I am mistreated at work.

The Rodent Saga

Let me begin by telling you the tale of our mice. I live in a 3 bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. Jen and Oriana are my roommates. In addition, Oriana's roommate Zad (short for Farzad. He has no front teeth) basically lives with us as well. We've just started charging him utilities. Anyways, a few months ago, we saw a mouse. We set out glue traps, with no luck. Jen decided that the mouse was sick and dying anyways, since it sort of gimped when it ran and seemed a little desperate. A few weeks later, we found out she wasn't sick. Nope. She was pregnant. Soon, we had hordes of tiny mice running everywhere. Even I was grossed out, and I have a high tolerance for grossness. My boyfriend, Joe, who's greatest fear is mice, has not been to my house in five weeks.
Eventually one of these mice did get caught in one of our glue traps. It began to squeak it's little heart out in fear. Fortunately (for the mouse) Zad was home. And fortunately (for both Zad and the mouse) I was not. Because he then proceeded to take the creature outside, still stuck in the glue trap, and rub it's feet with Goo-gone for hours, painstakingly freeing it from the trap.
When I told my mom this story, she laughed so hard she dropped the phone. Mice are lower than mosquitoes to my parents. True, they don't bite you, but they do poop everywhere and the aversion to cleaning is nearly a disease in my family. Why on earth would you free a mouse? "Put a paper towel over it's head and smack it with a hammer," she told me. Ah, the life lessons to be learned. So Zad and Oriana insisted that glue traps were barbaric and they bought a bunch of live traps.
That weekend I was alone in the apartment. Two mice (on separate occasions) got into the bathtub and couldn't get out again when I yanked out the shower curtain away. I drowned them. I found one mouse mired in a glue trap, already dead. And I found one in a live trap. I opened the trap, dumped him in the tub, and drowned him too.
The mother hasn't appeared in some time and there only seems to be one baby left. He's laying low these days. He must have heard what happened.
Jasmine Smith: Mouse Killer Extraordinare.

In the Beginning, Boredom Ruled

I have decided to create a blog out of sheer desparate boredom at work. This is, I suspect, the motivation behind most blogs. Either that, or some people are under the impression that they actually have something to tell the world. OK, maybe I do too. Mostly it will be a chronicle of life in New York, and a tiny peek into my head. If anyone writes to me about it, I will certainly post it. Even if it's mean. Heck, maybe I won't even tell anyone the address...