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Posts Tagged ‘Humor’

bed, big box, coupons, cover, Humor, Husband, mattress, pillow, pillow-top, Queen, queen-size, size, store, top, wrestling

Mattress Wrestling

In Humor on April 20, 2013 at 11:29 pm

I just spent the last 45 minutes wrestling with my mattress. With my mattress, not on my mattress. I got to this low point in my life when I decided to replace our worn-out mattress cover. When we bought it seven years ago, we were told that it would withstand a nuclear bombing but, just in case we exposed it to something more lethal, it also came with a lifetime guarantee. All we had to do was bring it back and get a new one, free of charge, as often as we liked. The same store also guaranteed our mattress for 25 years. When I asked for a hard copy of the warranty, I was told that I didn’t need one because they had a record of it in their database. Shortly after they delivered our mattress and mattress cover, they went out of business.

So, this morning, I went to the local big box store that sends daily coupons through the mail. I found a mattress cover that made big promises, but it also came with a big price. I opted for the most inexpensive mattress cover, rationalizing that all of them were probably the same. The only differences between them were the probably-false claims printed on the inserts. Now I know that there’s another difference—one type gets put on by pulling its stretchy sides down each side of the mattress; the other kind gets put on by inserting your entire mattress into it, envelope-style. Of course I had purchased the latter type.

At this point, I should have just taken it back. Our mattress is a pillow-top and weighs more than I can lift. It’s also a queen-size, so it’s hard to maneuver. However, I reasoned, if I were to return it, I would have to refold the thing along its original creases, which is no easy feat. I decided, instead, to put it on—by myself. I could have asked my husband for help, but then I would have had to endure his reaction when he realized that we had to shove our very-large mattress into an enormous zippered pillow case.

It wasn’t an easy task. I had to wrestle the mattress off the bed and stand it on its side and put part of the case on, then lie the mattress back down and wriggle both sides of it down as far as I could, then stand it up again and pull it farther down, then lie it down again and resume wriggling. This process was repeated a number of times until the whole mattress was finally covered. The last step was to pull the zippered parts together so that I could engage the zipper. This was when I heard ripping. The mattress cover was officially mine at this point; the store wouldn’t take it back now. I got the zipper together and pulled it up by the toggle. Just as I got to the end, the toggle broke off in my hand. The mattress cover was on, and it would never be able to come off. Ever. It was now a part of the mattress.

So, I got into the car, went back to the store and bought the more expensive, slide-on mattress cover to protect the pillow-case mattress cover that had just become part of the bed.

My husband knows nothing of this. Let’s keep it that way.

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bad haircut, bargain, bargain salon, beauty, big tip, chain, dinner, Easter, enemy, English, even out, friend, grooming, hair, haircut, haircutter, Humor, inlaws, layer, online, patsy, publication, salon, shop, Spanish, strands, style, stylist, tip, trim

Did You Get a Haircut? No, I Got Them All Cut.

In Hair, Haircut, Humor on March 23, 2013 at 3:00 am

Did you ever notice that one day your hair looks perfectly fine and then, the next day, it looks overgrown and shapeless? It happens in a matter of hours, probably when you’re sleeping. You go to bed with reasonable hair and awaken thinking that a cat’s sleeping on your head. Hair growth spurts are exactly like kid growth spurts. A child goes to bed in his size 3 long-sleeved, long-legged pajamas and wakes up wearing a wife beater and shorts. Anyway, my hair had a growth spurt—or a sprouting, judging by the wings on the sides of my head—so I had to act immediately before I met up with my perfectly groomed in-laws on Easter.

The trouble is, about six months ago, I had a falling out with the woman who had been cutting my hair. She is really talented and her haircuts are reasonably priced, but once we became bitter enemies, I lost access to her. She probably would still cut my hair—money is money, after all—but my mother warned me that my former friend might scalp me. My mother seemed to think that scalping me would be understandable, considering what I had done. I don’t think that I was at fault, but either way, I can’t go to Easter dinner with my brains hanging out.

After I lost my stylist, I tried a salon that was voted “Best Hair Salon in N——” in some local online publication. Six people voted for it. Probably only two people even read the online rag, so I imagine that the owner and his one stylist triple-dipped in the voting box.

The first time I went to the best hair salon in N——, the hair cutter barely removed any hair, but what she removed gave my hair some shape, so I was happy. In between my first cut and my second cut, I suspect that she met and became best friends with my former friend/stylist and swore to exact revenge on my ex-friend’s behalf. My second cut looked like it was done in a blender.

So, today I was at loose (and split) ends. I decided to take my chances at S——, a bargain hair salon chain. A new branch of the chain recently opened close to my house, so I went there. My husband had warned me that this branch was sketchy. If by sketchy he meant that the hairdressers had hacked, badly permed, multi-colored hair and facial piercings, then he was right. If they thought that they looked good, then who knows what they’d do to me? There was one hairstylist who looked normal, at least in those surroundings, so I prayed that I got him. My prayer was answered in the affirmative. As soon as the guy was finished with his customer, he meticulously cleaned his area, and then called my name.

Now here’s where it got weird. The stylist’s first language was Spanish and he didn’t seem to speak much English. When I asked him for a “beachy” cut, he stared at me. I asked if he understood the term, “beachy,” and he shook his head no. I wasn’t sure if he didn’t understand the term, or the question. So, I kept it simple and asked him to give my hair some shape, and cut off about two inches. He nodded like he knew what I meant.

I thought about flinging off the coverup and running for the door, but by this time the other three employees, all women, were talking about me in Spanish and I didn’t want to give them more to talk about. My hair cutter, Jorge, and his three coworkers were having a good laugh at my expense. I knew this because all four of them were pointing at me and smirking.

I stared down the three women and Jorge finally turned his attention to my hair. During the time that he was mocking me in Spanish, he also picked up fluency in English. He proved this by picking up a strand of my hair and saying, “I think that two inches is too much to cut off. Let’s start with an inch and see how you like it. I’ll also even out the back and layer the front, around your face.” His very long announcement didn’t hold a trace of an accent. He was obviously having fun with his latest patsy. And he wasn’t done.

“So, how long have you worked here?” I asked.

“I started here yesterday,” he answered. “Yesterday was the very first day that I ever cut hair.”

Now, I knew this wasn’t true because, while I was in the chair, a woman had come in and requested that Jorge cut her hair. She asked for him by name, indicating that she had been there before.

“If that’s true,” I said, “then how does that woman know your name?”

He grimaced in defeat and replied, “Okay, I’ve worked at this branch since it opened. And I worked at the branch in W—— for a number of years.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want you making beginner mistakes on my hair.”

“What do you want for $15.95?” he asked.

He had me there. I had nothing to say, so I let my wallet talk. “If you do a good job, you’ll get a really good tip.” Now, in truth, a good tip could be less than four dollars at this particular hair place, but I think he understood that I would go higher than that.

At that point, he buckled down and spent about twenty minutes concentrating on my hair. That’s about three times longer than most cuts take at that salon, so I figured the tip accordingly.

When he was finished, he gave me a mirror and let me look at the back of my head. That’s always a good sign. I was very happy with the cut and thanked him profusely. Then I tipped him twenty percent of a $50 haircut, and paid the $15.95 bill.

Everyone was happy, at least while my hair was wet and looked good. Once I got home and it dried, it looked like he had cut my hair while blindfolded. It was the worst haircut in the history of haircuts. As I fumed, I remembered Jorge’s words, “What do you want for $15.95?”

I wanted blood, his blood. So, I went back to his shop and killed him.

Okay, I didn’t really, but I wanted to. Instead, I went to a different branch, got a good stylist who not only fixed Jorge’s mess but didn’t charge me. She did, however, get a good tip from me, and a really good laugh when she looked at my hair as I sat down in her chair.

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accidents, bags, Blood, cloth, colds, cuts, deep thinkers, dill, doctor, glass, grocery, health professional, health professional, Humor, jar, metaphysics, mistakes, nurse, oath, pickles, poison, rain, reusable, science, supermarket

What a Pickle

In Food, Humor, Pickles, Religion, Science on March 18, 2013 at 8:14 pm

I don’t believe everything I hear, even if what I hear has been proven by science, or is generally accepted by deep thinkers.

For example, I don’t care if every doctor, nurse, and health professional in the world say that you can’t catch a cold by sitting around in soaking wet clothes after getting caught in a downpour. They can talk and talk about how it’s impossible to catch a cold by simply being chilled and wet, and I will refuse to believe them. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve had it happen. And a lot of parents will back me up. In private, though. They don’t want to look stubborn and foolish.

I also get annoyed every time I hear, “There are no accidents.” If that’s true, then every stupid mistake I have made was on purpose—or for some higher cause. We’ve all heard stories about a person who shut his hand in a car door, went to the ER, and discovered that his hand was fine but that he had a tumor the size of an adult human head in his stomach, which was then removed in the nick of time. Therefore, the universe caused him to slam the car door on his hand in order for doctors to discover a giant protuberance in his gut. Up until then, everyone had just thought he was fat.

I have to admit that I lean more toward believing metaphysical truths that can’t be proven than scientific facts that have been proven. So, whenever I am involved in an accident, I stop and wonder why it happened.

Today, for instance, I was carrying several flimsy plastic supermarket bags full of groceries on one arm, while closing the car door with the other. The bag containing a giant glass jar of dill pickles broke, and the jar smashed on the road. Pickles and glass were everywhere. This was clearly an accident. While cleaning up the mess, I cut my finger on a piece of glass. That made two accidents. Then my husband came out to help, and he cut his finger. That made three accidents.

If “there are no accidents,” then I was supposed to drop those pickles, and we were supposed to cut our fingers. Maybe the pickles were poisoned; it is possible to get very sick, or die (I’ve heard), from improperly pickled pickles. Or maybe the universe was objecting to my not using cloth grocery bags. Okay, I could accept either of those reasons.

But why did we have to cut our fingers? To make a blood oath? That was the explanation that I settled on. My husband settled on ignoring me. That made four accidents.

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barking, book, Common Knowledge, construction worker, Dog, helmet, hickory nuts, Humor, Learning Curve, Mockingbirds, phone, Phones, ringing, sister, squirrels, Summer, telephone, title, Wikipedia, wolf whistle

I’m Going to Kill a Mockingbird

In Humor on August 26, 2011 at 3:45 pm

When we were in our twenties, I remember that my sister–let’s call her Monica–would be amazed when her friend Lisa knew things that she didn’t know. They weren’t earth-shattering things, just stuff like spray starch comes from vegetables or dogs are descended from wolves. Anyway, when she would ask Lisa how she knew whatever it was she knew, Lisa would always say, “It’s common knowledge.” This bugged Monica no end.

Monica might have missed out on the common knowledge gene but I was absent the day they assigned our places on the learning curve. I probably didn’t understand the concept and got out of line. Anyway, I got put on the lowest, or the highest, end; it all depends on whether being a slow learner means you have a high or low learning curve. I haven’t figured that out yet. Suffice it to say that things that are obvious to others aren’t to me. For instance, there’s this bird–or a flock of them for all I know–that lives right outside our upstairs hallway window. We’ve lived in our current house for more than five years, and it took me until today to realize why, during the summer months, I always think the phone is ringing in the morning when it isn’t. I can’t count the number of times I’ve stood by the open window and heard the phone ringing in my bedroom. Yet everytime I picked up the phone, all I heard was a dial tone.

Today I realized why nobody is ever on the other end of the telephone line–the phone isn’t ringing. It’s the bird that is ringing–or perfectly imitating our telephone’s ringtone. I had to hand it to the bird; he or she had the sound down pat. I wondered what kind of bird it was. It occurred to me that a good name for the bird would be mockingbird; it was too bad that that name was already taken. Unless. And here’s where the learning curve thing comes in. Maybe, I thought, the bird actually was a mockingbird. Maybe mockingbirds were so named because of their mimicry. A quick search on Wikipedia confirmed my suspicion. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mockingbird

I was floored. I always thought that mockingbirds got their name because they were nasty and made fun of other birds. That isn’t as far-fetched as you may think. Animals can be evil just like humans. When we lived at our former house, we had vindictive squirrels. They would sit in the tree outside our house and toss hickory nuts at my husband’s head while he raked leaves. It got so bad that he had to wear our son’s bicycle helmet whenever he raked. So it didn’t seem unlikely that mockingbirds would mock any bird who wasn’t in their cool-bird flock. It turns out, though, that they mock or mimic the songs of other birds, and the sounds of insects, amphibians and telephones. The Wikipedia entry didn’t actually mention telephones, but that’s probably because it’s common knowledge.

I wonder why they don’t also mimic mammals, like people and pets. Maybe they do. Our dog seems to bark more than usual in the summer when the windows are open. Whenever I scold him, he looks at me quizzically. Maybe it’s actually a bird that is barking. What a thought. There’s another bird that wolf-whistles at me every morning and it never fails to lift my spirits. Now I’m thinking that maybe the wolf-whistling bird is a mockingbird who is imitating a construction worker. Who knows? Maybe someone higher, or lower, on the learning curve could tell me. I’m so confused. There’s only one thing I know for sure: starting today, I’m keeping the upstairs hallway window closed.

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acceptance, anger, bargain, bargaining, carts, clerks, denial, depression, five stages of grief, found, grief, Humor, lost, Marshalls, retail, retail therapy, Sales, sandals, shoes, shopping, St. Anthony, stealing, women

Saints and Sandals

In Uncategorized on August 2, 2011 at 10:19 am

As with most problems, this one started with shoes. In this case, it was the most wonderful pair of sandals I’ve ever seen. And they were on the clearance rack for $20. And they were in my size. Being a mostly religious person, I pretty much suspect that there are people up there who are looking out for me in general. But I know in my Pilates-free core that a woman is looking after me when it comes to foot apparel. She never fails me. If I had been asked to imagine the most wonderful flat summer sandals in the world, I would have conjured up the very ones that were on the sale rack. The guy up there in charge of my lottery tickets needs to take lessons from my shoe muse. Anyway, without hesitation, I scooped them up and experienced a rush of victory felt only by Olympic gold-medal winners and the Coney Island hot-dog-eating champion.

I placed my treasure into the seat of my shopping cart and parked it three feet away so that I could check to see if my muse had any more surprises for me in the shoe department. She didn’t, but that was fine since she had far surpassed my expectations. Now, at this point, you all know what happened. I turned to my cart and the sandals were gone.

Because I am nothing if not hasty, I immediately started in on the first of the five stages of grief. (Just so we’re all on the same page, the stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance: http://grief.com/the-five-stages-of-grief/.) I actually progressed through the first two stages simultaneously. “My sandals are NOT missing!” I screamed internally, following up with, “Somebody stole them and I am going to kill her.” Sexistly, I assumed that a woman was the culprit, but anyone of any gender could well have been overcome by desire for them.

Bargaining is the third phase and I am pleased to report that I did not make any promises to God that I had no intention of keeping. I did, however, call on St. Anthony to find my lost shoes, even though I was certain that they weren’t so much lost as they were to be found in someone else’s cart. I double-checked the rack to make sure my shoes weren’t put back and then–I’m not proud of this–I decided it was the perfect time for some vigilante justice.

Up and down every aisle I went, peering into carts and even going so far as to lift some items in one woman’s basket in order to see what was underneath. Let’s just say that that didn’t go well. You generally don’t hear a lot of screaming and cursing in Marshalls. I backed away and continued on my mission. Once I reached the other side of the store, I started my search over, just in case the sandal snatcher had eluded me the first time. I had no luck, so I went to the register and asked the women behind it to keep a lookout for a pair of flat, bejeweled sandals that were in my cart and had disappeared. I magnanimously suggested that perhaps someone had taken my cart by accident and that she would discover unwanted sandals in her cart when she checked out. I asked the saleswomen to hold them for me if this were the case. Due, no doubt, to a language barrier, they just stared at me.

I then moved quickly through the fourth phase, depression, because I’m medicated for that. The last phase is acceptance and I zoomed right through that, too. I knew if those sandals were still in the store, St. Anthony would uncover them. If they weren’t, I’d have to revisit the last stage. In the meantime I concentrated on following people around and shopping out of their baskets when they were distracted. No, I didn’t really, but I was tempted. And, if former President Jimmy Carter is right and lusting in your heart is the same as committing adultery, then maybe I did steal things, but nobody noticed.

Once I had given up the hunt, I decided that I needed therapy. Since I was already in the store, I opted for retail therapy. This time, I vowed to never let go of my cart. During the course of my treatment, I once again passed the clearance shoe rack. I was totally unsurprised to see my sandals innocently sitting there. Non-Catholics are really missing out when it comes to St. Anthony. If anything is there to be found, he will find it if you ask nicely and always remember to say thank you. This time, he played with me a little before offering up my holy grail. I saw the sandals with the size 9 sticker on them. I tried them on and they didn’t fit. I then realized that they weren’t a size 9 but a size 6. Disappointed, I put them down and re-scanned the rack. One other identical pair sat there. The sticker said size 9 and this time they really were a size 9. You have to love a saint with a sense of humor.

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Arthur, Cadaver Dog, Casey Anthony, Dog, Farsi, Humor, Interpreter, Jury, Kangaroo Court, Lesbian, Liaison, Lisbon

Too Funny

In Humor on July 8, 2011 at 3:01 pm

I haven’t posted in a while because this is my funny blog and I haven’t been thinking funny thoughts lately. (Remember that line in “Arthur,” when Arthur burst out laughing for no apparent reason, and when questioned, he said, “Sometimes I just think funny things”?) Some of you are probably scratching your heads and saying, “This is her funny blog? I’d hate to see her unfunny one.” Funny is subjective. Since this is my blog, I’m the funny judge. If I laugh at least once while I’m writing a post, then it’s funny. Anyway, nothing has amused me lately. Until today. Today, I laughed twice so I thought I’d spread the wealth and give you the opportunity to laugh, too. If you don’t laugh, you can sue me in kangaroo court. I’ll win, though. I’ve got the judge in my pocket.

So, here goes: My husband, Frank, just called me. He said he talked to his friend, Joe, who is an elected official in our town. Joe proposed the creation of an unpaid position for himself. He would be the liaison between his office and another city office. Our local newspaper today reported, in its online edition, that Joe proposed that he be named the lesbian between the two departments. Joe’s friends and colleagues thought this was hilarious. “Joe,” they said, “We hardly knew ya.” Or something to that effect. So Joe called the newspaper and pointed out that he wanted to be a liaison, not a lesbian. The newspaper updated its web page and now it says that he wants to be a “lisbon.” Joe’s friends are now accusing him of wanting to be a Portuguese lesbian. Apparently our newspaper’s Spell Check doesn’t have the word “liaison” in its dictionary.

Earlier today I was reading an account of the Casey Anthony verdict and how the prosecution missed several chances to prove their case (http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/Justice/2011/0706/The-case-against-Casey-Anthony-The-slam-dunk-that-wasn-t). This is a direct quote from the article: “The jury also heard testimony from the handler of a cadaver dog who said his dog signaled to him that there might have been a body in Anthony’s car. Such testimony is unusual because there is no opportunity to cross-examine a dog.” Well, I beg to differ. There’s plenty of opportunity to cross-examine a dog. The problem lies in finding a reputable interpreter. Our dog, Rudy, is qualified for the job. Whenever my husband reprimands him for loudly demanding human food, Rudy argues back. The quarrels are sometimes quite lengthy and Frank eventually gets exasperated, hands Rudy the pretzel or the filet mignon, and walks off. Rudy is the same way with dogs. They bark when he steals their toys, he barks louder, they leave … without their treasures. He clearly understands humans and canines and communicates his messages succinctly. The Anthony prosecution team should have gotten the word out that they had a job opening for a canine interpreter. They might have won their case, and Rudy could certainly use the money. He has very expensive tastes.

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crazy people, diners, Greeks, Humor, Indians, New Year's resolutions, postaday2011, postaweek2011, wakes

New Year, Same Old Crazy People

In Crazy People, Humor on January 8, 2011 at 2:03 pm

It’s a brand-new year. Gyms have been gearing up for the onslaught of out-of-shape, overweight people who are committed to shaping up this year. Bars are ordering less inventory to accommodate the missing patrons who have vowed to drink less or stop drinking altogether. Churches are cleaning up after the Christmas season to greet those who promised themselves that they would attend regularly. Chefs are concocting even more healthful meals for those who have vowed to avoid anything that tastes good. Everyone wants to discuss their resolutions or their avoidance of resolutions, and since I’m like everyone else, I’m going to talk about … crazy people. I considered talking about resolutions, but what is there to say? You either keep yours or you don’t. The subject is old by February, but crazy people are entertaining all year long.

Within the first week of this new year, I ran into two crazy people. That’s a pretty high number of lunatics in one week. If this keeps up throughout the year, I will have met 104 nutcases by the end of 2011.

By crazy people, I don’t mean certifiably crazy people. I mean the kind of people who look normal from the outside but have short circuits sparking dangerously in their brains. Eventually, smoke will be visible emanating from their eyes or ears, but right now, they can fool you into thinking they’re rational human beings if you pass them quickly on the street … and if they’re not talking. Talking gives them away. So do their eyeballs. My sister told me that if you think someone is “off,” look at his or her eyes. If you can see the white part of the eye all the way around the iris, then that person is definitely crazy. She was taught this in art class, so it must be true.

My first foray into Nut Town happened at my friend Linda’s wake. My friend died young, leaving her husband and three young children. Everyone at the wake was visibly sad, myself included, I imagine. I stopped to say hello to my friend’s father-in-law. He had just lost his wife a few months before, and he was devastated by this new loss.

He was standing with his daughter-in-law. Without thinking, I said, “You must be Linda’s moth—, I mean sister-in-law.” Of course I didn’t think she was Linda’s mother. I knew Linda’s mother. But the damage was done. And it turned out to be irreparable damage. When my son was a baby, I was occasionally mistaken for his grandmother (mostly by older Indian men, oddly enough), so I know that feeling of being kicked in the stomach. I tried to make up for my mistake, but I only made the situation worse.

Later, during the wake, I sought the woman out, apologized, and told her that I misspoke and of course she didn’t look old enough to be Linda’s mother. She gave me the evil eye and walked away. I turned to speak to my friend’s real mother and the sister-in-law ran up to us and said, “She thought that I was you.” The real mother was speechless. I offered my condolences and moved on, but the sister-in-law kept reappearing to announce to whomever I was talking to that I had mistaken her for my friend’s mother. There was no way I could fix this, so I left.

A few days later, I found myself with a few spare hours in the early afternoon, so I thought I would treat myself to a late breakfast at a local diner. I ordered my meal and took out a book to read. The sun streamed through the window, and the after-lunch crowd was small and quiet. I opened my book and enjoyed my solitude.

Then I heard a loud voice talking. I looked around and saw the diner’s owner talking to someone in a booth. I couldn’t see the person in the booth, but I assumed that there was someone in there. Whoever it was never uttered a word. But the owner uttered enough words for both of them (assuming there was another person).

“Maria said that I should write a book because of all the pearls, or gold, that come out of my mouth,” he began. “For example, I told her that a person you don’t trust can’t steal from you, but you gotta look out for the person you can trust.” The person in the booth must have offered some kind of encouragement, because the owner continued. “If you don’t trust someone, let’s say you think a certain person is a thief. You’re not gonna leave your wallet on the table with that person when you get up to go to the bathroom, are you? No, you’re not. But, let’s say you trust somebody. Then you are going to leave your wallet on the table when you go to the bathroom. So, the person you trust is the person you shouldn’t trust, because you just left your wallet with him, so he can steal from you. Am I right?” The booth person must have nodded in agreement, because the owner went on.

“Of course I’m right. And Maria is right. I do have gold coming out of my mouth, or pearls. I should write a book. Which makes sense, because I’m Greek. Like Plato and Socrates. They were Greek. So, of course, since I’m Greek, I’m a thinker, like them. Okay, maybe they were wise men and I’m a wiseguy, but I still have pearls, or gold. I should write a book.” The owner walked away, pleased with himself.

I had lost my place in my book during his soliloquy and my meal, which had been delivered during this time, had gotten cold. I had really been looking forward to eating and reading and this nutjob had ruined my meal. I went back to my breakfast and book anyway, determined to salvage what was left of my time alone. Then the voice started up again.

“I just talked to Maria,” the owner said to the booth. “She agreed that the person you can’t trust is the person you do trust. Like if you don’t trust a person, you won’t leave your wallet on the table with him when you go to the bathroom. But, if you do trust someone, …” I signaled my waiter, paid the check and was out of there. There was no way I was going to listen to him repeat his pearls, or gold.

On my way out, I was tempted to sneak a peek into the booth with the silent customer, but I resisted for fear that there just might be a mute person in there, which would still make the owner nuts, but would also make me rude.

If the rest of my year continues to be anything like the first week, I’ll be spending most of it leaving places in a hurry.

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exterminators, hotels, Humor, mice, postaday2011, postaweek2011, rats, rats nests

Two Hundred and Thirty Eight Dollars

In Humor, Rodents on January 3, 2011 at 3:05 pm

It all started in the middle of the night. A bag of bread that was left on our kitchen table when we went to bed was relocated to a kitchen chair and half-eaten when we awoke the next morning. Being the brave rodent hunters that we are, we immediately summoned an exterminator. The guy showed up, said, “You’ve got mice,” put out some bait and said, “That will be $238. You have a four-month guarantee.” Then he told me to plug up areas under the sink with steel wool and ended with, “Call us in a month if you see any more activity.” “Two-hundred and thirty eight dollars for bait?” my husband and I asked each other … after the guy left, of course. We didn’t want to look cheap. “We could have bought bait for a lot less than that,” my husband noted. What made the deal worse was that we were really only getting a three-month guarantee since we had to observe “activity” for a month before calling in reinforcements.

Of course we saw activity during the exterminator’s grace period. I was greeted every morning by black rice-sized excrement that I had to sweep up before I served my son his breakfast (after washing my hands, of course). One morning, I had to sweep up a dead field mouse. The problem seemed to be over at that point and we all forgot about it. Then, one morning, my husband found a gnawed banana on a dining room chair. The fruit bowl was on the dining room table, so something had dragged it down onto the chair before eating it. Once again, we called the exterminator. A different guy showed up this time—their “wildlife expert”—and he told us that we still had mice, and that he had seen “activity” in the basement. So, he re-baited the traps. He then pointed out additional gaps that I had to fill. He told me that steel wool wasn’t good enough and that I had to buy foam insulation that turned hard once it was sprayed into crevices, and that I had to fill every hole with it. I told my husband what he said and my husband asked why we had to do the work when we were paying the exterminating company. I told him that the exterminator obviously had his limits as to what he would do for the paltry sum of $238. Then I headed out to buy the foam insulation. The next day, despite the insulation, the invader had taken an apple from the fruit bowl in the dining room and had carried it into the kitchen, where it nibbled on it under the kitchen cabinets. When my husband asked why in the world I had left anything edible out, I told him we were trapping an animal, and this particular animal liked fruit, so of course I would leave fruit out. He just shook his head and threw out the fruit that was still left in the fruit bowl.

Later that day, on a walk with our dog, I spotted a cache of acorns at the base of an oak tree. I scooped up about thirty or forty and put them in a bag for my friend who likes acorns. When I got home, I put the bag on the dining room table. The next morning, the acorns were gone. The bag was still there, ripped to shreds, but the nuts were nowhere to be found. My husband and son claimed that they knew nothing about the acorns and even insinuated that the acorns were never there in the first place. If it weren’t for the ripped-up bag, I might have believed them. Later that night, the dog started sniffing around the base of the stove. I peered under the stove and saw an acorn. I knew that whatever happened next wasn’t going to be good. My husband had the good fortune to be at work, so my son and I pulled out the stove. What we saw was horrifying: a real-live rat’s nest. A huge collection of insulation, steel wool, and piles of acorns, dog food, and excrement. And a measuring cup, a stick of gum, and a Frisbee. It was like the Borrowers had moved in. As we stared in horror at the mess—while holding the stove in mid-air—the mess moved. Slowly, a very large, very black rat emerged from the piles. We almost dropped the stove. Then the rat ambled over to a hole behind the stove and disappeared. The rest happened in a blur. We pulled the stove all the way out and started cleaning up the nest. After a large trash bag was filled with the detritus, we had to clean up the hole, which was crammed with acorns and steel wool, which made us wonder how the rat had gotten through the hole in the first place. Then the scouring and disinfecting began. It was a truly horrendous experience.

The next day, the head exterminator came and pulled out all the stops. He apologized for his team’s botching of the job and told us that he wouldn’t charge us the rat extermination fee. Apparently the $238 only covered putting out mice bait and making us do all the grunt work. He put out spring traps that could catch a horse and told us to call him after the weekend was over. We were supposed to, once again, observe “activity,” and if necessary, “finish the rat off” with a hammer if he got caught in a trap and didn’t die. The hell with that. We put the dog in the kennel, packed bags, and moved into a hotel. The rat won. He could have the house.

On Monday morning, after dropping our son off at school, we called the head exterminator and told him that we’d meet him at our home. We all crept into the kitchen, not knowing what we would encounter. Thankfully, the rat had met his maker, down in the basement. The exterminator offered to show us the dead object of our terror. I declined, but my husband reasoned that it couldn’t bother us now, so he looked. He later told me that the rat was bigger than his foot. After disposing of the rat (he refused to nail the dead rat to a post to discourage other rats from venturing inside our house), the exterminator returned and re-set traps. We were also told that we needed to have a “cement guy” reinforce our foundation so that nothing else could venture inside.

Wouldn’t you think that we would have done that immediately? Nah, spring seems soon enough. We still have a few months left on our four-month guarantee. We want to get our 238 dollars’ worth.

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Patsy Porco

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