onsdag, januar 17, 2007

The Trash Heap

Why should my family not have given me a digital camera at the holidays? Because in less than a month I've taken over 1000 photos and burned through 8 AA batteries. Like Maria Sharapova, I've made every shot a power shot.

My across-the-hall neighbor's apartment, 1:40 a.m.

I'm thinking of the Fraggles (Gobo, Mokey, Wimbley, Boober and Red) and Fraggle Rock. I'm thinking of the Gorgs "Dumb" song. I'm thinking that I'm going to meet my neighbor soon because she has put another fucking bag of garbage in my fucking hallway.

I accepted it in the first few days of her tenure because she was cleaning and getting organized in her new digs. But now? She's one of us. The only reason my foot isn't in your ass, Garbage Lady, is because I like shoes. I like my shoes. You better hope I don't acquire some throw-aways.

Yes. It's 5 degrees outside right now. Whatever. This is winter and it's Minnesota. None of us are surprised. So put on some fucking wool and take out your fucking garbage. I will not hold back my language on this one. Why? I'm from Chicago. I'm totally willing to soil my reputation first. My pants and my fucking living environment will remain plague-free.

Now, on Fraggle Rock it was cute when the Fraggles would scamper through the Gorgs' garden to get to the Trash Heap, where the Trash Heap would dispense wisdom. ("The Trash Heap has spoken!") But when my neighbor's garbage stands sentry, I think only of the plague and a serious failing of hygiene. Knock it off, you!!

The Mouse

Photo snapped in my kitchen last night. Behind the stove. The mouse is in the upper-left corner. And, actually, I wish that was my kitchen tile rather than this "taupe" (read, "color of brown stains and wet dust" tile) underfoot.

So. A mouse, if not THE mouse, is back. I'm such a wuss. I really just want to talk tough. I want to talk about getting not just medieval but Black Dahlia on this mouse. But what I really want to do is act like I don't know he's there.

I mean, in Wisconsin, there's so little one can do. At the cabin, once the mice come in, they're in. They don't care what you do. The last night I was there, mice shat upon the salt shaker in the raised cupboard. Think about that. They got inside the cabinet, climbed up on a half-filled cylindrical salt shaker, balanced themselves, and shit. They did not shit on the shelf. They cut cable on my seasonings. They shit on the shaker.

That's the unicycle of toilets.

(Ah, crap. My neighbor is probably FedExing her garbage to me. She now knows I'll just shake my head and write emails about it rather than confront her. Damn this Scandinavian restraint!!!)

C'mon, mouse. Must I become a killer? Must I?

You're lucky my sister gets married this weekend. But after that, I have no excuses. I'll have to evict you. Or tie you to stone and drop you into a hole I've carved into the ice of Lake Como.

Do NOT make me do it, mouse. Do not make me the Idi Amin of rodentia.
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