Oh my stars, 10,000 hits on the ol’ Bob Loblaw’s Law Blog! (Or, you know, this one.) Let’s see who the lucky reader is! Okie doke, someone from Wells, Maine. Hello! So happy to meetcha! And you got here via a search for…the top 10 songs about narcissism.
Welcome.
This morning upon waking I discovered that all of the feeling in my arms, hands and fingers was missing. There’s a distinct possibility that this was because I slept on my side with my arms extended fully behind me, fingers and thumbs and palms stretched upwards like some sort of reverse Spiderman webbing action.
And THIS could be due to the fact that, moments before bed, P.J. informed me that there was a “symphony” of scratching and beating behind the walls.
Let me back up a little.
Remember the “Hey, what’s that smell?” game we’ve been playing since July? (That game is SO fun in July.) Well, we’ve gotten better at it, and have [sorta] determined that the smell is definitely coming from the lower level bathroom. Our exterminator (yep, ours) told us that when he removed a boarded up section of the linen closet (of course) he could see that the bottom of the tub had rusted through and that the tub itself was sitting on a dirt floor. No foundation. Why not? He went on to tell us that while rodents could EASILY get in, there was no evidence of living anything and the smell was probably a dead rat trapped in the wall. The good news? The horsefly apocalypse would most likely finish it off.
Fabulous, terrifying news. If not for the fact that everyone involved in the renovation of this house IS A LIAR.
This is becoming an exorbitantly expensive game of Whack-A-Mole.
So, we decided to go ahead and rip out the rusty-bottomed tub and re-tile the bathroom. (Of course, the bathroom we use the least? Let’s make it downright Martha Stewart Living. After all, the “Master Bathroom” washtub I use up on the third floor doesn’t need to be pretty, just big enough for one person turned sideways.) Our bathroom contractors- veeery different from our plumbing, electrical and roofing contractors, mind you- started this past Monday. They are terrific! Excepting, of course, the minor detail that the new tub didn’t fit. It doesn’t matter WHO dropped the ball on this one (when I find out, heads will roll) because the important thing is- the new tub is 20 3/4 inches deep. I could happily drown in this new tub. And not even face-down, like in the old poor-excuse-for-a-water-vessel-careful-you-don’t-trip-over-the-ledge-stepping-into-the-shower tubbie. So this is good.
However.
The exterminator was working side by side with the bathroom contractors to make sure, you know, that rats didn’t jump out and start swinging from the ceiling fans. The bad news? There was a veritable Autobahn of rat roadways under the tub. The good news? Concrete rainstorm, pals. I was slightly concerned about anyone we might be keeping inside the perimeter, but was quickly assured that (again) there’s no evidence of live rats and, of course, rats would be out of doors during the day. Of course.
Except that night we kinda thought we heard something.
No matter, the smell’s gone, right? Mostly!
The next night there was a pitter patter of…something.
And then last night? A “symphony.” Right before I fell asleep P.J. confirmed that he and the cats definitely heard SOMETHING in the walls. Perhaps by the stairs. Maybe in the under-stairwell closet.
“Don’t open the under-stairwell closet tomorrow, ok?” (Ok!)
And THEN, moments before I drifted off to dreamland I remembered what a few people said about trapped rats. They’ll either a) die and smell and bring back Horsefly Apocalypse 2k10 OR…b) they’ll eat their way through the drywall.
OH MY GOD.
And, as we all know, rats are my number one, wretched, terrifying, poke-my-eyes-out biggest fear ever EVER ever (forEVA eva?- you’re welcome, Nat) I can’t imagine a creepier scenario. Because now that I am a mother, I have this stupid need to protect at all costs, making it an obvious possibility that a rat WILL break through the wall in the presence of Nora, forcing me to battle it TO THE DEATH.
Dammit.
This is why I slept in a bizarro defensive pose. Owie.
Update: The bathroom contractor just informed me that the the tub faucet I’d asked him to fix (it started at hot and went to cold at full blast) couldn’t be reversed. For the faucet had been installed UPSIDE DOWN and they’d have to remove part of the wall to fix it. Did I want that?
Oh my, I want so many things. This is not one of those things.
First on the list would be a new decorative lock.
Lemme ‘splain: The other night, Nora and I came home from work utterly exhausted. She hasn’t been feeling so hot (’cause the kids for whom I nanny haven’t been feeling so hot) and taking care of five “not feeling so hot” kids- six or seven, if they have friends over- is exhausting. It makes you dumb. Or, at the very least, me.
I never get the mail. Ever. P.J. grabs it on his way to the garage with his bike. I usually have started dinner and- whatever. I never grab it. I was feeling jaunty on Tuesday night, however, and thought it would be fun to “surprise” P.J. with a stack of mail. After changing Nora and letting her rest in the Pack n’ Play downstairs, I put on boots and ran outside to get the mail- a mere ten feet away.
I did not lock the door.
I did not grab my cell phone.
It was ten feet away.
When I came back to the side door twenty seconds later, it was locked. And I did not have a key- in fact, NO ONE has a key to this lock- it is, sadly, decorative. (And one of the only things not stripped from this house the previous year. “Keep it,” people urged us. “It’s so PRETTY!”) The contractors must have thought it was wonderful, too, as they turned it before leaving for the day. And- haha- when you twist the knob from the inside, it doesn’t even APPEAR to be locked. Isn’t that amazing?
This took a bit to figure out. My first thought, alarmingly for my dementia, was that we were haunted. That’s right, the only way that this could have happened was if a malevolent spirit had decided to separate me from my baby. And then I remembered the baby. Inside. Alone. And starting to cry.
Five minutes earlier I had been g-chatting with P.J.- meaning that he was still at work. He had promised to be home by 5:45…but what if he was tied up at work? What if the trains were wonky? Also, five minutes earlier was 5:10pm. I would have to be outside for AT LEAST half an hour.
That’s when I remembered I was wearing yoga pants and a long-sleeved shirt. And it was getting dark. And coooold. And now Nora was definitely starting to scream.
So, I panicked. And stood in the doorway for a good few minutes, stupidly trying to knob (still locked!?) and wondering what the heck to do. We have no hidden key. (Didn’t wanna take the chance that someone in this neighborhood would figure it out.) No neighbors had a spare key. (Choosing between the autistic 17-year old on one side and the aging drunk who speaks NO English on the other? That’s a toughie.) I also didn’t want to leave Nora alone and screaming in order to warm myself up somewhere. (Bad mother penance?)
After twenty minutes of watching my extremities turn from red to white, from numb back to extreme pain (it was about twenty degrees, mind you) and hearing Nora wail in frustration and sadness (a new level of hell,) I ran to La Brasa Roja up at the corner. It smelled delicious, but there was no time for chicken or lamb! I asked in Spanish if I could use the phone. The guy seemed awfully confused. Did I want a carryout menu? Finally he pointed me in the direction of the manager, who was apparently authorized on All Things Phone. He let me use his cell. (I guess the restaurant is terribly strict on phone usage.)
I called P.J.
Three times.
Left a voicemail.
Tried to sound brave.
Failed.
Ran back to Nora to hear her scream for the next half an hour.
At this point I actually felt a little dizzy and EXTREMELY sorry for myself. Plus, since I hadn’t checked the time at the restaurant, I didn’t really know what time it was, how long I had been outside or how long it would be until P.J. came home. If he came home. If he was even coming home. If the trains were working.
By now Nora was wailing that completely horrible mix of genuine tears and panicked heaving gasps. My skin was on fire with stabbing pain. I even cried for about two minutes until I realized that my tears were actually freezing in my eyes.
Finally, FINALLY P.J. arrived and threw his bike onto the lawn.
“How is she?”
He hurriedly unlocked the front door (for which we DO have all the keys) and ran to pick up Nora, who craned her neck unbelievably far to the left SO AS NOT TO LOOK AT ME.
I went upstairs and showered for thirty minutes on full blast hot. I looked like a lobster. A sad lobster. Finished cooking dinner. (Did I mention I had started making spicy coconut shrimp? It truly had the makings of a great evening. Then I had to go and abandon my daughter and ruin my immune system.)
But in the end it all jived. Nora forgave me- I AM her sole source of food, after all. Funny how that works. Dinner was quite good. P.J. enjoyed an episode of Lost and I began a few chapters of my book (that’s right.) Passed out slightly thereafter from the bone-wearying sojourn of GETTING THE MAIL. (Never again, pal. The gravy train ends here.)
I am confident, now that it’s Thursday (the happiest day of the week), that my luck will change. Maybe I’ll get to take a rat-free soak in a gloriously deep tub tonight! And John Krasinski and Demetri Martin will allow Nora and I to have a good ol’ mother/daughter crush fest.
And they all lived happily ever after.
So long as they ignored the scratching sounds inches from their faces.
***
Confidential to “Mom” and “Dad:” Congrats on 36 years! You make it look easy! (Actually, that’s not true. But sometimes “hilarious” and “crazy” is better than “easy.”)
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