It
started with my car… my darling, cute little Honda Civic 1993 hatchback
with the rear window windshield wiper that was only made for a 6 month
period (then discontinued); that dearly loves to kick off its grease
boots so the axle can be chewed up with roadway grit; with the sticker
of Charlie Brown & Snoopy on a sled in the window so I can find it
easily in a parking lot. It started overheating. I know better than to
drive it like that, so I popped into my local repair shop, and they
could find nothing wrong. I drove it home, and it overheated on the way.
I drove it back. This time they found the thermostat (which they had
replaced 3 months earlier) was toast, so they replaced it. Next day, it
overheated again, so I took it back. They bled air out of the system,
and then it was fine… for a week.
My
life became a nightmare of taking my car in, them finding nothing
wrong, picking it up, it overheating, and taking it back. I was
reluctant to go anywhere else because so far I hadn't needed to pay for
it since they were responsible for the initial repair job. But after 1
month of this, they exhausted their ideas of what to do, and I took it
to the dealer. Turns out it was a head gasket which needed replacing -
over $1000 to fix.
Perhaps
I was really sick the day I dropped it off, (I had actually had a fever
the night before) but as Elder Sister took me to work that morning, I
fainted. My mom is convinced it was a panic attack, and in the weeks
since I suspect she was right. There was something about having to deal
with this ongoing nightmare of seemingly unfixable car repairs all on my
own that just melted my independence away. I had to find rides to work
and to pick up my car; and when you live alone it's going to be
inconvenient for SOMEONE, no matter how willing they may seem to help.
Elder
Sister and Elder Brother-in-law were sympathetic and helpful… but not
always available. I live a half-hour from work - so practically no-one
from work could drive me. But even having had loads of available
assistance wouldn't have removed the essential worm in the heart of this
apple - that I live alone, and have no boyfriend or husband for
support. Roommates wouldn't have altered the picture much either - they
may live with you, but they are not bound to you intimately; at least,
none of mine have ever been. Both the financial and inconvenience issues
were mine to deal with, with no help in sharing the burden. My mom
ended up paying for the car repair (for which I am paying her back) but
by her unseen shaking finger it's obvious that she thinks I should be
more financially prepared to take care of problems like this.
Then
the mice assaulted my citadel. A few days after the car debacle was
finally concluded, mouse droppings appeared in my kitchen. Everywhere.
The following evening as I was getting into bed, one skittered in front
of me. Too freaked out to sleep in the same room as a mouse, I went to
stay at Elder Sister's house. In the days that followed, a pattern
emerged. Wake up, get ready for work, vacuum up the droppings, wipe down
the counters with anti-bacterial spray, fix breakfast, go to work. Then
upon arriving home, repeat the cycle, including vacuuming the furniture
and floors.
I
should mention that I am in a state of extreme ambivalence regarding
mice. I think they are adorable, and when I wasn't screaming when they
darted in front of me, I thought they were awfully cute, sticking their
little heads out from under the dresser to see if it was safe to come
out. All I wanted was for them to be GONE - I didn't want to have to
deal with dead or alive mice. The thought of picking up a trap with a
mouse in it makes my skin crawl. Even nudging the traps with my foot to
see if they were "occupied" requires a herculean effort. But even more
did I want them to stop littering my apartment!
It
took my landlord 5 days to finally get pest control in, so in the
meantime I went and got one of those ultra-sonic plug-in units that
emits a high-pitched sound that makes the mice go away. It worked so
well that the mice left more droppings than ever right under the socket
where it was plugged in. Finally pest control came and put down a couple
of glue traps. Having carefully checked the traps for several days now,
I can confidently say that GLUE TRAPS ARE WORTHLESS. They've escaped
every time so far. Apparently for glue traps to work, you need to 1)
hear the mouse getting caught and flailing about, and then 2) press down
on top of the trap to completely envelop them in glue. It should be
obvious by now that I DON'T WANT TO GO ANYWHERE NEAR A TRAP WITH A MOUSE
IN IT, DEAD OR ALIVE. Do you know what a mouse completely caught in a
glue trap does? It has a heart attack - that's how it dies. I'm not sure
an old-fashioned snap-trap isn't more humane than that.
In
a state of extreme frustration, I went and bought mouse poison and put
it down in my kitchen. I should start finding dead mice in 4-5 days, or
so the box tells me. Pest control has returned and put down more
pointless glue traps, I still vacuum and disinfect every day after work,
and I think I smell mice in my ventilation system. This past weekend I
stayed at Elder Sister's again, just so I could avoid 2 days of having
cocky mice jump out from behind the microwave or Kleenex box, giving me
heart palpitations.
It's
amusing when related like this; but the essential fact remains that
once again I have to take care of the problem by myself. I've made jokes
before that everyone (especially women) should be single for a good
long stretch at least once in their life so they can learn to "squish
their own bugs." Well, I've graduated from bugs to mice, and I can
assure you that the same saying does not apply here. I am thoroughly
tired of independence and want to embrace my inner fragile Victorian
woman who faints at the sight of mice.
The
most recent attack on my independence came this past weekend. Either I
read somewhere (or I dreamt it) that a mouse infestation means death is
imminent. Well, my 2nd cousin Wallace and my friend Denise's
aunt and uncle (not married) all died Saturday, my boss's good friend
died Friday, and on Monday morning we found that a co-worker had had a
stroke Friday night and lain unconscious all weekend long, until we
called her son when she didn't show up at work. It's the quintessential
single person's fear, as far as I'm concerned… to be hurt or
incapacitated and no-one is aware you're in trouble until days have
passed. Bridget Jones said it best "… and you're half-eaten by an
Alsatian," or words to that effect. I told Elder Sister that she had
better remember to make sure she'd spoken to me at least once each
weekend, and my mom will be told the same.
I
think I am quite ready to give up the citadel - I'd throw open the
gates, but in peeking through the crenellations I can see that there is
no army outside to accept my terms for surrender. This is the cruelest
kind of war - where your strength and fighting ability are undermined,
yet your foe cannot be seen or identified and you are given no
opportunity to surrender and be given terms of peace.
