Here are two photos among many that I took with the little camera that I try to keep handy. I like to stockpile photos so that I can wimp out and post them instead of writing something up. But then I usually just write something up, anyway. Both of these sort of required rants. Ready?
Okay, I took this photograph in disgust, because it’s one of my very least favorite parts of our house. We don’t love this house–choosing it was all about the neighborhood for us. But this spot just drives me crazy. What you’re looking at is the place where my fridge usually goes (that’s its power cord draping across, and just above the tag on the cord is the front of our pantry). What makes me nuts is that whoever created our kitchen put in this pre-made kitchen cabinetry for a pantry, resulting in a half-foot gap of unused space behind the pantry. So first, who the hell says, gosh, I really don’t need that extra pantry space? Also, neighborhood mice like to move into this delightful area with easy access to our foodstuffs. It’s like some sort of comfy rodent resort.
Recently we were visited by a mouse who had the audacity to poop on our counters. I completely freaked out. Cute W’s response was, “What’s the big deal? We had horrible mice problems in that apartment in Brooklyn.” Okay: yes. Years ago we lived in this dump, and there was a hole where the mice would push aside the steel wool, and once a mouse ran over my bare foot while I was standing at the sink washing dishes.
So, sure. It’s not like mice are a foreign concept. But now I am 40. And I live in the suburbs. So that phase of my life should be over, right? And, yes, yes, I know. I am fortunate. My life is wonderful. This is a teensy problem. It’s just that mice still crapping on my counter was not my Vision of Glorious Adulthood. As a child, I thought that I would grow up to have slender, elegant fingers like my mother. I thought that I would fully understand my place in the world and make good money in a rewarding career. I thought that there would be a long golden age between my last pimple and my first wrinkle. I was woefully wrong on all counts. Which, you know, is okay. I’m good.
Yes, I could rebuild the cabinet myself. In theory. Except that I really don’t have the skills. I mean, I could try, but Cute W, who is Super Handy, would no doubt be dismayed by my pathetic efforts and have to step in. I mean, yesterday I was screwing fans back together and I forgot to put the screw into the hole. I was just sort of poking the hole with the end of a screw driver. No, I am not kidding.
It’s not like I don’t try. In this case, I missed out on both Nature and Nurture. So any attempt that I might make to start this project myself would just be a passive aggressive means to get Cute W. Which leads one to wonder, isn’t blogging about it passive aggressive? Yikes, Cute W just walked in and I started giggling nervously and was forced to Confess All. No: I know that there are many more pressing structural integrity issues that are ahead of the Rodent Resort in our home maintenance queue. But due to my handiness deficiencies, I would only recognize a structural integrity issue if it literally fell around my ears.
Okay, one more picture, this from the local grocery store. There’s a whole new line of “healthy snack” products. Carrots and ranch dip: sure! Hummus and pita crisps: yum! But. . . pickles and bacon ranch dip?
What the hell kind of snack is that? Or am I crazy? Is this some weird Upstate New York thing that I’ve missed up until now?