(from the song “Please” by U2)

October, talk getting nowhere
November… December… remember
We just start it again

To repeat a whole number of people around the interwebs right now, but to do it very quickly, in a nutshell / magnificent run-on sentence:
Last year there was a thing called #reverb10 which got a whole bunch of people to blog every day of the month of December and this year a lot of people looked into it again but it wasn't officially being done so some people have made their own list of prompts and are writing every day in the month of December and I figured why not join in?

For eleven months I've thought of all of the wonderful things I'd make of 2011.
Now here are roughly thirty days left to jam in everything I haven't yet done.

I kind of envision it as a last minute sprint towards the finish line.

A couple of nights ago I sprinted for a bus. Two blocks, at a full flat-out run, I literally ran a red light, dodging pedestrians and pushing myself, in the final few yards, to force my legs to pump just a few more times rather than let me break down and collapse in the exhaust of the departing bus.
I climbed the stairs and swiped my MetroCard with a little bit of relief, a little bit of pride, and a whole lot of gasping.

My girlfriend lives in Staten Island and it takes about an hour to two hours to get there, depending on my starting location. It was worth running for the bus because the next one could be along in anywhere from 10 to 65 minutes... whichever the MTA felt like that day.

I rarely if ever run for a bus or to catch a train.

When I was little my dad told me that if there was something worth running to catch, then it was worth having been there early so you wouldn't have to run in the first place. Also that there's no reason not to simply enjoy where you are in that moment and have patience. As someone who often puts her needs and desires second to others, it's been a good thing to remember as it also keeps me a little bit more focused on myself in that moment and lets me put the other thing second even if just until the next bus arrives.

When I started a relationship with my girlfriend I was determined to avoid mistakes I'd made in the past. The emotional bludgeoning I'd lived through since 2004 was not going to be repeated, and no one other than me would be my priority. I would go where I wanted to go, when I wanted to go there. I would not live out of backpacks and use my apartment as a grossly overpriced closet.

I would not run after buses.

But two nights ago I collapsed into a bus seat, gasping for air, hearing my lungs screaming obscenities at my brain. I ran for a bus, ostensibly for a girl.

In 2004 or 2009 the truth is I would have run for a girl, and I would have never even thought about it beyond the panic of having to catch that particular bus in order to make it there by a particular time. (I'd be in trouble if I wasn't, you see).

In 2011 I realized that I ran after the bus for me.
For the first time in my life I may have been repeating actions from October, November, December, starting again (nod to U2) but it couldn't have been more completely different if I'd tried. I was putting myself first, and was doing what was important to me.

This year, this 2011, was just like any other year except for the fact that it was so different, I don't think the old me would recognize me any more.

Operation Mickey

Operation: Mickey began last night. The troops were committed for full battle, no holds barred. For a while now I’ve been complacent, cleaning up mouse poop where I found it and replacing nibbled granola bars, telling myself that the four traps I’d put down were a real step in the right direction. I was doing something about the problem, I told myself. And it worked just enough to keep my delusions going.

Out of sight out of mind traps (OOSOOM from now on) are lovely, because all they require is dabbing on a bit of peanut butter and checking periodically to see if the little red dot has swung over to “Caputered!” or if the red mailbox flag has flipped up. You don’t have to see the critter, the opening is sealed shut so everything is contained, and the only hurdle needed to overcome is the feeling of a few extra ounces in the plastic box.

Death, sanitized.

Franklin, my first mouse, went in a d-CON® No View, No Touch™ trap. He and I met a few months ago, when he darted out from under the couch while I was watching a movie. It was a startling experience for us both. I'm not proud - it took another month before I went to get the mouse traps. But I got them, and I set them, and a little while later, the little red dot was on the other side of the trap and Franklin's body (minus 21 grams) was weighing down the plastic.

The second little one didn't get a name. He wasn't around long enough. I really only met him once he had been dispatched; the little red plastic flag signaling that I'd had another night visitor, now with us no more.

This past month saw an earthquake and a hurricane. Neither of these are typical for New York City, and I'm sure they had some part in driving the neighborhood rodent population up to higher floors. Rain for days and days made the leafy lot next door less idyllic, and the trashcans outside our building looked more suitable to float away on than to live in. It rained cats and dogs metaphorically and literally flooded mice. I don't think it was a coincidence that I started seeing a lot more poops and nibbles right after those events. Also, the landlord did some construction in the apartment next door.

It was a rodent perfect storm.

Three nights ago there was plastic rustling and my girlfriend and I ran over to perch on the couch with flashlights and peer into the kitchen to see what was going on. 

Actually, there was plastic rustling and my girlfriend demanded a flashlight and ran to the couch. I stayed in bed. I joined her after it became obvious that the move-by-move narration wasn't going to stop any time soon, and also because she told me to. We trained our flashlights on the corner of the stove, where a little head was darting in and out. Finally he hauled ass across the kitchen floor and under the dresser/couch (they're abutting). That's when my girlfriend began loudly telling him, and all other mice within earshot, to leave the premises. Immediately. That this was their last chance, after which steps would be taken. They were not welcome here. 

She departed for the bathroom and I returned to the bed. To stare at the expanse of NYC studio apartment that I was readying to defend.

"Yeah, leave. Please go away."

"Don't say please," her voice carried out from the bathroom. "Let them know you mean it."

"Go away." I said.

"Tell them! Be firm!" my coach urged.
"GO AWAY YOU LITTLE ASSHOLES! THIS IS MY HOME, NOT YOURS!"

"Good, baby!"
"I REALLY DON'T WANT TO KILL YOU! PLEASE GO AW-  SCREW THAT, NO PLEASE! YOU GO! YOU GO NOW! GET OUT!!"

Then we went to sleep and I named the mouse Friedrich Douglass.

Two nights ago Friedrich had a dance party with his crew in the middle of my apartment. I woke from a lovely night's sleep to find my unhappy girlfriend who recounted hearing scampering all night long, and the terror of hearing the scampering come closer to and then underneath the bed. This is not something that one wants to hear one's girlfriend say, especially not if one wants one's girlfriend to ever come back. She said she would leave a change of clothes and a toothbrush AFTER the poop ceased appearing, and I vowed to turn my studio into a rodentian Gettysburg.

Next: Old school death strikes.