Monday, September 21, 2009

Just When You Thought Things Couldn't Get Any Grosser

File this under: complete, utter and total grossness.

In my last post, I was complaining that I did not have anything exciting to look forward to for the next little while (unless you count getting suction-cups charged with electricity attached to your ass as exciting, which I personally do not). Well, the universe took pity on me and intervened on my behalf. After tonight, I am now counting the days until my house is no longer infested with rats. I have learned a valuable lesson: just when you think that your life could not suck any more, remember that there's always an infestation of disgusting, disease-carrying, slithery-tailed rodents hiding around the corner ready to take the grossness party to a whole new level. (Which, considering how much time I spend detailing my post-surgical rashes, is kind of a feat).

I am petrified of rats. Terrified. They rank right up there with "clowns" on my list of "Irrational but Overpowering Fears," (though both clowns and rats are potential carriers of disease, so I suppose my fears aren't completely unfounded). Even the sight of cartoon rats is enough to make me squirm. You can therefore imagine how I felt last night, when I was about ready to drift off to sleep after two sleep-deprived nights of wedding awesomeness.

Picture this in the theatre of your minds. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I can't get the little smudges of mascara off the bottom part of my eye because soap and water isn't helping and I don't wear makeup often enough to own my own makeup remover. I've spent the last three hours logging names of literary magazines into a database and being traumatized by a full spectrum of literary weirdness (seriously, how many literary magazines devoted to spanking does the universe need?). All I want to do is drift into sweet unconsciousness and log enough hours to remain at least semi-conscious for physio early the next morning. I'm just about to turn off the lights when I hear a scritching sound: a cross between gnawing and filing, the sound of some animal tunneling through the walls heading towards my bedroom.

My parents are sleeping and I can't exactly get down on my hands and knees and look for beady little rodent eyes, so I try to ignore it. The sound gets louder. I try to think, "Oh, it's probably something cute and cuddly. It probably has a cute little bushy tail." The sound gets louder. I think, "busy tail. Bushy tail. Cute little squirrly eyes." It gets louder. I try to hum that Michael Jackson song about the cute littel pet rat. It gets louder. It becomes readily apparent that whatever is making that sound does not have a cute little bushy tail nor does it have adorable little squirrel eyes. It has big fucking teeth and those teeth are hell bent on gnawing through the wall and attacking my face. (Norwegian tree rats can jump 6 feet. I am 6 feet. The math is not working out in my favour on this one).

I have two choices: spend all night staring at the ceiling waiting for a rodent to gnaw its way through the walls and scurry across my face (why it would climb up on my bed, I don't know. But still) or else wake my parents up and tell them that I'm sleeping in my sister's room and not to be surprised when they wake up to find my bedroom empty. Sorry, mom and dad, I had to go with option B. My mom and dad (being the infinitely patient and wonderful people they are) got out the flashlights and went on a rat-hunting expedition while I hung back ready to jump up on my bed in case the rat made a dash for it. If there's anything that can get my hip flexors working again, the adrenaline rush of fleeing in terror just might be it. My physios might just need to lock me in a room full of rats. I will either become instantly cured or else go bat shit crazy and never sleep again for the rest of my life.

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