RATS!

We are clean people, as in I’m a recovering clean-aholic, so I am trusting that you will not think badly of me if I admit this, but we have a two rats that live in our back yard. Maybe more. Seriously. In our yard, under our trash cans, and they have chewed threw the cans over the last couple of weeks so badly that there is more hole than can. We’re talking Swiss cheese, here.

But to be fair, that also means they live in our neighbors yard and the house besides us which abandoned. I think it’s a reasonable assumption they came here by way of the abandoned house, and that makes me feel a little better.

And though it is true that I used to own pet rats as a child, and that I think highly of squirrels and nature in general, I put my foot down at anything that eats out of city trashcans and spreads disease-ridden poo in the area my children play barefoot in. So my husband set out traps because I want it dead, dead, dead. If you care about the little darlings, feel free to come by ASAP and try and catch them in a pillow case and set it free on a farm far from here–otherwise, we’ll be taking these suckers out and sending them to “the farm” ourselves, if you catch my drift.

Husband: Hey, you can kasher tongs after you use them to pick up a dead rat, right?
Me: Yes, in hellfire.

No, he wouldn’t do that. Yes, I’m only partially sure it’s because he knows that even though I might not see it, I would know, and I would divorce him and nobody in their right mine wants to marry a dad with four kids who live with them full-time. See, we have a deal–whoever causes the divorce takes the kids. That’s how we stay happily married folk. We adore our little offspring like nothing in this world, but the thought of taking care of them completely on our own is so indescribably horrific, that’s it’s keep us predominately on the straight and narrow since the beginning of our journey into parenthood almost 13 years ago.

Of course there have been some very close calls, I admit. Like the time I decided to take smoking back up for a night at the 9:30 club. What can I say? It smelled good and I couldn’t resist. I borrowed one and lit up in the girl’s room like a catholic school girl (or you know, like ’80s rock band music videos claim they do), and when I came out smelling even smokier than I went in there smelling, my husband wasn’t too enthused. I believe it was the only time he gave me the silent treatment.

And let’s not forget the time I nearly ended our marriage on the spot during the infamous bee-spraying of  ’07. Firstly to my husband’s credit, we did have an infestation of super-sized Big Mac hornets that had made themselves a little town in the house above our apartment. And in truth we did contact out landlords (who also happen to be my parents, by mere coincidence) various times in an attempt to get the matter resolved before it got to this point. But, like with most slum lords, this issue was left until the last possible moment and the bees had over-taken first our backyard, then our porch and believe it or not, those little hellions actually tried to wage war on our house.  After the heat of the day when they would dive at us as we tried to run from the house to the car, they would then start slamming full-speed in our windows and door, trying to get in. They were about a foot long (okay 3 inches) and the stinger was like *this* huge. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself.

In a moment of stupidity I made a run for the car to get something and I left the kitchen door open. Meanwhile my husband walks in to find three hornets buzzing around our kitchen in circles, trying to find someone to kill. He grabs a fly swatter, but they are angry and fast and the swatter suddenly seems deceptively small. So he starts spraying them with water to wet their wings and disable them in order to knock them to the floor so he can beat them with the swatter.
Into this chaos I calmly walk, without a clue what is going on. My husband is mad, and serious and spraying bees and I’m like,

“hey, honey, whatchadoin’?”

and he’s all “I’m killing these effing bees because you left the effing door open!!”

and I’m all like “Wow is it ever wet in here! But, it’s a good idea to spray them with water! I wouldn’t have thought of that!”

and he’s all “it’s not water,. It’s insecticide.”

Dum dum dum.

And I looked around my kitchen, you know, the place where I prepare organic foods for my organic children–one of which is on the spectrum, mind you and who I have worked tirelessly to keep away from any sort chemicals–and there is insecticide covering every inch of it. EVERY INCH. My walls, my cabinets, my bread bags, my casserole dishes that were drying on rack, the dishes in the sink, the counter tops, the floors, the towels, the fridge door, the fruit bowl and fruit, the food I hadn’t put away from dinner, and my beloved frog canisters that I bought at a yard sale. I loved those canisters, people. Well as much as one can love a canister.

I scream. Shriek. “STOOOOOPPPPP!!!” and I burst into tears. And I just started throwing everything that is on my counter tops into the trash can. And realizing that I am suddenly ten times as angry at him as he ever was at me over those damn bees, he just stops.

“You just sprayed nuerotoxins over out entire kitchen!” I am so angry. So angry. Hell hath no furry like a women whose kitchen is sprayed with nuerotoxic bug spray.

My mom comes down and she sees what has happened and she doesn’t say a word to either of us. She just starts cleaning up. And my husband just stands there wondering were he will sleep tonight, because he knows it sure as hell isn’t going to be in our house.

And I’m pretty sure there was an earth quake in Asia and that a volcano erupted on an island somewhere south of here because the earth couldn’t hold of of my anger (sorry, about that guys.)

And the bees hid, shaking in their little patent leather bee shoes.

Somehow, eventually, I forgave him. I mean I went on to have two more kids with him, so we must have called a truce at some point. And my landlord (still my mama) got the hive removed professionally, and the bees left willingly, happily. They actually offered to fly the hive to a new location themselves, if I recall.

I think it’s pretty safe to bet that he will not be using my tongs to pick up a dead rat.

 

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