At Least This Tuesday Is Better Than Last Tuesday…But That Wasn’t Hard To Do

This is about last Tuesday, which was a weirder last Tuesday than most.

While watching the latest shenanigans thrust upon us by the rat bastard in the white house, politics on TV while recovering from an allergic reaction to a drug, another rat— a real one—ran right past the doorway of the room I was sitting in.

Listen, I am partially to blame but only partially. You see, I left the door to the back deck open like I have for the last gazillion years to let the early evening breeze inside. But alas, it seems that the back deck is now the latest local real estate to be taken over by the rats.

It all started three years ago when several neighbors to the south of us decided it get rid of the ivy that covered their back fences.

Well, since I have bougainvillea, not ivy, I was left blindsided by this hostile act. The rats, being well, rats, just packed up and moved north to the thornier side of the street. They don’t give a shit about thorns. Thorns leave scars that make them look badass. At least that’s what I imagine because why else would you leave the comfort of ivy to live in fucking bougainvillea?! Who does that?!

Wouldn’t you keep moving and look for a more hospitable habitat?

If it seems like I’ve given this too much thought—I have. It ’s what I do while I lay in bed at night as they scare the dog, drink out of the fountain and have loud, vocal, thorny sex on my back fence.

So back to me. I was pretty out of it due to my funky drug reaction.

But I could still see it out of the corner of my eye as it scampered past the open door. I don’t want to say scamper because it makes the rat seem cute but I can’t help it—it fucking scampered. It was somewhere between a skip and a hop. God help me, it was a scamper.

My immediate reaction was to bellow in my most threatening voice, “Get outta here!” like you do when the dog eyeballs the last piece pizza or your toddler opens the door while you’re trying to poop in peace. But the rat’s reaction was exactly like the same as the toddler’s and the dogs. Total indifference.

It ignored me and then a few minutes later ran past the doorway again in the opposite direction.

What is it with rats these day? They’re so shameless and entitled—like millennials. They don’t squeeze through tiny openings or only come in the house once it’s dark and quiet. Nope. They brazenly walk past a fully lit room with the TV blaring and a bat-shit crazy woman lying on the couch.

This time, filled with adrenaline, I overcame the drug-fueled lightheadedness and bolted for the door. “Get the fuck outta here you fucking rat!” I yelled down the hallway as it hightailed it toward the back deck and the open door to freedom. No longer scampering, it was in a full sprint—but so was I—right behind it—stomping my feet and yelling like a crazy person. Down the hall it ran and with the safety of the open door straight ahead of it, it got flustered. It zigged when it should have zagged—and it chose our bedroom instead.

“Nooooo!” I yelled at the top of my lungs still in close pursuit, “Not the bedroom!” (Said in that low, slow motion kind of voice.) I swear, its little rodent face looked back at me with a mixture of fear and defiance as it made a beeline for our bedroom and ran straight under our bed.

“NO! NOT THE BEEEEDDDDD!!!” I screamed, stopping just short of running under there with it.

Remember…I’m not right.

Earlier that afternoon I called my friend who has a nursing background because I was freaking out (and because I love her and wanted her voice to be the last one I heard before I died) and my husband came racing home in the middle of the day because I was dizzy, my heart was racing, my mouth was numb and I wasn’t making any sense. Well, less sense than normal.

So, to recap, just a few hours before I was one ambulance ride away from the ER and now I find myself jumping up and down on the bed to scare a rat back outside.

It didn’t work.

Out of breath and feeling worse than ever, I finally accepted defeat, slunk back into the den, and collapsed on the couch. I decided I’d let Raphael and Ruby take care of Ratatouille when they got home.

Twenty minutes later the rat scampered by the den again. This time he was gloating.

All I had the strength to do was yell. “Get Outta here! If I see you again, well…” But after the bedroom debacle, anything I said felt like an idle threat.

The little fucker ran back and forth past the den door three more times until it must have realized how sadistic it was being and ran back to the other three rats on the deck who I swear were playing cards for money.

Until the exterminator we have on salary gets to the bottom of this suburban rat infestation no more open doors at night.

Rats 1
Janet 0

This isn’t over!

Carry on,
xox

PS: I made Raphael check under the bed before I could sleep that night. He thinks the way I yell at the rats is hysterical, it took me hours to get that damn drug out of my system, and I heard a trap go off the next night up in the attic.

I suppose that should make me feel better.

It doesn’t.