surprise, surprise

Okay, so what rhyme scheme do you think is used for the Wikipedia entry on iambic pentameter?

Carl Kasel on my home answering machine

It's been too long.

Months ago at a silent auction, I purchased the opportunity to have Carl Kasel's voice on my voice mail.

Carl, who the WSJ describes as "the National Public radio newscaster and the judge/scorekeeper/second banana on NPR's weekly call-in quiz show" usually offers his voice as a prize for winners.

But the pressure ... this is such a great opportunity, and I lack inspiration for what to ask him to say.

Please send ideas my way.

phantom mice and others

I still remember the first time I realized I had roommates that didn't pay rent.

 

It was the early part of 2003, after a snowstorm so bad that it destroyed the roof of the B&O railroad museum's roundhouse. I was sitting at my dining table, reading, when I glimpsed something scurrying out of the corner of my eye.

 

My feet left the floor. My thoughts, however, went to my landlord. Mom had read a clause in my lease indicating that I would be responsible for any "vermin" in my apartment. So I called Don.

 

Don, in his characteristically pleasant and sing-songy voice, explained that rodents often moved in when it snowed because they had a hard time finding water and other necessities. He mentioned peanut butter would be good bait for the traps he'd leave for me. Because, you see, "if you've seen Mickey, then Minnie's not far behind," he chirped. 

 

I suddenly had a vision of human-sized cartoon characters roaming around my house. What's more horrible --- an infestation of Disney legends, or brutally killing said beloved childhood figures?

 

Anyway, I put out the traps but never caught anything other than my own index finger, so I avoided the disposal issues that friend and frequent commenter Maliavale is dealing with.* But the problem continues, with the occasional mouse darting across the kitchen or jumping off the metal shelf unit where I keep snacks.

 

Now, I grew up in a city and have endured my share of roaches and other urban insects without too much distress, but I hate mice. My fear of rodents stems from an unshaking belief that these mammals harbor some sort of grudge against me --- for being large, for being loud, for past transgressions against their brethren**... what I'm saying is, these guys might have a justifiable desire to claw my eyes out and sink their perpetually growing incisor teeth into my soft flesh.

 

So super-early Christmas morning, when I got home after work and midnight mass and dinner and baking cookies, I had gotten into bed and was trying to fall asleep when I heard ... something. Something like little teeth and claws chewing on a paper bag in the kitchen -- perhaps the bag with the cookies I had brought back home after my impromptu baking party! I thought for a moment and decided I did not want to share my snacks.

 

I got up, turned on the light in my room and grabbed one of the Redhead's slippers. I stood in my bedroom doorway and looked across the hall at the kitchen. There was a bag near the stove, but had the mouse had chewed a hole in the bottom or had it had fallen/jumped in? If it had jumped in, maybe it would jump out if I went to pick up the bag.

 

I got an idea: as I lobbed the slipper at the bag I dived back onto my bed --- just in case the mouse decided to dart back into my room, for some reason. Then I waited there for a few moments on my hands and knees, listening. I heard something -- perhaps the sounds of teeth chewing on the cookie container, perhaps just a creak as I shifted my weight.

 

Another attack was in order. I put on an old pair of shoes, to protect my exposed toes, and hefted one of the Redhead's boots, still wrapped in a plastic bag from our trip to Boston. I threw it at the bag, again, and again ran to the bed.

 

That's when I remembered there were no cookies in the kitchen, actually --- I had left them in the trunk of my car.

*This is no longer true, as of 12:05 p.m. Dec. 27.

**addendum, not for the squeamish: In college, during the six-week-long experiment of my required neuro lab course, an indulgent partner allowed me to avoid contact with my rat for a really long time. For example, I didn't have to swing the rat in a circle*** to confuse it so it wouldn't freak out when we injected it with drugs before we put it in a little harness to measure how many times it turned right or left -- she took care of that.

 

It wasn't until after we had anesthetized them, and cut open their scalps, and used a dental drill to make a hole in their skulls, and injected a poison to make a lesion in its brain, and then stapled its scalp back together with something that looked like a binder clip, that I had to touch the rat.  

 

It lay there splayed out under a warming lamp, breathing softly, with the metal staple lifting the folds of skin like a mohawk on its head. After it came out of sedation the rat had to go back into its regular cage with access to water, but indulgent friend had to go to class. When it started to stir, I carried the plexiglass container into the locked room where the animals were kept and put it down on a table. I started talking to it, saying things more to reassure myself for the task at hand.

 

Then I heard something to my left, from the bank of cages. I turned and saw another rat, also stapled, poking its head ON TOP of one of the cages -- not inside, where it belonged. And that's when I ran away.

 

Flight instincts kicked in because I knew that that rat was coming to get me. Wouldn't you resent one of the humans who had literally messed with your head?

 

I ran to the student center and the library and the computer center, hunting for someone in my lab or who had taken it before, who could help me with my plight. Finally I found an Emily who was a TA and she said comforting things and came with me back to the lab and she put both rats away.

 

***addendum to the addendum: We didn't swing them by their tails; the lab partner would hold the rat so that it kept its front legs folded across its chest and would not be able to bite. It's not as mean as it sounds.

 

postscript: yes, I was the worst neuroscience major ever.

 

A final note: I really like cats. I don't like birds. I don't like the way they move.

Boston is not Baltimore

Why do things like this happen in Boston and not in Baltimore?

On second thought, I'm not sure whether I want to be clubbed by soft objects in the cold.

Especially when things like this happen here.

As The Sun says (fourth item), it's nice that they put up a barrier so people don't splashed with paint.

saving water

Some of these tips you probably know ...  I'm not sure about the one I've quoted below, however.

"Don't pour cooking water down the drain. Water from pasta, vegetables, rice and potatoes can be saved in the refrigerator for a couple of days and used for soup. That captures flavor and water-soluble vitamins and minerals, too. (Potato cooking water is great for making bread.)"

I like the idea of reusing the water, but I'm not sure I make soup often enough for this to make sense.

When I have the resources to build a dream house out of something other than LEGOs, it will have a grey water system that will reroute wastewater from drains into the toilets so that I'm not flushing away drinkable liquids. But until then, I'll just continue to overwater my house plants.

happy news

The city of Baltimore will now accept more plastic through its recycling program! Yes, of course we should reduce our waste and reuse what we can, but hopefully this will encourage more people to sort their trash. I'm glad that my yogurt cups will be reincarnated into something else!

If you live in an apartment and your landlord does not recycle, you can find a location to drop off your items here .

the Urban Word of the Day

makes me laugh and laugh and laugh.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: <daily@urbandictionary.com >
Date: Dec 4, 2007 7:00 AM
Subject: Urban Word of the Day: Hobosexual

Urban Word of the Day
www.urbandictionary.com

December 04, 2007: Hobosexual

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Hobosexual&defid=1179918

Adjective. The opposite of metrosexual; one who cares little for one's own appearance.

Examples: Michael Moore, Peter Jackson.
First documented hobosexual - John the Baptist.

Vote early and often

Laura Vozzella (third item) writes that HGTV is offering a "municipal makeover" for cities like Baltimore --- but it's just one Northeast Baltimore neighborhood, Pen Lucy, that's in contention for sprucing.

Mayor says to vote as often as you want

Remember when big-city mayors looked to Washington for money? Today, they turn to HGTV.

Sheila Dixon is urging residents to stuff the ballot box in a Home and Garden Television municipal makeover contest.

"You can help bring some much-needed support and attention to our wonderful city by voting for Baltimore!" the mayor exclaimed in a news release.

The network is offering makeovers to four cities in its "Change the World, Start at Home" contest. Baltimore is one of 10 finalists. If the city wins, HGTV won't doll up all of Charm City, but it will help pay for a revitalization project in Pen Lucy.

(Details about the project and how much HGTV would contribute were not immediately available.)

Dixon is encouraging residents to vote early and often at www.hgtv.com. HGTV allows anyone to vote once a day until the contest concludes Dec. 21.

So the network cares more about Web traffic than representative democracy. At least it's got some money for cities.