Mumbling Madly

Mysterious happenings abound. A full carton of eggs vanished from my refrigerator and I can’t get over it. This particular carton was being saved for a large egg casserole I was planning on making for my brunchy birthday party. Straight out of the Relief Society cookbook, this casserole calls for a 32 oz bag of frozen hashbrowns, 1/2 pound of cubed ham, 2 cups of cheese, 1 whole onion, and a dozen eggs. It is presumed to be a delicious, gooey, mess and exactly what I know most party guests secretly hope for. Oh sure, we politely eat from the veggie and hummus tray, but what we really crave is starch and dairy: i.e. The Breakfast Casserole, (and maybe some mimosas to wash it down).

A month ago I made a latte for myself in an old, chipped mug I had purchased eight years ago in a Las Vegas gift shop. It’s terrible cheesy, a collage of playing cards, chips, and Vegas icons decorate the exterior. The cup is small and was purchased for only a dollar…I bought it because I had recently committed to drinking coffee and needed more mugs in my kitchen. I found a much better souvenir mug a day later, one that read “I Heart Las Vegas” in simple script. That mug is now missing and its not-so-attractive twin is still around. Or at least it was…the mug plus latte went missing for a full 24 hours before it resurfaced in the cupboard.

I had made my special coffee drink right before putting the baby down for his morning nap. The latte would be my reward for the sometimes 1/2 hour ordeal of talking my son into sleeping via rocking, nursing, bouncing, and generally cajoling him into closing his eyes. When I returned to the kitchen the drink was gone. I checked everywhere a simple mug could be found: cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, the living room. Reluctantly, I made a second drink. Surely, the latte would appear in a funny place, right? My house isn’t that big, I rarely go upstairs anymore, retracing my steps was simple (from kitchen to baby’s bedroom and back again).

A few days later, the mug reappeared, washed, and clean in the cupboard with the rest of its muggy kin. “Oh, I probably found it and put it away,” my husband said, which I found very, very hard to believe. Josh is notorious for leaving his dishes strewn around the house. Wouldn’t he take note of a full cup of coffee lying around? Besides, he’s more likely to let dishes lie.

Perhaps we have a late-in-coming ghost who likes children and has recently resurfaced now that we have a baby in the house. Many of you might recall my initial concern that our house might be haunted when we first moved in. Built in 1916, I often wonder about the house’s history from a trim little Craftsman built in the middle of nowhere during the early part of the 20th century to a dilapidated mess with an illegal Auto Repair business in the backyard (circa mid 1990’s). Surely, someone has died in this house or had someone die in their life and POOF, that ghost was hiding out until just the right moment.

This ghost is good natured…simply hiding items is certainly better then haunting us or terrorizing us in our dreams. Perhaps this ghost is what has kept us safe as the pesky neighborhood crime whispers around us: cars stolen, occasional windows smashed, graffiti tagged, the scariest of stats ebbing and flowing on the Seattle Neighborhood Association’s interactive map. I’ve long thought the irritating pair of chihuahuas next door have kept our house remarkably safe–no one wants to waste time breaking in with a pair of ratty dogs screeching at the top of their lungs a few feet away.

But perhaps, it’s been a spirit all along. One that enjoys playing little tricks. Perhaps this ghost is not used to me being home all day long, day in, day out…the dreaded ’stay-at-home Mom’ title sneaking up on me every now and then. (But I’m not! I teach 2 classes a week and perform regularly). Maybe this ghost is a mother who hides in the kitchen and is baffled by my constant attempts at culinary excellence. From homemade ice cream to fancy cupcakes, I spend hours in my kitchen. My son plays on the floor, gnawing on a pair of measuring spoons, while I whisk and stir. I pound out the fear that someone will swoop in unannounced, ready to steal our belongings and run off with my child. I beat eggs furiously, grate cheese with protective gusto and chase the fear away.

But somewhere, I know, there are a carton of eggs just waiting to be found, right? There just has to be…I know I bought them.

At 6am my husband greeted me on my way to the bathroom. He had been sleeping on the couch but had his laptop open. My new found, pregnancy-induced, snoring problem had provoked him to find new places to sleep. We embraced before I shivered out of his arms and into the bathroom. Sleeping has become so strange, challenging in a bizarre way, unlike any insomnia or apnea I’ve ever faced. “What’s wrong?” I asked him on my way back. “Are you sleeping here?” “Oh, I’m just around,” he said. And I went back to bed.

When I got up at 7:30am, Josh was still on the couch with his laptop open. He stood up to greet me. I asked, “What’s wrong? I know something is wrong.” Josh smiled sheepishly, “Well, there’s a drunk guy sleeping on our porch.” “What? No way,” I said. “Really? What? Wait…he has to go! Did you call the police? He needs to leave…I’m pregnant.” Josh explained that the fellow seemed harmless and that he was keeping an eye on him. “I think it’s best if he just sleeps it off,” Josh said wisely. I went to the bathroom feeling disturbed. “Where’s our camera?” Josh asked. “I want to take a picture of him while he’s sleeping.”

When I came to the living room, Josh was peering out the window, “Look! He’s getting up and leaving.” Sure enough…the drunken man was swaying his way down our steps and down the front yard. We half expected him to go across the street where all the day laborers live but instead he walked up the street. “Follow him!” I said, “If he lives nearby that explains everything.” Josh threw on shoes and disappeared out the back door into the rainy, dark, morning. I sat waiting for him, tired and floating on the strange cloud that is pregnancy in the third trimester.

When Josh returned he explained it to me: At 5am he heard all sorts of banging around. When he investigated he found a very drunk, heavily hiccuping, man rearranging our porch furniture. He watched as the fellow carefully stacked all of our plastic chairs, folded the plastic table neatly and placed it next to the pile. Then he rearranged everything, pulled apart the stack, then put it all back together, perching the table on the top. After admiring his work, he took both of our doormats and laid them out like a little bed, curled up on top of them, and fell asleep. The first thought was that he was from across the street and thought that this was his house. Or maybe he was at a party and he couldn’t make it home. “When I followed him, he was walking purposely away from the neighborhood…I don’t think he’s from around here. Or maybe he is…it’s a mystery.”

I made Josh examine the front porch for any signs of urination or vomit. It came out clean. Then we reassessed the situation. Should the police have been called? If it had been me who found a drunk man rearranging our porch furniture at 5am in the morning, most certainly. But Josh was relaxed about the whole situation. “I dealt with so many drunk men in Brazil,” He said. “Most of the time they’re so out of it that they’re really no threat at all. You should have heard the sound of this guy’s hiccups! I just hung out in the living room and kept an eye on him.” Wow. Josh also said he knew if he confronted the fellow it would be kinda messy and loud. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” He said reasonably. “I’m actually surprised this sort of thing hasn’t happened sooner,” I admitted. “If it becomes a regular thing then, yes, we’ll call the police next time,” Josh promised.

That evening we came back from our amazing co-ed baby shower exhausted and happy. I went straight to our front window and checked our front porch. No sleeping drunk man. I even checked this morning. Nothing. Just a figment, a strange experience, rare but strangely typical of the south side.

Spent the weekend in the yard…of course, right? The neglected southwest corner of our property lies in wait for a future shed. Originally we envisioned a handcrafted wooden shed with shingles and paint. Now we laugh at our naivete. Wood sheds are devoured in this weather by rain, rot, and the elements. They’re also a hell of a lot of work to build. While it isn’t the most attractive alternative, our research has shown: plastic is best.

So we rented a truck and hauled dirt and pea gravel from Sayers fuel. On Sunday we made a dump trip. In earnest attempt to carve out a place for a shed, we starting digging–only to find bags of garbage buried in the yard. Every now and then the cagey, dilapidated, history of our house sneaks into our lives. We know that at one point our little house was probably left for dead, pulled out of destruction by our neighbors who invested in it during a time when the market was good. We also know that whoever drove it to the state of abandon had a fondness for doritos, m&ms, and cans of shasta. Beneath the soil lies layers of waste, broken glass, wrappers, midst a secret stash of garbage bags hidden under the weeds. No wonder grass never grows on this side of the property! How were we to know we had a dump buried in our backyard?

“It’s as if our house is a cleaned up whore–nice and clean now but hidden away is a secret past,” I said. “Our house has baggage.” We can’t think of anything better then to dig out what we can, cover the ground with sand and pea gravel, and then plop a shed on top. But when we arrive at Costco, the shed we had finally settled on was gone. Sold out. I was devastated having rented the truck to haul it off and everything. With sadness, Josh and I left Costco with nothing but dinner: a hotdog, a piece of pizza, and a very berry sundae to split. We found a picnic table at the edge of the parking lot, right near the Costco Employee Evacuation Site, and ate our food in the fading sun.

The weekend brought sun and continual yard work. The front bushes are slowly being cut down, leaving nothing but little stumps. Inside the bushes emerges a plethora of garbage: a baby doll torso, a flat rubber ball, a styrofoam take-out container, wrappers from every type of food imaginable. The question is: what to do with this huge long piece of our property sans bushes? It bumps right up to the sidewalk, leaving us wide open and exposed. The poll begins: Build a small fence or plant new bushes? Or both? I initially felt that a fence would appear unfriendly. Oh sure, we would make sure it was a cute, low, nice looking fence with a gate and a bit of security. Our street is covered with ugly houses being held back by unattractive chain link (wouldn’t it be lovely if some good-Samaritan fence company offered to pull all the chain link out of the hood and replace it with nicer looking fences?) The other option is to plant new, fast growing, shrubs that would serve the same purpose as the old bushes: protect and provide a natural barrier between sidewalk and lawn. This would probably be a little cheaper. The advantage to a fence is that it would be at least one part of our property that would be fenced in–perfect to keep a dog or a kid out of the street. The advantage to shrubs is that it would probably be cheaper, a little less work, and better curb appeal. Well, any opinions out there?

House Update:

Rats gone. After the two were zapped sequentially, the others seemed to have vacated. We even set up traps under the house (not the electric zapper but mean, outdoor, traps with jaws), poison bate stations, and secured the perimeter with dirt and pea gravel. Nothing. Not a trace. The rats have fled.

We played in mud last weekend. It reminded me of being a kid and playing in the large mud puddle near the side of our house in my brand new sundress (I had rationalized that the washing machine would clean the dress–a fact my mom dashed when she explained that the white would never be the same again). Lack of proper drainage, grass gone from the scars of the new sewer system, and a typical wet spring has left certain parts of our yard a soupy mess. Ponds have formed in all sorts of places. We dug small ditches, filled them with gravel, pulled up grass, and rerouted drain spouts. We slipped and slid in the fresh mud. I got dirtier then Josh.

Today we replaced one of our back gutters. It was broken and moss filled, providing ill drainage on the back of our mud room. The roof on the addition is not very high, but I’m still not keen on climbing to the top of the ladder. I did my part by supporting the gutter from the ground with a push broom in the air. It took a lot of team work.

I think I’m going to sleep well tonight.

Update: After switching on the trap, re-aiming the camera, and sprinkling the new site with cheese, Josh settled in with his laptop and a beer. Within ten minutes, the rats started showing up live on the screen. And within fifteen minutes Josh witnessed his first trap induced rat death. The witness (Josh) reported the rat climbing all over the box, sniffing around for extra cheese, cautious and concerned but throwing it all to hell and crawling inside…a flash of light and the dark cavern of the trap went still. Because he saw it live, because he had been caught up in the technology and the science of it all, Josh failed to recognize the emotional component. He immediately plunged into a state of deep guilt. This is a man who has always been against the death penalty, and I thought of that as he struggled with the moral implications of sentencing a rat to die. Luckily, the disposal was brief–only a glimpse of the skinny tail dangling out of the box–and the rat was quickly double bagged. Today is garbage day so the rat corpse will only linger in the can for a short period of time. It will be the first of many, I’m sure. I know our skins will thicken, our hearts will harden, but the thrill of rat cam has lessened.

I found Josh sitting on the floor, computer on his lap, the horizontal door leading to the unfinished attic lying wide open. My cat was pacing back and forth, not allowed to enter the attic for reasons we couldn’t really identify. The attic was strewn with pulled out insulation, rat turds lining the floor. Josh was trying some camera software and it was failing. A few days later he found a way to set it all up: the twinkling light of our old touch lamp illuminated the attic with a soft light, cheese littered the attic floor, and the the rat cam sat poised and ready to record. You could check the rat cam at any time during the day via internet. Then Josh figured out how to make the camera take a picture whenever it sensed movement. It’s an old house, and the camera went off fairly frequently with the ebbs and floes of the creaky attic. Almost a week went by and the camera remained empty of action.

Until a few days ago:

And most incriminate:

Bam. Multiple pictures of rats scampering around, running up the sides of the wall, eating food, and probably defecating. My Mom saw these pictures and commented on the really nice restaurant atmosphere of the attic: chandelier lighting, food, the only thing missing was some soft music. Now it ends…now we know there are indeed rats (not squirrels or any other live animal) and their cute little lives must tragically end. That’s right…now that we’ve gained their trust, it’s time to switch on the Rat Zapper.

Arrivederci, mio piccolo ratto amico…

While trimming the beautiful, flowering, bush in our front yard–the one that eloquently covers part of our bedroom window–Josh found a cane. It’s a standard, wood, old man-type of cane. He claims it was just hanging on a branch inside the bush. Where did this cane come from? Did some man hide it in our bush only to forget about it later? Perhaps it fell out of the second story window and landed inside the bush. I’ve found small children’s toys, girl’s barrettes, and broken dishes in the gutter and inside the soil below the second story window. A cane is an entirely new find.

The cane is now hanging on our metal stair banister leading up to our front porch. It serves as our talisman, protecting us from the uncertainty we feel in this neighborhood. Random bursts of mysterious gunfire, unfounded, usually with no targets but a random house, have plagued the south end for the past few months. When I am in my darkest moments, usually in the middle of the night, when I am unable to sleep, I calculate the foolish position of our bed. It sits right in front of the house, right near the front window, an easy path. My body is the closest to the wall, therefore, closest to the street. I have unwittingly offered myself up as a human shield for my husband, although not my cat–she rests beside me. Ah, so the cat would be the buffer if a mysterious round of bullets were to hail down upon the house. Or, wait, no…the flowering bush in front of our bedroom window would deflect gunfire first. But is that even possible? And then my mind scolds myself for being so morbid. I make half-hearted calculations in my head about the likelihood that our house would ever be involved in a drive-by. I say half-hearted because my math is poor and instead of some sort of million to one ratio, my mind usually conjures some sort of mental pie chart showing a tiny sliver of chance in the corner of the pie.

“How did I GET here?” I sometimes wonder late at night. “How did I end up in a place where calculating my risk of gunfire is even plausible?” Sure, we made this choice back when the neighborhood was transitioning instead of slowly sliding backward. My secret enjoyment of drama allows me to entertain such deliciously terrible fantasies of danger and gunfire. But my sense of adventure is not appeased…I want quiet and peace. And that’s when my mind shifts into sleep and the wooden cane hanging from my banister dangles throughout the quiet, undisturbed night.

Went to Costco for D batteries for the electronic rat traps…they didn’t have them! So, I ended up purchasing a flat of 15 primroses and 11 pounds of soil. At first I was hesitant because my yard is ugly with scars from the new sewer. However, I decided it shouldn’t deter my desire for beauty every time I go outside, or get into my car, or look out my window.

When I got home, I talked my cat into joining me outside. I had this fantasy of her prowling around while I planted all of my new flowers. Instead she sulked, occasionally skulked around, until finally she met me at the front door and begged to be let back inside. (Damn, cat…43 degrees isn’t that cold! It was even sunny!). The neighborhood was oddly quiet, with only the occasional bird chirp, and my backyard neighbor wordlessly working on his own lawn.

It took 45 minutes, several planters, and quite a lot of clean up but my flowers are planted. And they look beautiful.

With sewer problems come rat problems…they go hand-in-hand, don’t you know? So last Saturday, despite feeling heavy colds in our chests, Josh and I sealed off entrances on our roof. The old house was built in 1914, so there are places where the wood sags, the paint barely holds, and the little vermin cheerfully stroll into our crawl space. There is evidence they’re hanging under the house too, cute little holes being dug under the baseboards and insulation pulled down. A week ago we saw a huge rat scuttle across our alley way and dive into a patch of homey blackberries. YUCK!

Before sealing off the entrances, Josh researches ways to kill rats. He rejects poison (they die in the walls), glue traps (they die struggling to death against the powerful grip of glue), and old-school traps (they snap their little necks half the time, the other half they steal the food right out of the trap). It’s with a certain thrill that Josh chooses the T-REX RAT TRAP. Loaded up with C batteries, the cage lures the rat in and then ZAPS it to death. The problem is that neither McLindons or Home Depot carry it–despite being on their respective websites. (And by the way, it’s true about Home Depot: with economic doom nipping at their heels their customer service has never been so grand!) We decide to order the rat zapper online.

In the meantime, Josh is on the roof, upside down, with a big piece of mesh and a staple gun. My hands are numb, my feet are blue, the weather threatens snow. I can’t quite conceive of throwing my leg over the ladder and landing on the roof. Instead I perch on a rung, carefully going up an extra step, trying to rationalize away my fear. (After all, I used to climb trees as a girl, surely this height isn’t any higher then the fir tree out back?) I hand Josh tools, measurements, make notes. Our neighborhood seems loud, filled with bass that Saturday afternoon, and unfriendly. We look at our house with resignation, this wasn’t a house we thought we would be in for very long, the market wasn’t suppose to turn out this way. Now rats have moved in and we are unwilling roommates.

Before getting on the roof, before looking at rat traps, before freezing our extremities, Josh and I surveyed the destroyed bushes in our front yard. Yanked up by the roots when replacing the sewer line, an entire overgrown bush lay on our lawn. I had dismantled most of it and stuffed the branches in our yard waste bin a little at a time. Now Josh was pulling on what was left, and it was clearly rotten. In a matter of minutes a second bush lay next to the first. I didn’t think it was possible for our front yard to look any uglier. But then our inner landscapers came out; soon we were making plans, imagining a small retaining wall with flowers, rose bushes lining the ugly chain link fence that line our property, and dirt being delivered for new grass to grow. It suddenly seemed very appropriate to yank out these ugly front bushes. Besides, one of them was dead, it would have fallen over eventually, leaving us with this ugly yard. Sometimes, it’s just meant to be…