Eek!

Apparently I am afraid of mice.

But if I am allowed to elaborate, I might suggest that I am rather Not Pleased With Having a Mouse in My Apartment. I have glimpsed numerous mice while staying at a farmhouse in Vermont, and one can hear the mice scrambling through the walls of my parents' rural home. But roaming through my apartment in Queens? Not Okay.

A few weeks ago my son, age 2.75, announced, "I saw a mouse" while pointing to the radiator in the kitchen. Neither Mr. Apparently nor I saw any mouse and we chalked it up to toddler imagination (knowing the odds were decent that this was willful self-deception on our collective part). But last Wednesday night I walked into the kitchen to discover a little brown mouse scrambling furiously up the back of the stove. I calmly put down the plant I had intended to water, walked to the bathroom where my son was being bathed, and announced, "There's a mouse in the kitchen." By the time Mr. A arrived to investigate, our little visitor had disappeared.

Mr. A used the top rhetorical skills in his considerable arsenal to convince me that this very small rodent was here by accident and didn't want to be in my kitchen any more than I wanted him (the mouse) there. I remained squicked-out and tense. And then we went on vacation for four days. leaving explicit instructions with the building's management to let the exterminator into our apartment and deal with the little...pest. This did not happen.*

I returned to find mouse droppings on my counter, and I flipped out. You can rest assured that my kitchen has since been thoroughly disinfected, phone calls made and plans set afoot. Holes will be plugged and humane traps will be set. By tomorrow my home should be a fully-mouseproof zone.

But strangest of all to me? My own reaction. I didn't exactly get up on a chair and flail my arms about, but I've pretty much accomplished the 2010 version.

My cat, by the way, is useless.

*Isn't it required that people who live in apartment buildings provide a set of keys to the building management? I have always done so, and I've always known that in the case of an emergency - fire or massive water leak or something along those lines - the the super has the right to enter my apartment. Apparently in my building they are in possession of a scant handful of keys, a fact I first learned during the Great Upstairs Water Leak of 2009. The management company, when asked, just shrugged it off with "people aren't always very cooperative."

Neither Rain nor Sleet nor Snow

Gas is $4.59/gallon. The temperature is below 70. What kind of trip to
Florida is this?

Watch Out, Arthur Danto

photo by bshort

Stuff I've Made This Week

One messenger bag (still needs a buckle), from The New Handmade

Two baby hats

Four pinwheel bobby pins

And sadly, one square for a memorial quilt

All I Ever Wanted

We're on vacation! That's right, at this very moment (or the moment this post goes live, anyway), we'll be flying down the Eastern seaboard to visit B's parents in sunny Florida.

Unsure whether I'll have computer access in the Sunshine State, I've put together the first installment of a web round-up. Here's what's caught my eye lately.

Apparently, I Like This

Modern Page Flags from See Jane Work

In the absence of the late Gourmet magazine, Gourmet Unbound

Pants for kids and parents by Matt Brown

True Up, my favorite source for fabric news

Toddler Math, or Let's Play in the Snow

The walk from our apartment to preschool is five blocks. A healthy adult can make this walk in five minutes, or perhaps six if one observes all traffic signals. A healthy adult walking with a curious toddler, however, can make this walk in fifteen minutes at best, and that's if the lights cooperate, as we stop for every one. Short legs plus an affinity for asking questions about each truck, bird and sound makes for a chilly journey in winter weather. So usually we take the stroller to school. And let's be honest: this is for the boy's mother's comfort. He's happy to play in the cold.

This morning, however, we woke to a rare bit of snow.

And so I bundled us both up and we walked to school.

Plus, I Have to Make My Own Coffee

Old news, but new to me: according to Salary.com, if stay-at-home mothers were paid the equivalent of their professional counterparts in child care, cleaning, cooking, and all of the other tasks demanded of the role, we would earn ~$134,121 annually. That number represents 91.6 hours each week. Let's be more precise here and remove the laundry machine operator and (most of) van driver from my particular equation - that's still more hours than I ever spent as a corporate strategist. That said, I enjoy my colleagues and the dress code is more relaxed.