Infested or Guess whats for dinner?

GuestPostpalooza continues with the return of Julie from JulieCGardner.com Do give her lots of love would ya?

Today call me infested. Ah, yes. This morning I awoke again to the pitter patter of tiny feet scampering frantically around my attic; and much as I may I wish to claim Now, this is a new predicament! we’ve been struggling with unwanted occupants since we moved into our home nine years ago.

While the SOLD sign still loomed in our yard, I’d lie in bed listening to the intermittent burrowing of claws above my head. Scrape. Dig. Scraaaatch. Initially, I allowed myself to imagine we were being visited by, say, a friendly squirrel. Escaped from a Disney movie, he’d surely join me in a cheerful duet while folding laundry and helping me fashion a ball gown out of the living room drapes. I could really get behind having a squirrel butler, especially with all the unpacking ahead. Perhaps he’d be willing to wear a tiny tuxedo with a hole cut out for his bushy tail. I got a tetanus booster and assured myself all was well.

Before long, however, I had to confront a few flaws in my princess-and-the-squirrel fantasy: First, we didn’t have drapes in our living room and I’ve never been to a ball. Secondly, I leave laundry in the dryer to re-tumble and place directly onto my kids shortly before they leave for school. And finally, I read somewhere that squirrels are actually really really really sucky houseguests. Worse than Ben Franklin’s visitors who, like fish, “stink after three days.” They’re destructive. Messy. Rabid. And they definitely don’t sing. But while I’d been mentally prepared to invite an animated squirrel to tap dance at my party, I remained completely opposed to the RSVP I actually received: from flesh-and-blood rats.

I’ll admit I enjoyed the film Ratatouille. Still. I don’t want Remy (or any other skinny-tailed rodent) anywhere near my house unless he’s whipping up gourmet French cuisine I might pass off to others as my own (and even then I’m fairly certain I could stomach only one serving before the reality that “a rat cooked this” would impel me to wrap up the rest of the meal to grow moldy in my refrigerator.)

So we hired a friendly exterminator to rescue us from our embarrassing problem; but after the better part of a decade of traps, poison, bait boxes, and relentless tree-removal, the pitter patter continues. At present, my master bathroom sports a 12 X 12 inch hole in a spot over our bathtub where a particularly industrious rat managed to claw his way through our wall. Twice. You might think we hired a contractor to patch up the hole correctly. You might be wrong. We, instead, covered it with duct tape- practically an entire roll – but it was cheaper than hiring someone and the results are sure to raise the equity in our home. Besides. No one hangs out there but us and I view the taped hole as alternative art.

The loft is a different story. Years ago, a rat dug through the ceiling above where my kids play video games (or study. or read.) We were out of duct tape at the time, so my husband stuffed the hole full of toilet paper and spackled over it. I wish I were kidding. But I’m not. Over the years, I’ve thought Julie, you may not be big on window treatments, ironing, or disposing of leftovers, but your house is basically clean. How the hell did you end up with rats? Perhaps the open space behind our house or the fields across the street were to blame. Certainly not my housekeeping. In any case, after accidentally rat-poisoning our dog twice, we’ve decided to reluctantly coexist with our rats. And sometimes I wake up to footsteps.

So today I’m coming clean (well, I already was clean. Just infested.) Nevertheless, I hope you will let your children continue to play video games at our house (or study. or read.) And if you dare to come over for dinner, I promise you’ll love the gourmet French cuisine I’ve got bubbling on the stovetop.

Just one serving. Bon appetit.