Move Over Dr. Seuss...

Y'all, I am on struggle street. I have an uninvited houseguest, and he won't leave.
It has 4 legs, weighs about 10 ounces, and has beady eyes and a little tail. It is grey and sinewy, and it's pooping everywhere.
Yes, gentle readers--I have a mouse.

As you know, the blacktress doesn't do manual labor or nature in any form. This would include all of nature's inhabitants--especially rodents and insects. Now, don’t get me wrong—I think animals are cute and lovable and all part of the ecosystem and whatnot. I would never condone killing an animal for sport.
HOW.EV.ER—once you come into my house, you’re on my turf, and I will pull a George W. Bush and “smoke you out of your holes.”
(Well, actually, I’m putting steel wool in their holes, but you get my point.)
I do not fuck around when it comes to rodents and insects—anything that small doesn’t need all those legs unless it’s doing evil. Mice carried the plague, and who knows what they’re bringing in to my house.

I first found out about this mouse a couple weeks ago, when I came home and turned on the kitchen light to find it scampering across the back of the sink. I immediately flipped out, and bought some glue traps. A few days later, I opened the pantry to get baking ingredients (you know the blacktress likes to wifey it up from time to time) and found the little fucker perched on top of my bag of flour, having himself a grand old time. I immediately closed the door and went out for new supplies.

My mom came over the next day and together we tackled the pantry. This mouse sonofabitch had chewed a hole in the bag of flour, leaving the floor covered in a pile of white powder and mouse poop—it smelled like the dance floor at my favorite gay bar after they turned the house lights on at 4am. Madukes and I filled the two holes with steel wool, and put glue traps in the closet. The next day, sounds of an escape attempt convinced us that we’d gotten the little sucker. Later that night, my mother and I (yes, together—she has raised me to be unable to face any sort of rodent without backup) opened the closet to find….NO MOUSE.
The steel wool was across the floor, and there were tufts of fur on one of the glue traps.
This motherfucker is resourceful as hell.

I feel like, if this smart-ass mouse is gonna be up in my home, all strong and wily enough to extricate himself from the trap, he may as well be put to work. I’ve seen Cinderella. I know what these fuckers can do if they put their minds to it. Make me a fucking ball gown and take over my chores if you’re gonna live rent-free, rodents!!!!

It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to go in the kitchen when I get home. Last night I tossed and turned, having dreams of Jewboo’s cats living in my house and trying to kill the mice for me. In my nightmare, the cats were ineffective, and I ended up with both mice AND cats running around everywhere. I cannot live like this!!!

Of course, everytime I say to someone “there’s a mouse in my house” they chuckle and make a Dr. Seuss reference. But there’s nothing funny about this situation, people. It’s like this:

There's a mouse in my house.
And it needs to know I'm not fucking around.
There's mouse poop by the can of soup
And I jump every time I hear a sound.
It ate the flour and made my mood sour
I’m going to have to cut this bitch
I can’t make food in the kitchen, this mouse must be trippin
I’m gonna have to turn into the wicked witch.
Snap traps are inhumane, but glue traps are insane
I wonder if God is putting my “strong black woman” label to the test
I’m about to borrow my man’s cats just so they’ll kill these rats
But getting them from Brooklyn to Harlem will be a hot mess.


(h/t to This Guy)


So, yeah, anyway, that’s what’s going on with the blacktress today. I am way behind on “Sister Wives” as it comes on the same time as Mad Men, and I must forgo reality trash for classy television from time to time. Don’t worry, though—that’s what the internet is for. I’ll be live-blogging soon.

Things I Learned While Babysitting a Two-Year-Old in Queens Last Night:

Outer-boroughs have amenities. There's a post office, a movie theater, and tons of restaurants to choose from!

Jack Johnson, Nick Drake, and Ryan Adams make a great “sleepytime mix” on your iPod. However, Bjork can induce nightmares.

Dora the Explorer isn’t actually exploring anything. She was, like, looking for pigs in a barn. That's not ethnic at all!

It’s very important to know the address of the home in which you are babysitting. It is impossible to order food otherwise.

A sloth moves very very slowly. Say it with me. Slow-ly! Muy Bien!
(damn you, Diego—you make me learn whether I like it or not)

You can’t trick a kid into falling asleep. There is no such thing as the “game where we sit in the rocking chair and are really, really quiet.”

Y is for young Yolanda Yorgenson yelling on a yellow yak. Dr. Seuss, what can't you alliterate?!

Never separate a growing boy from his trucks. You will live to regret it.

Cartoons aren’t what they used to be.
Okay, I need to explain this one. Has anyone seen this show on Noggin called “Max and Ruby”? It’s about two rabbits who are brother and sister—Ruby, who is 7, and Max, who is 3. As in real life, the younger brother is always getting on Ruby’s nerves but in the end there’s a comical resolution. What struck me as odd about the show was the following:

Max and Ruby have no parents. You never see or hear any sort of grown up rabbit, telling them to behave.

As a result, Ruby ends up taking care of Max, doing everything from bathing him (4 times in one episode!) to tucking him in at night (see the “Max’s Bedtime” episode for more details). This makes Ruby sort of like a single mother. Is she a welfare rabbit?

Why do they give this little 7 year old so much responsibility? I mean, just watching it, I felt bad for her. Where were her friends? What about Ruby’s personal time? She couldn’t even practice “Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star” on the piano without Max interrupting.

Ruby's just trying to get her Mozart on when Max rolls up all needy-like.

Is this show supposed to be some sort of subliminal birth control, showing kids the dangers of taking on parenthood too young? It worked for me, and I’m a grown-ass woman!!

I also found the need to bathe Max 4 times a bit excessive and bordering on pornographic. Why does he have to be naked so much? How does that move the plot forward or flesh out the character? It was gratuitous animal nudity unlike any I've ever seen.