"Jesus Christ, this is all because we live at the bottom of the hill," my mother sighed, "This apartment complex is basically the neighborhood dumpster. No wonder there are these... mice everywhere."
The discovery of our first American Mouse, a year after we'd moved to the United States, was anything but pleasant. And my mother was taking it especially badly.
"Sasha," she turned angrily to my father, "What did I tell you, ah, Sasha? Do not buy the apartment at the bottom of the hill! I warned you, so many times: do not buy dirty, dumpster apartment filled with these... disgusting rats! "
"Well," he retorted sarcastically, "Maybe when you find work in this country, you can buy us whatever luxurious apartment you want, huh?"
I was getting tired of these silly arguments, but finally, after hours of bickering, it was decided that we would buy mousetraps. The Russian metalbox mousetraps never really bothered me. In fact, I sort of enjoyed opening the door, releasing the mouse, and watching it scurry away. But this time, my father went to a hardware store in Brookline and bought sticky glue traps.
"I don't really understand how these things work... does the mouse just... die slowly?"
"Amy, those things are disgusting creatures! They will give us diseases and kill us, if we don't kill them! Would you rather die, is that what you want, for us all to get sick and die?"
"But it just seems so unnecessary...."
I couldn't stop thinking about the mice, and moreover, the traps themselves were a nuisance. They glue was thick and yellow, and any time hair or dust fell onto the traps, it stuck permanently. And, in my insomniac five-am-wanderings around the kitchen, I'd always forget their presence.
"Shit!" I'd hiss, and rip the thing off my foot, unintentionally peeling the top layer of skin. The thick glue took nearly a week to wash off completely.
"It seems that we have caught zero mice so far, but three Amys!" my mother would giggle hysterically.
I'd quietly grumble and stomp back to my room, my foot sticking slightly to the rug with each step.
20081219
Mousetraps: Part I
The house was always infested with some vermin or another, whether we lived in Russia or in the States. Our apartment in Russia swarmed with ants for a few years. They'd cluster around the sugar bowl and I amused myself by squashing them, one by one. They'd infest the walls, laying piles of eggs that resembled nearly-bursting cysts.
The cockroaches came next, winged, swollen, and brown. Stomping on them with all your might only killed them about half the time. They survived several rounds of extermination. "Jesus, these Russian cockroaches," my father said, "They would survive a nuclear war!"
And then, of course, there were the mice, forever scurrying in and out of tiny holes in wall. My mother or grandmother would see one: the house would fill with blood-curling screams, or else they'd leap onto a chair or counter in fear to avoid touching it.
"The filthy vermin, they will eat our food and give us horrible diseases! We must lock up all cabinets," my mother said. It was useless to try to explain to her that the chance of actually catching a disease from one of these creatures was highly unlikely. Logic never really happened in that house. Or else, trying to explain that throwing away the festering piles of papers, the filthy rags in all the closets, the mess that the house had accumulated might actually help... she wouldn't listen.
My father diligently placed the traps, everywhere, little metal boxes with doors, and a piece of cheese inside. The boxes rattled when a mouse was caught inside. We'd go outside, open the little metal door, and watch the terrified creature pounce away, scuttle into a distant street corner.
We thought we would escape these creatures in the United States. America is different, they said. The homes are cleaner. Neater, perhaps. But on our second day in Boston, we discovered centipedes crawling all over the shower curtains. My mother nearly burst into tear. "Why have we come to this country? These centipedes.. they are uglier than the cockroaches."
But it took us an entire year in America before we spotted the first mouse...
The cockroaches came next, winged, swollen, and brown. Stomping on them with all your might only killed them about half the time. They survived several rounds of extermination. "Jesus, these Russian cockroaches," my father said, "They would survive a nuclear war!"
And then, of course, there were the mice, forever scurrying in and out of tiny holes in wall. My mother or grandmother would see one: the house would fill with blood-curling screams, or else they'd leap onto a chair or counter in fear to avoid touching it.
"The filthy vermin, they will eat our food and give us horrible diseases! We must lock up all cabinets," my mother said. It was useless to try to explain to her that the chance of actually catching a disease from one of these creatures was highly unlikely. Logic never really happened in that house. Or else, trying to explain that throwing away the festering piles of papers, the filthy rags in all the closets, the mess that the house had accumulated might actually help... she wouldn't listen.
My father diligently placed the traps, everywhere, little metal boxes with doors, and a piece of cheese inside. The boxes rattled when a mouse was caught inside. We'd go outside, open the little metal door, and watch the terrified creature pounce away, scuttle into a distant street corner.
We thought we would escape these creatures in the United States. America is different, they said. The homes are cleaner. Neater, perhaps. But on our second day in Boston, we discovered centipedes crawling all over the shower curtains. My mother nearly burst into tear. "Why have we come to this country? These centipedes.. they are uglier than the cockroaches."
But it took us an entire year in America before we spotted the first mouse...
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