OTAS, you found it

This weekend I was lying in bed and heard some paper rustling. I go to the kitchen to see what it is only to find a bag of open crackers. I think little of it except that I must have not closed them very well last night.

Later I was lying on the couch reading the paper. All of a sudden, I catch something out of the corner of my eye, and I turn to look down the hallway to see a mouse running across the floor.

A mouse?! In MY apartment.

A MOUSE. . . . a fucking mouse, not just in my apartment, but in my $2,100 a month Manhattan apartment that I just spent the last month making into my little dream flat.

The adrenalin begins to pump and anger and fear begin to formulate a plan: I’m going to kill that mouse with my bare hands!

I grab a shoe (okay, maybe not bare hands) and run over toward where I saw Jerry run. I pull the sofa away from the wall to see the bastard dart right in front of me and down the hall. I throw the shoe – he escapes unscathed into the hallway closet.

Time to get into that closet. I open the door and begin to move the begging stored in it.

I finally see the mouse. Bastard! Just as I pull enough shit out of the closet to take aim, two pictures being stored there fall toward it. This frightens Jerry, who runs out of the closet like a bat out of hell into the bedroom.

He’s nowhere to be found.

Escaped!

This is war!

I’m clearly not nimble enough to kill him this way: I must shed this Neanderthal strategy and use my mind a bit. I can do that, right? Yes. . . yes, I can. I go down to the store to buy traps.

Nowadays they have these glue pads that must kill the rodents through starvation or something. Seems cruel, but I’m desperate. I also find the old fashioned mousetraps that merely crush it. So I buy both types –I don’t want to take any chances— Jerry won’t know what hit him. I buy 6 traps.

I get back to the apartment and bait the traps – putting a nut on each of them. Now it’s just a matter of waiting for the little bastard’s appetite to bring him to his death. Yes, the triumph of intelligence over primal instinct – that is what separates us from the animals!

Watching a movie, I hear nothing. No traps going off, no squeaking from a mouse stuck in glue. I double check the traps after the movie anyhow. They hadn’t gone off. I look a little closer.

Wait a minute, the bait is gone!
My God, he managed to snag the bait without triggering the trap. In both of the traps!

Are these traps defective? No, a quick check using a pencil shows they work. Every problem has a solution. . . I need something that will adhere better to the trap so he has to pull a little on it, which will definitely set the trap off. But what would a mouse like to eat that would stick that well on the trigger? Hmmmmm.

Cheeseball!
Yes, a cheeseball will do it. I run to the store and get a cheddar cheeseball and mush the bait around the trigger of the trap.

I wait. Nothing.

The evening grew longer and no sign of a trap. I went out on the town with Rob to get my mind off the whole thing.

I finally get home at about two in the morning. I, excitedly, turn on the kitchen l0ight and check.

And there he was. His little head crushed under the trap in a pool of spattered on the floor. Uug, disgusting. All of a sudden I felt a triumph: like Tosca when she kills scarpia:

Mordi! Mordi! Mordi! (Die, die, die)

Don’t fuck with me fellas!

Neena and her friend Cara were in from Chicago two weekends ago. These are people I’ve known for quite some time from my undergrad days, but have never been very close to. The weekend changed all that.

I went to their posh hotel in the Meatpacking district for a drink on the rooftop bar. We had great conversations about love, life, work and other gooey stuff. The consensus was –after three drinks – that we should have a party at my new apartment the following day to celebrate their arrival, and have a housewarming party for myself.

So Max, Rob, Tom, and Kurt joined the three of us in breaking in the new apartment. As you can tell, the drink of choice that night were Cosmos with Sky 90 and Cointrau (we actually got in a game or two in as well). These were all enjoyed with a dinner cooked entirely by Rob.

The night went from civility, to slightly buzed, to utter debauchery. And a wiser person would have locked themselves into the apartment. Instead, we went out on the town –first to the Townhouse, where we managed to embarrass ourselves singing by the piano, then to Henrietta Hudson’s, a lesbian bar in the Village, where Rob managed to convince the bar he was a lesbian in a gay man’s body (don’t ask).

Sunday I was a total wreck. It’s been a while since I’ve been that hungover -- it cured me of drinking for a good 24 hours. It was worth it: Memories that will last (at least until the next time).

It’s strange how ones life can change so fundamentally over just a few weeks. I go from a job in Chicago that was an insignificant party of my life – just ran some statistical models, in by 10am and out by 6 – to one in New York that consumes me. This isn’t just a lot of work, there’s a shitload of work, and with the CEO, to whom I’ve become a workhorse.

The responsibilities are mammoth. As a consultant, I was never one that did any implementation, I just did analysis and how clients went about acting on it, I had no idea. Here I’m setting pay rates to get optimal productivity and minimal turnover, running pay equity analyses, telling operations execs how to pay out bonus dollars and to who, and composing questions for a pre-employment screen. This is all supported by my “analytical mind”, as they call it here, and a lot of programming and statistical work (which require concentration and time, two things I’m not able to get much of).

So yea, I went from wondering how I would fill the time of day to wondering if there was enough of it. And it is, I have to say, very exciting and fun -- the days go by quickly.

In the evenings I’ve filled them with either working late, or enjoying the night out w/Rob, going out to the Met from time to time. And, by the way, I just saw the Met’s new production of Romeo et Juliet last night. Shifting gears. . .

It would seem like that production was cursed. The opera opened on Monday and their Juliet canceled, Natalie Dessay (of course, the show went out without her). Last night Dessay made her debut and was wonderful but at the beginning of the fourth act, technical problems delayed the start: the house lights were literally going on and off while they figured things out, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Act four begins and the English subtitles began to flicker. I’m sure Volpe, the General Manager, had fiver years taken off his life last night.

Despite these things, the opera, which I’d never seen before, was taken in with great pleasure. I totally enjoyed the production and cast and the additional drama was just a bump in the road. Shifting gears. . .

And I decided not to come back to Chicago for Thanksgiving. I’m not sure where that came from either but the bottom line is that I’m tired and want to stay put for a little while. And with Christmans, the parents visiting in January, Eric visiting in December and the new job, I’m going to try to take advantage of the workaday weekends.

So it’s a no-go with the pregnancy thing. Just found out today. They are going to try again next month but they made it clear they were only going to try three times (not sure why) before they give up. Yea, they’re not exactly at the prime of their child-bearing years –the odds are not with us. So who knows. . . all this stressing over making this decision and planning for the child may be for naught. In the meantime I’ll keep my fingers crossed as they try it all again.

This weekend I went out to my friend Ant’s house in Jersey for a swank party. Staffed with bartenders, waiters, and cooks, this party was something to write home (or at least blog) about. I managed to guzzle down countless cosmos, eat the salmon, and schmooze all night. But it wasn’t without its downside.

The person I met in Provincetown –who has developed an annoying infatuation with me – was there. I guess he’s become rather close with Ant and flew in specifically for the party. He’s also decided to move to Jersey and bought a house there this fall. Do you see where this is going?!

Some of the night was spent with me tactfully avoiding and ignoring him (but without causing a scene). It was difficult to maneuver, though, because he was talking to my friends about how much he was interested in me – another annoying way to communicate indirectly with me. Adding more drama to the whole situation is that rumor has it that Ant has a crush on him (but I ain't one to gossip). Can it get any better? Yes.

Ant is a taken man and lives with his lover. In fact, the day after the party his lover went up to Rob and said: “If Ant is having an affair with him, that’s fine with me.” Well, you can imagine what Rob’s reaction was – you could have knocked him over with a feather.

This Halloween weekend was something fairly similar: Going out with Rob in another failed attempt to make Chelsea fun, then ending up in the Village. Saturday night we didn’t even bother with Chelsea and went directly to the Village. (I’m facing the fact that I have become old and stuck in my ways.)

Sunday was something different. I went out with Max and his family for brunch, which ended up being a whole day event that included a walk along the Hudson and some dessert, but finally descended into four martinis in Chelsea (stemming from being relieved that his nephew, sent from hell to punish us for our sins, had made his way back with his grandmother and mother to Philly).

It must seem strange that we have become friends after all the hatred. My rationale is simply that it takes a lot out of me to hate this person and burying the hatchet is the most healthy thing I can do. But, given the lack of trust and our history together, I can thank God that there’s absolutely no possibility of rekindling the old flame.

- - - - -

Friday (with Max and his mother) I went to see the Metropolitan Opera’s production of La Cenerentola (Cinderella). Having gone to the Lyric Opera’s hysterical production starring Florez and Kasarova, one would be hard-pressed to expect anything as good; but you would think by now I would learn not to underestimate the Met.

The tenor cast in the Met’s production, Banks, hit the notes but was in a house that was too big for his smaller voice. The Met would not disappoint, however, and pulled out its trump card: Boradina, the huge-voiced mezzo. She has been doing more and more bel canto roles despite making her career doing mostly dramatic singing. So it was a wonder that this huge voice had the control it did to sing Rossini and, in particular, comedy (I recall an interview with her where she said: “I am not funny”.) And in the last act she nearly blows the house off in the aria where she forgives her sisters and father for her cruelty.