A Request

Can someone please let Brandon Flowers of The Killers know that the terms "human" and "dancer" are not mutually exclusive?

Thank you.

Mouse in the House

A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. Unless of course the fish had a mouse in her apartment that causes her to scream like a twelve year old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

So, last night I came home to the report from my roommate, Kerri, that she had seen a mouse in our kitchen. She was sitting on the couch, eating cereal, and awaiting my return in order to act. We crept toward the kitchen and caught a glimpse of it on the counter. We decided the best course of action was to go and ask or apartment manager, Leo to help us. 

Leo obliged our request, coming upstairs with a long metal rod (we don't know that the purpose of this tool is, exactly, but it was easily accessible and came in handy). Leo started banging around in the kitchen while Kerri and I stood on chairs in the living room, much to his amusement. "Why you scared?" he asked us in his thick Greek accent, which occasionally makes his words unintelligible. We had no real answer, but Kerri hesitantly asked, "Do you want me to help you?" She totally hoped he'd say no, but he, of course, said yes. Kerri went to help him while I remained safe on the chair. The mouse, that little bastard, scurried into a hole in the kitchen baseboards and disappeared. Leo told us he would patch the hole tomorrow, and set out a trap and some poison, reassuring us that the mouse was probably scared and wouldn't come back that night.

Kerri and I did the dishes and took out the garbage to make sure the peanut butter was the only desirable snack for the mouse, and then sat in the living room, watching Arrested Development and trying to calm down. I had just settled in and had my feet up on the coffee table, when the mouse ran from the kitchen, directly under the couch where I was sitting. "KERRI!!" I yelpd, while simultaneously jumping onto the arm of the couch. She came out and we decided to try to open the door and see if we could get it outside. We each stood on a chair next to the couch, and armed with brooms, decided to try to get it out. 

Unfortunately, the mouse decided to exit on my side of the couch. Upon seeing it, I screamed at the top of my lungs, jumped off of the chair, and ran into the hallway, where I started crying. I think this was perfectly reasonable, although Kerri was a little perturbed with me. I calmed down enough to re-enter the room, alternating the expressions, "I'm sorry" and "Oh, shit." It looked as though the mouse had hidden under a plastic bag on the floor. So, I grabbed a large bowl from the kitchen and Kerri put it over the bag, applying pressure with the broom as not to let the mouse escape. We listened: nothing. We decided it wasn't under there and Kerri swept the broom under the couch, but to no avail. "Maybe it is under the bowl?" I asked hopefully. Kerri hit the metal bowl with the broom handle "clang, clang clang." She stopped, and then we heard a "ping" from the bowl. This time we both screamed, prompting Leo to return to our apartment to investigate.

Just as he arrived, the mouse reappeared from under the couch (the "ping" was the metal popping back into place after it's beating with the broom handle). It ran straight for the kitchen and Kerri and I jumped back onto chairs. Leo, bless his  heart, crawled around on his hands and knees trying to get it. When it ran out and I screamed so loud I scared Leo, I was sent to my room in order stop making the whole situation worse. (This is where I totally wanted to be, but felt guilty leaving my roommate to handle things alone.)

I re-emerged to find that Leo had not found the mouse, but had propped up a card table on it's side, reinforced by a chair to hold it in place so that it would at least stay in the kitchen. I retreated to my room, praying fervently that there would be a dead mouse in my kitchen when I awoke this morning. 

Alas, there was not. So, if I seem a bit jumpy in the next few days, you will know why.  My roommate tried to tell me that it was more scared of me than I was of it-but I don't think the mouse started crying, so I'm not so sure about that. Part of me thinks that at 26 years old I should not be this scared of a mouse. But, then I imagine it scurrying around, and I am too distracted by my own chills and shuddering to worry about that. Ugh, wish me luck, friends.

P.S. Sorry this is the LONGEST blog ever, but I figure this way rather than making you all listen to me tell this story, those that are interested can just read it here. :)

This should tell you something about the women in my family...

From my grandma, last night at Thanksgiving: "Well, I could be wrong, but I'm not."

Thanksgiving

I just hosted my first successful Thanksgiving dinner. I made a turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and cranberry sauce all from scratch. I know many of you do this every year, but I am quite pleased with myself, and I must say, I think my dad would be proud.

Also, the pictures loaded backwards. So travel back in time with me, through el Thanksgiving de Fletcher.

The sides

Mom, making her plate

Erin came over to help me get ready. She's an excellent candle lighter/dish washer/store-runner.

The turkey and me (turkey on left)

Making stuffing.

This is how I feel about flying:

From Anne Lamott:

"My idea of everything running smoothly on an airplane is that once in the air, A) I not die in a slow motion fiery crash or get stabbed to death by terrorists, and that B) none of the other passengers try to talk to me."

Exactly.

Any advice or resources?

So, I am going to attempt to write a short story over Christmas break. I have never attempted this feat, so I will take any advice anyone would like to give me. I am remembering Anne Lamott's advice that writing always starts with "shitty first drafts," though. So that should help me feel better about struggling through the process.

I have been writing a little more lately. I really do enjoy it. My breakup music essay is in rough draft state. I journaled on the plane to and from DC. I made notes galore for my short story. I don't see it as a career option for me,  just an amusing hobby. Except that I am sort of an ambitious person, and have fantasies of being published in The New Yorker and that somehow transitioning to being on Oprah to be interviewed about my one published story. That's how it works, right? :D

This, would be called rambling. Enjoy, my friends.

That Girl

It is only in hindsight that I realize that when it comes to knowing when to say “when” with my ex-boyfriend, I was That Girl. Ugh. The one you never want to be. You know, she’s the one in the horror movie who decides to leave the secure cabin with only her flashlight while the killer is on the loose. Some people yell, “No! No! Don’t do it!” at the screen. They empathize, seeing that she just doesn’t see the reality of the situation she is in.  I, on the other hand, was usually the one leaning over to my friend and whispering my judgment, “What a moron. Who would be stupid enough to do that?”

Apparently, I was stupid enough to do that. Twice.

The first time, there was some mutual hemming and hawing. Did we really want to do this? Was breaking up the answer, or did we just need to think about some things? So, we took a month off, to ponder our relationship.  While apart, I pondered many things, but apparently did not spend enough time pondering the times he told me I just wasn’t his type. Or that he thought I should dress sexier when we went out (I did remind him that going to Red Robin is not really considered "going out."). Essentially, he wanted to change me.  But, blinded by the drunkenness of first love, and armed with my flashlight, I left the cabin to wander around in the woods.

Three weeks later, he broke up with me again. I yelled at him, slammed a door in his face, and told him we would never be friends. Two whole weeks later, I decided that enough time had passed for being friends to work out just fine. This time, I didn’t even bring the flashlight.

Regular friends lasted about a week. Then, we made out in the car. And as movie-goers everywhere yelled, “No, no! Don’t do it!” I entered the dreaded “friends with benefits” stage. That’s what I call it now-because that’s what it was. At the time, I called it, “Just seeing what’s going to happen,” or even better, “It’s complicated. He needs to take things slowly and not put any labels on this.” 

Oh, yes. I was That Girl. The one I had silently judged for years, seeing her as weak and pathetic.  Internally rolling my eyes when she tried to explain why she was still with that same boyfriend we’d all told her to break up with.

And then, finally, enough was enough. I locked the door to the cabin, put the chair up against it, and called the cops. But, even though I finally wised up, I learned not to judge the girl with the flashlight. Sometimes, you just have to see for yourself what’s out there.