First Blog

I have just finished watching Julie and Julia and have found out that Julia child was 6 feet 2 inches and married a short husband. (She also loved real butter and cream which increases my respect for her infinitely).

I have a pulsating headache from staring at my computer screen and eating too many cheddar/pretzel (a combination I hated at first) crackers—it was the salt that did me in.

I realized how tired I was when I pulled out a bowl to pour my tea in.

I also realize that I have an addiction to yarn and crocheting scarves and my wrists aches, but I just keep on going.

The main point is this: after watching the movie and seeing that Julie kept up with a blog, I realized perhaps I should post on the blog my roomie put up that I have never posted on.

After all, it is my turn. But, like most letters I write, I pour out my feelings, but never get to the point of addressing it and putting a stamp on it.

So, this wrist aching-crocheting fool who is now drinking tea out of a bowl (with lots of cream and sugar) trying to ignore the extremely bright screen and salt-induced headache, will now post her first post.

[Mind you, the posts were written at the beginning of our journey here.]

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We had a problem with mice when we first moved in. There were four.

Mouse 1- death by sticky trap

Mouse 2- escaped out of the front door

Mouse 3- found dead in a cup

Mouse 4- "Maximus: the Mouse who wouldn't die" : Death by poison

They lie to you—all those stories about hero mice, movies about them cooking soup, songs about them. They are not cute; they are not nice.

Not in the apartment of a 2 flat in West Humboldt Park. Not in the house that borders the gate of the territory of the pitbull named Killer who wants to eat my face every time I take out the trash. Not in the house that neighbors a once-upon-a-time roach-house that six months ago had a flood of roaches coming out of the windows when it was bombed. (At first, I thought this was an exaggeration but three different neighbors say so).

When we first spotted the mice, I heard this scratching noise in the back of the stove. Then, the mouse (this one I believe was Maximus T. Mousekins) came running boldly out across the wooden floor of the kitchen. That rebel decided it would be in his interest to run up on Mona and I when we were sitting on the floor unpacking dishes.

But, now it's not mice—it's roaches. We've spotted three different varieties. In our silverware, on the counters, on the walls—they love the kitchen. It's no surprise since there were three layers of grease on the walls when we first moved in.

We scrubbed for a week in between our work and class schedules we scrubbed and scrubbed—and I don't even know if it made that much of a difference, but we did go from very sticky to mildly sticky.

ANOTHER ENTRY ON ROACHES

When Maximus Mousekins met his demise by poison, I thought that surely the vermin were gone… but alas, the vermin are but the pests have taken the places.

Yes, they were having a party in the dark. Racing up the wall—three—of them in brown, shiny track suits. Then, another variety—a pair—this time were taking a leisurely stroll up my wall by my BED.

I have waged war—I have flooded the kitchen with motels and have now lined walls with this light brown paste stuff…

I ask you how can three grown women be so scared of roaches? Why do we feel so violated? In Hawaii, we had flying roaches, in South Carolina the Palmetto bugs, in South Africa, the flying termite. So, why my friends do roaches scare us so?