Really?

I am not what you would call "lucky."  Don't get me wrong, I've got a pretty great life, terrific friends and a family that I like most of the time (just kidding--all the time!).  But my life is not charmed.  Other people just seem to walk in the light--win $1,000 in the lottery, go to a bar the exact night Jay-Z is there and chats him up, or just generally gets through life with little thought about what could go wrong.

I am not that person.  I have never won more than $100 in the lottery (and I maintain that was only because Andrew was there--I've never won even a dollar on my own), the only person I've ever seen in a bar was that guy from that movie, and, though I often worry more than necessary, I'm beginning to think that worry stems from conditioning, and the repeated examples of how whenever one messy situation clears up in my life, another immediately opens.  There's a reason you've never heard of the "Luck o' the Norwegians."  Though we can hold our own against the Irish when it comes to imbibing, we descendants of the Vikings do not hail from the golden land of frolicking leprechauns, pots of gold and rainbows.

Case in point--I spent ten months worrying about getting a job.  I finally did.  I then spent the next 4 months searching for a second part-time job.  I worried a lot about this, because it is kind of necessary for me to actually live in New York City with any kind of solvency.  In the past 4 months, I have applied to many a CraigsList ad, had about 4 or 5 interviews and spent everyday searching for jobs, babysitting gigs or freelance editorial work.

Two weeks ago, I scored a recurring editorial gig.  Last week I finally got a part time job with a pretty decent schedule (Tuesday and Wednesday nights at an alternative dance studio, where I will get to take free classes).

So what could be wrong now?  Well, I have a mouse infestation.  In the past two weeks, I have caught THREE MICE.  This is seriously distressing for me, because I hate vermin of all persuasions, classifications, species and breeds.  Luckily, Andrew was around to catch two of them.  But last night I arrived home to find a suspiciously turd-like object on my stove top (that's right, the little buggers like to hide in my stove.  How horrifying is that?).  I toed the remaining traps on the ground.  Three were empty.  The fourth seemed heavy and the little red door that seals off the trap was shut tight.

Crap.

Not only had I had a third mouse scampering around my apartment whilst I was out at happy hour, but now it was dead.  In my kitchen.  And I had to dispose of it on my own.

I'm not proud of how I behaved.  I like to think I'm not much of a girly-girl.  But let's look at the evidence: I hate mice, rats, cockroaches, any insect larger than a pinhead and things with more than two legs.  I sometimes think that shrieking is an acceptable reaction when encountering any of these things.  Blood, while not my favorite of fluids (ranking slightly above bile, but well below vodka) doesn't totally make me want to pass out, though I think long and hard before donating.  Perhaps I am a bit of a priss.

So with muffled shrieks, some retching and quite a bit of swearing (maybe I'm not a priss after all?) I managed to scoop up the trap onto a dustpan, deposit it in a garbage bag, tightly tie the bag and toss it out my front door.  At 10 o'clock last night, I was so not walking outside to the trash room in my pjs. 

Also, there was that whole earthquake thing, and now I've got to spend my whole weekend in Maryland worrying about what hurricane-induced mess will be waiting for me on Sunday behind door number 5D.  I pray my crap-ass windows don't shatter.  But, looking back on my life and string of uncannily un-serendipitous events it comprises, I will be disheartened, angry, tearful and vomitous, but wholly un-surprised if, upon arrival back at my apartment, I should open the door and be greeted by a flooded, windowless, looted apartment, as a tidal wave of drowned mice washes over my feet and heads for the stairs.

Happy Friday.