Grad school: 1, Courtney: 0

It's only been 2 weeks, and grad school is kicking my ass. Here is a listing of things going on in my life, dumb stuff I've done, lessons learned, etc.:

1. It's Saturday night and I'm home in my pjs, doing some of the hundreds of pages of reading for next week. Farewell social life, see you in December.

2. Also, I spent all day in a required drug/alcohol/sexual abuse seminar. Informative, but extremely depressing. Also, it's SATURDAY.

3. The topper: I've been with the rugrats for a grand total of 9 hours, and my body is already breaking down. I'm sniffly, exhausted, and achy. This does not bode well for the rest of my semester.

4. Now, I should tell you the good things. Yes, there are good things! Although my school seems fixated on multiculturalism (apparently they think we're all a bunch of homophobic bigots), my classes are generally great. I'm learning a lot and find the readings engaging, despite the fact that I feel overwhelmed by it. And student teaching is a blast. Kids are awesome.

5. In the interest of full disclosure, on my first day of student teaching I almost killed a child. Well, it wasn't quite that dramatic, but she fell off a chair while sitting right next to me, and I only caught her after she slammed her face into the table.

6. The thing I learned about 2 year olds this week: they're really adventurous, but lack motor coordination. So they think they can do stuff, when really they can just flail about.

7. I fell up the steps the other night. I'm talking full on, sprawling across the steps between the 2nd and 3rd floors of my building. It was so loud that when I opened the door to my apartment, Lauren was sitting on the couch cracking up, because she heard the commotion and just knew it was me. The irony is not lost on me: I am not unlike an uncoordinated 2 year old.

8. Update: mums are thriving, as is Osama. I've lost all interest in killing him.

9. I found a small dead bug in my falafel today, and kept eating it until I found another. I'm beginning to question my judgment.

Well, that about sums up my life. The photo doesn't have to do with anything in this post, but a while ago, our can opener broke and we used one of those pointy-poky kinds to pry open cans. This was the result which I found awesome.

Indoor gardening is messy. So is grad school.

So I've officially started grad school. This means a number of major changes, including the fact that I will probably be too busy for hilarious situations to even occur in my life, let alone have the time to blog about them. But I promise to do my very best!

Check out my mum planting experience below. There aren't too many options for where to do activities that are normally done out of doors, so I used the living room. It was quite the project. But check out the finished product! They've bloomed quite nicely since that photo was taken.

Mousegate 2009: An Update

Another week has passed, and still no bloody dead mouse corpse.

For some reason, the exterminator only calls and schedules appointments before 7am, which is an hour and a half before I'm normally awake. But I've been patient because I've come to the conclusion that Osama is a genius and only a professionally trained mouse-hit man can end him. Last week I woke up at 6:45am along with Lauren and our futon-guest, Anna to anxiously await the exterminator's arrival. Right before he arrived, I got up to turn the air conditioner down and felt tiny terrorist claws run over my feet. Needless to say, I screamed like a child.

The exterminator--let's call him Mr. X--arrived and told us that if we wanted, he's 'spray' in the kitchen. From the respiratory mask he wore, we assume whatever it was, the spray was extremely toxic. Mr. X then told us that he'd put packets with poisonous cakes in them around the place, near the traps, in our bedrooms...everywhere.

So now we have traps rigged to snap with the slightest pressure (covered in Skippy peanut butter, because apparently Osama isn't classy enough for organic almond butter), some kind of biohazardous spray in the kitchen, and poisonous treats in baggies sporadically thrown around.

In essense, our apartment is the opposite of baby-proof. We might as well have live frayed wires next to buckets of water and littered the floor with used hypodermic needles from an AIDS clinic.

Funny thing, at one point, Anna and I saw Osama squeeze out the front door through a tiny hole where our door runner doesn't quite reach. Optimistically I thought maybe he'd indulged in one of the deadly bagged treats and left to die. But then I heard him rustling about and spotted him run under the fridge earlier today.

Lauren and I had a crazy moment last night after we heard Osama, when we were perched on the futon meowing at him. If only we weren't allergic to real cats.

the manhunt for osama

Don't bother combing the caves of Pakistan or Afghanistan. Osama bin Laden lives in my kitchen.

Except he has taken the form of a mouse, a tiny shitting-machine, elusive to all methods of capture. At first I decided to ignore him. I thought that maybe we could just live side by side, each pretending the other didn't exist. But I didn't go and shit in his kitchen now did I? No I did not. Being a vegetarian, I decided that killing him in the nicest, most humane way was best, so I went and bought a $25 electronic zapping trap. Supposedly with 4 AA batteries, little Osama's heart would painlessly cease to beat, and his tiny soul would float away to a much better place.

Instead, he scorned my nice-death gestures and shit on top of the trap. And on my bed.

By this time, I was pissed. My vegetarian-guilt flew out the window and a craving for Osama's spilt blood took over my mind. I went out with the intent of purchasing the most brutal killing machine built for total mouse decimation. I pictured a mini mouse sized guillotine. Instead I ended up with the traditional squish trap thingy. I knew that wouldn't give the dramatic crime scene bloodspray I wanted, but as long as it did the job, whatever.

Weeks have passed. Osama has shit next to the traps, has eaten cheese off of them, and just continues to mock me. I feel I've been outsmarted. I've been broken down. I'm less afraid at this point. Hell, I'm impressed.

An exterminator is due to come on Monday for the ultimate killing spree, hopefully armed with weapons that aren't sold to the general public.

'uncle' cliff and his expensive gifts

Every once in a while I have the pleasure of encountering a truly bizarre customer at Kid O. Last week while holding down the fort by myself, a beefy Miami beach-looking dude walked in and immediately came right up beside me at the counter, just a bit too close. I could tell he was one of those people with no regard for the personal space of others. He also didn't feel the need to obey common social norms, like staying in front of the counter at a store.

This is how it went down (it helps paint the picture better if you read all of his parts in a creepy, deep, beefcake-ish voice):
Him: (gesturing toward a wooden toddler bike) I want to buy this bike for a two month old.
Me: Well, that is very generous of you, but seeing as the child won't be able to use it for at least two years, perhaps I can recommend something along those lines for a younger--

He cut me off, and soon we settled on a ride-on toy that was appropriate for a one year old. It was our last one and had been out on the floor for a while, so I offered to clean it for him. As I began wiping it down, he decided to talk at me while leaning over the counter:
Him: I'm divorced. No kids. You know, it's real hard to find a good woman. Am I being too demanding? I've been drinking all day...
Me: Ummhmm. Do you want to fill out a gift card?
Him: Yeah but you write it. You have good handwriting? Put from Uncle Cliff. With Uncle in quotes.
Me: Okay...

Uncle Cliff with Uncle in quotes left without harming me or anyone else in the store.

Two days later, I saw a tall and beefy shirtless man wearing reflective sunglasses in my peripheral vision, and he barged into the store and stalked up to me, once again much too close.
Him: I don't know if you remember me.
Me: (taking two steps back) Oh I remember you.
Him: I need another gift. I want the same thing as the other day for a three week old. I'll pick it up later. I'm spending all this money on other people's kids so I'm going to go buy myself a present.

It was a much swifter transaction, but I couldn't shake the feeling that 'Uncle' Cliff was off to buy himself a hooker, get drunk, and diddle small children. Another day, another freak, I guess.

Below, enjoy a photo of Gary Busey, a similarly creepy person, though with less muscle.

winner: Kid O, I think, because at least we got a solid $400 out the dude
loser: the innocent children in 'Uncle' Cliff's life

a whale of a vacation

I just got back from a week in Cape Cod with my mom and one of the major highlights was whale watching. We drove out to the tip of the cape and boarded a boat that took us out to the Stellwagen Bank, an underwater plateau that is a popular feeding ground for whales. Check out these videos I took on the boat. The quality is pretty good, a little shaky, and try to disregard my commentary and gasps of excitement.

a matter of defecation

It has recently been brought to my attention that human shit seems to follow me.

Earlier this summer, I woke one sunny Saturday morning to find my wallet empty (as usual after a Friday night out), and headed to the Citibank ATM located conveniently down the block. It really was a truly glorious day, until I swiped my card for entry, pushed open the door, and was met with the most truly heinous odor I have ever encountered. It was like hot boxing with diarrhea. I quickly located the source of the problem: in front of the handicapped for the visually impaired ATM was a pile of human crap directly centered on an open newspaper. Nearby, a man stood holding a broom and dustpan, obviously a poor choice in cleaning supplies for this job.

The really sick part is that I still took out cash. Does that make me a true New Yorker yet?

If you've been reading my posts regularly, you know that I dealt with a lot of little kid poo this summe, but the real cake topper occurred Thursday night. I was out with Lauren and another friend Anna, and we stopped by the reliable Waverly Restaurant (for coffee ice cream, a grilled cheese, and a chicken salad sandwich) and I went to use the restroom. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed two human turds next to the the toilet. Right next to the toilet! I mean really, how does one miss?

We also have a mouse that has made our kitchen its bathroom. Hopefully the trend soon ends.

winner: bathrooms in the comfort of your own home
loser: my shattered confidence in the cleanliness of my local Citibank
auxiliary winner: our mouse, because he has succeeded in making us his own personal maids