Precious Moments I

If you woke me in the middle of the night and asked me how old I was, I would blurt out, "thirty." "Thirty" would also be my answer if you asked me the maximum price I would would pay for a dress. Both answers would make the needle rise on a polygraph. When I was thirty, Paul Newman was not known for salad dressing. And thirty dollars for a dress? Do I look like a Rockefeller? If you're reading this because you thought I would divulge my age, read 100 Years of Solitude. I assume it's about a centenarian, but since I couldn't get passed page 6, I don't really know. I'm writing this because, having reached an age that certain governmental agencies deem venerable, I have decided to both cherish and share with you several precious moments of each day. Due to my busy schedule as a retiree, I cannot promise to share with you daily. After my morning coffee,which, as you may recall takes me two hours to drink, I have medical appointments and zumba classes to attend. That said, I hope that my act of sharing these moments will cause you to appreciate your life in a new and wonderful way. Precious Moment The following is actually a stream of precious moments culminating in a Niagara. Each deserves its own detailed description, but I have a mani-pedi appointment, so I'll condense. Maurice, the exterminator came at 10:35 this morning. This was his third visit and we're bonding. He's a very pleasant fellow, especially when you consider his job involves searching for mouse droppings. On his first visit, the day after my birthday, he found no droppings. But I insisted he put down glue traps, since my guests, depending upon their state of inebriation, saw either one mouse traversing the living room twice ,or two mice, each traversing the living room once. I myself saw something out of the corner of my eye, but thought it was a floater. A week later, there were no mice in the traps, but the night before my book club met at my house, I saw one dart into my coat closet. As we were discussing The Finkler Question, I went to serve the Dorito Chips which I had stored in the coat closet and I saw that the mouse had eaten through the bottom of the bag. (Did I serve the chips from the top of the bag? I leave that to you to decide.) Maurice returned the following Monday, and, when I told him about the purloined chips, he got serious, pulling out his secret weapon: Skippy. He baited the two traps under the piano, one behind the couch, one in the kitchen and two in the closet with Skippy(smooth.) He promised I'd find a mouse in its death throws or screaming for jelly in 28 to 48 hours. Thinking he might be considering job security, I made him swear on a stack of Haggadahs(who has bibles?) that I wouldn't get roaches from the peanut butter. The peanut butter did not lure the mouse. Perhaps it had a peanut allergy. Perhaps it was looking for medium salsa to accompany the chips. In any event, I asked Maurice to remove the traps. While attempting to remove the trap behind the couch, Maurice took a header over the end table and broke my vintage lazy Susan. While he was destroying my house, I tried to expedite matters by removing the glue traps from the closet. The wheel of the shopping cart I use yearly rolled into a glue trap. Not realizing that a glue trap was filled with glue, I stuck my newly manicured hand in it to extricate the wheel. I then called Maurice to extricate my hand and cart wheel from the trip. He did, but glue covered my right hand up to the wrist. Maurice told me to use alcohol to get it off. I had no alcohol other than Trader Joe's Sauvignon Blanc which I would have guzzled had it not been 10:40am, so I tried soap and steel wool. That was definitely not a good idea, because the tiny wires of the steel wool adhered to the glue. I begged him for advice. He suggested a brush, so I tried an old tooth brush with dish washing liquid. With much back and forth effort, the steel wool particles came off, but, in retrospect, neither Maurice nor I had been thinking clearly. The wheel of the cart, you see, was still dripping glue and after having de-glued myself, I now had to de-glue the wheel, which meant I re-glued myself. Maurice would have stayed to help me, but the bedbugs on the 16th floor consituted a greater emergency. Years ago, I would not have considered these "precious moments." I would have thought, "Shit, I live in an expensive coop in the West Village and I have a fuckin' mouse?" But as I think of the mouse sighting and its aftermath, I feel incredibly happy. No harm was done to me other than the small financial cost of a bag of Dorito Chips and a manicure(although it was a gel manicure which gets pretty pricey). And no harm came to the mouse, who is now probably chomping on chips and drinking tequila in my neighbot's apartment. And Maurice will always have employment.