So on Friday, Anne S. grabbed me when I came in and suggested we swap stories. So instead of writing about Muslims celebrating birthdays, I got to write about how, according to researcher Bernard Salt there is what he’s calling a “man drought” in Australia, or more accurately, a dearth of marriageable material for women in their 30s. All the men are moving to other countries for labor, the woman are chilling down under, and every year after the “sheilas” turn 34, the gender gap increases. So: outlook for girls not good in the cities (although apparently in mining towns, it’s better.) Anyway, at some point, Adam asked me whether this story was urgent; he wanted to put it up on Sunday instead of Friday.
Inspired by Sarah Palin’s promise that we could break the glass ceiling yet (and willing to ignore that her 17-year-old daughter is hypocritically knocked up and getting hitched), I put my hands on my hips and walked over the news table. I said to Adam, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle! This story is not important at all.”
Fast forward to my Saturday morning. I was up at 7 thirty, at yoga by 8 thirty, on the elliptical by 10, and at the Library getting books for class by 11. A walking tribute to Hillary Clinton, I was like a barracuda without a bicycle! Then, around 1:30, I decided to sweep the kitchen. I had three neat piles of dust ready to be put in the pan when I noticed it.
A dead baby mouse, tragically wedged into a indented part of our wood kitchen floor. My first thought, “Where is Levi Johnston when you need him to handle your dead animals?” My second thought: Mommy.
After listening to me shriek for 10 minutes and threaten to post a facebook message recruiting males in the Park Slope area (I can only hope that the bad phone quality of my blackberry helped her to tune some of it out) she finally said, “Ok , Patrick and I will come to Brooklyn, and we will get rid of it.” To be fair, she had a carload of stuff to bring me, and insisted that she’d just be killing two birds with one stone. (and disposing of one mouse.)
As soon as she and Patrick left (he said, “Bye Rachel! Call if you get any more dead mice!!”), my roommates got home. We all sat around commiserating over my tragic experience and were unable to shirk the feelings of invasion and filth. (Diana acquired a psychosomatic itch.) Finally, we found a way to break the mood: Wilson Phillips. The following day, Emily mentioned that if I had called the landlord, he probably would have gotten rid of the mouse. Well, it was a little late for that info, but thanks to the magic of “Hold On,” I was able to muster the sarcasm to say, “But it was so much more fun to feel completely helpless.”
Um, make that 17 million cracks in the glass ceiling, please….