Reason #17: I’m a cold-blooded killer. At least, I want to be.
I have murder on my mind this week. Complete, pre-meditated, decidedly-calculated murder.
It started last Friday when my wife and I headed out for one of our twice-annual walks. (We'll eventually cover sloth in this space. Right now, I'm too tired to tackle two of these puppies.) We hop into (drag ourselves to) our car and I turn the key. Immediately, the car makes one of those noises that you can never explain to your mechanic: CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU.
I try again. Same thing. CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU. And, for good measure, because I'm the eternal optimist when it comes to my 1998 Toyota Corolla... I give it one more run. CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU.
"It's the battery." I say. Because, I know these things.
(My wife let's it go unchallenged, even though we both know that my knowledge of 1998 Toyota Corollas extends no further than that steering thingy.)
We switch cars and head for the park.
Saturday, I decide to fix the car. If there's one thing I can do, it's connect the red wire to the red thing and the black wire to the black thing and plug the charging-thingy into the wall thingy.
I pop the hood.
That's when murder came to mind.
Well, not immediately.
Murder came to mind after I crawled down from the dining room table precisely 38 minutes later. Because, as soon as I popped the hood, I turned into a 1950's housewife.
The rat -- the one inside my 1998 Toyota Corolla, perched so comfortably on the engine thingy -- screamed. Loud. Like, teenager girl at a Shawn Mendes concert loud.
To be clear, I never heard it. I was too busy with my own manly screams. But, the look on his face was the same as the look on mine, so, I'm sure he screamed. And, I'm sure he ran to his rat-equivalent dining room table as I ran to mine.
It's three days later and that rat's still in there. I've named him Guido and given him a New York accent. Mainly, because there's no way he's not from New York. My wife will tell you he's smaller, but, I'm not kidding when I say he's at least a foot long and weighs about as much as a subway car.
I want to kill him. I really do.
He's eaten half the wires in there, and I'm sure at least one of them's important. There used to be four wires that go to four things. (My neighbor calls them spark plugs and I believe him.) Now, there is only one half of one wire. That feels like it could be an issue.
But, that's not the reason I want to kill him. No, I want to kill him because he's no longer afraid of me. And, because my wife is no longer afraid of him. He's seriously making me look bad.
To pop the hood, I suit up for battle: gloves, face protection, armor plating, a broom in one hand, a hose in the other. Yesterday, I mowed the lawn. Well, most of it. There's a 5-foot patch of un-mowed grass near the car. No way I was getting any closer.
My wife? She watched videos on removing rats. And now, she's perfectly comfortable. She sees me suit up and says, "I got this."
What the hell? Videos? That's all it took?
I'm the man. I GOT THIS. Except, I don't. I really, really don't.
So, now, she's building humane traps to catch and release our little CarBNB friend. (Side note: New York rats love peanut butter. Probably Kansas rats, too.) Between the traps, the ammonia-soaked rags and the non-stop Taylor Swift music (yes, playing loud music is one suggested way of dealing with an unwanted rat), I'm sure she'll get him out of his little rat recliner someday.
Until then, I'll be on the dining room table, thinking murderous thoughts and writing "I miss you" notes to my dignity.
Whether you're a New Yorker offended by my rat references or a rat offended by my New York references, drop it in the comments below.