So-and say it with me now-the bug guy is coming back again this week.

Forget the Bermuda Triangle, or what happened to Amelia Earheart, or why you can never, ever get your hair to look exactly the way it did when your hairdresser styled it at your last appointment. We are currently engaged in unraveling one of the knottiest mysteries known to mankind today: How in the world are these rats getting into our basement? We have had three different bug guys inspect the area underneath our house, and although they try to cover it up with fancy “exterminator talk”, the basic message I have gotten from all of them is, “Beats me!”

It’s like we’re dealing with some kind of mutant evil genius rats, rats who are apparently not subject to any of the physical laws of the known universe, super-Einstein-emulating, Mensa-joining rats, rats who can apparently teletransport their bodies directly from the outdoors into our basement using only the power of their tiny rat minds.

But even though we’ve apparently been under attack by Lex Luthor and the entire Legion of Doom, we here at the Hall of Justice have not given up hope. We will soldier bravely on, with our Lasso of Truth, and our Peanut-ey Glue Boards of Immobility, and our Really, Really, Big Stick, and justice will once again prevail.

Or not, in which case I’ll be back next week with a report on Day 759,824.

So last weekend my husband and I were at dinner with 3 other couples, and during the course of the conversation the woman next to me informed me that I was going to, and I quote, “H-E-double hockey sticks.” Oh, and not only was I going, but so was my husband. Oh, and not only was he going too, but the fact that he was going was also my fault.

That was a lot of information to take in all at once, and I really didn’t know how to respond to her statements. Plus, I was always raised to follow this advice: “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” I am even more of a believer now, and am considering a more prominent, physical representation of this statement (such as having it tattooed across my forehead), in order to avoid any more confrontations like that one.

Of course I couldn’t think of any snappy comebacks in the moment, but here are some responses I’ve come up with since then.

-”What?!”

-”Ah, yes, my powers are growing. I must be sure to use them only for good, and never for evil.”

-”I wasn’t aware that you were the person who got to make that decision.”

-”Um, I think your recruiting technique needs a little work.”

The pen may be mightier than the sword, but unfortunately, I’ve also noticed that it can be a whole lot slower.

You know how sometimes in life you start out with these great plans, and then unexpected things happen and you find yourself in a place that you never could’ve imagined? Well, that is happening to me now. But not in a misty, nostalgic, “oh, look at the funny twists of fate” kind of way. It’s more of an, “I wonder how I could erase certain parts of my memory without causing myself actual brain damage” kind of way.

Because, through no fault of my own, and totally against my will, I am becoming…an Expert In Rats. Believe me-I have fought this tooth and nail (no pun intended). But these people keep on foisting off all of this unwanted knowledge on me, and unfortunately it’s the kind of knowledge that really sticks with you.

I wasn’t even going to write about this subject at all, because deep down, I feel like I’ve been tainted by the stigma of having known associations with rodents. Like somehow, the fact that I have a rodent problem means that it’s really my own fault. Like somehow my lifestyle is so shameful that its’ cumulative effect on the world is to explode into an actual, physical, nirvana-like haven for rodents.

That’s not actually true, but part of me is strongly tempted to think that it might be. It probably comes from being a girl, since we are conditioned from the womb to feel personally responsible for the Entire Known Universe. (But that’s a different blog post.)

But seriously, I am wracking my brains and trying to figure out exactly what it is I’m doing that is inviting all of this extremely unwanted knowledge into my life so I can make it stop. It’s like when you’re a teenager, (speaking of how girls are socialized) and your mother warns you about dressing a certain way or acting a certain way, because you don’t want to give boys “the wrong message”. But see, here I’m kind of walking a fine line, because I want to remain open and friendly enough so that the bug guys will still come and deal with these rats for me, but not so friendly that they continue adding to my increasing store of rodent-related information. And finding that perfect balance is still apparently a mystery to me, much like the mystery of how the [CENSORED] are getting into our basement in the first place.

So anyway, I’m sure I will have much more to post on this subject later, because apparently this weekend somebody, and by “somebody” I mean, “my husband”, has to go down into the basement and clean up all the old, uh, we’ll just call them “presents”, so that the bug guy can come back again next week and see if there are any new “presents”, which he can then track to see if he can find out exactly where these evil beasts are coming from. And maybe by the end of next week I’ll have convinced my basement to stop wearing such slinky, low-cut, rodent-enticing outfits and trashy eye makeup, and I’ll have convinced the rats to stop acting like elementary school boys who show their affection for you by hitting you, or teasing you (or poo-ing in your basement). And then the bug guy can make some new best friends.

I feel like I’m experiencing a bit of a humor dry spell, which is a bit stressful. Because, looking back over the past three weeks, I see that I’ve had lots of experiences with “funny” potential.

For example, the week after Christmas my whole family and I met my brother’s finance’s family for the first time. In addition to the regular stress associated with such an event, there was also anxiety over the fact that they are from Poland, and we are not. I myself, safe in the knowledge that this event had absolutely nothing to do with me, and that I could just stay in the background and collect fun observations for my blog, did not really understand why that was cause for additional anxiety. But my family became obsessed with the idea that they HAD to learn Polish, or else Very Bad Things would happen. So they spent the 2 hours before the engagement party sitting in my brother’s living room, frantically trying to become conversationally fluent in a language that is not at all similar to English.

They tried very hard to convince me that this obligation also applied to me. But this was one time when being the self-proclaimed “black sheep” in a family of mathematicians, accountants, and scientists actually came in handy. Because I strongly believe that the fact that I hold a Master’s degree in Spanish dispenses me from all other language requirements into perpetuity, as well as from ever having to feel any kind of verbal inferiority.

But, do you see my dilemma? Here I was, in the middle of a situation rife with humorous contrasts, and I came back with nothing to post here.

So I wasn’t able to harvest any humor nuggets from my familial encounters, but then, immediately afterwards, I got sick. And not just with a piddly little cold, either, but with bronchitis-an antibiotic-requiring, double-injection-laden, Sickness With A Name.

And once again, I was surrounded by details that just begged to be laughed at. Like the fact that I had to go to what my husband calls a “doc-in-a-box” on a Sunday afternoon, where all the personnel apparently have been trained to view every single patient as slightly mentally impaired, and as an exact clone of every other patient they’ve ever seen. So when they encounter someone who is intelligent, articulate, and individualistic, they are completely thrown off. Or the fact that when the door closes on your exam room, you apparently become 5 years old again and have to get your injections in an extremely private and delicate portion of your anatomy, so that in addition to not being able to breathe or speak, now you are also not able to walk, sit down or lay on your side.

Then, due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to be sick all alone for 4 days, left to the tender (?) mercies of our 3 animal companions. As I’ve mentioned before , their skills at nursing are dubious at best, but they did keep me company, taking turns lying on my side like big, hairy poultices. And while they didn’t possess any of the healing properties of actual poultices, such as drawing out infections or clearing up chest congestion, they did know exactly when it was time for me to, “get up, Get Up, GET UP!”, which they effectively communicated to me by ramming their bony little heads repeatedly into mine.

Or, I could examine the fact that last night our across-the-street neighbors got a load of fresh, and I do mean fresh, horse manure delivered to their front lawn for use as a fertilizer. This happens with some frequency, and I have discovered that I have very strong feelings about how the outdoors should smell. If I had to make a list of all the qualities I’d like there to be in the odor of the outdoors, the very first item on my list would be”Not Like Poo.”

So this is what I’ve been dealing with. I can see the humor potential in the contrast between my family’s unrealistic expectations and my actual language experience. I can inherently sense the laughter potential in words associated with bronchitis, like “phlegm”, and “mucus”. I instinctively know that anything dealing with anyone’s ass is really funny. I can sense the oddity of having one’s fertilizer delivered straight from the horse’s, um, end, rather than buying it in bags at the garden center like everyone else. And don’t even get me started on the rat situation. But so far, none of these carefully planted humor kernels have blossomed for me yet.

I blame the phlegm.

Two words that should never, ever, under any circumstances whatsoever, be used together are these:

RAT

ORGY

(So, you can probably guess what the last two weeks have been like around here.)

So far I have to say that, in all honesty, 2006 has not really impressed me yet. Here’s why.

First of all, I have had a really bad sore throat and head congestion for the past three days which, besides just making me feel icky, also makes it very difficult to talk. If you know me at all, then you know that this period of enforced silence has been an extreme hardship unto itself. I can only assume that this is the result of having had to be extra-charming for extended visits with my in-laws, my family, and my brother’s fiance’s family, all in one week.

So as I was lying in bed this afternoon, reading about the Sweet Potato Queens and brainstorming for possible Queenly titles I could bestow upon myself, I heard my husband call out to me from the living room: “Could you come here for a minute? I need your help.”

He certainly did, as I discovered when I entered our living room to find a large portion of attic insulation lying on the floor, and a sizable hole in the ceiling. Fortunately, as I have had some previous experience with this kind of situation, and since there was not a Scary Act Of Nature taking place outside, and since it was impossible that I could in any way be held responsible for this, I was able to remain calm. He was actually pretty calm too, since he had been able to complete the latest step necessary in his Pursuit Of A High Quality HDTV Signal. Apparently, a big giant hole in your ceiling is a small price to pay for good TV.

So the crisis passed, and I was feeling a little bit better…until I heard The Noise. If you have animals, you already know what The Noise sounds like, but for those of you without animal companions I will try and reproduce it here.

HOI-HOI-HHOOOIIINNNKKKAAAACCCCKKKK

That noise is, of course, the sound of the big cat horking stuff up all over the rug. In more than one spot.

Having lived with cats now for over 8 years, my husband and I have well-honed, highly ingrained abilities for dealing with this kind of situation, which mostly involve going off by ourselves so we can figure out how to make the other person clean it up. This often leads to our own, unique, slightly twisted style of gambling and upping the ante.

My Husband: I’ll trade you hanging up the clothes in the dryer and switching out the dishes in the dishwasher.
Me: I see your dishes and your laundry, and I’ll raise with dumping the trash and scrubbing the toilet.

It’s amazing, really, when push comes to shove, how many other things we can find that we are willing to do instead of cleaning up all the stuff that comes out of the cats. (Like figuring out how to turn it into a funny blog post, for example.) Of course, it’s even scarier when we come upon things we want to do even less than clean up cat stuff. But that’s another post. Right now, it’s gamblin’ time.