Thursday, December 07, 2006


Last night I came home to a note from my landlord, scrawled on the back of some cardboard. The note said that he'd caught two rats, but that the poison was working "real good" to eliminate others, and he wished me a merry Christmas. Pleased that I finally had some written evidence that he'd been notified of the problem, I saved the note. "You're probably going to be back here before Christmas," I murmured.

I settled in, lights glowing brightly to discourage the rats from coming out to play, to watch the finale of America's Next Top Model. I flipped to The Biggest Loser, and as I watched the people work out while I ate chocolate, I heard another scuttle in the ceiling above my couch. I took my cork coaster, tossed it at the ceiling with a yell of "fucker!" and didn't hear anything else for the rest of the night.

I came in to work today to see all your very useful comments and advice, and I'd also emailed my friend who used to work at the Boston Housing Court, who had me register a complaint with the Boston Housing Division and make an appointment for an inspection. While the website is a little difficult to navigate (you have to be very precise to get it to recognize your address) a woman just called me to make an appointment for next Wednesday afternoon. Thanks, City of Boston!

I do feel bad calling in the big guns on my landlord, who has been very attentive in many ways (he replaced my stove when I moved in, he has come to address the problem of the rats instead of pretending I never told him) but I just can't live in a place that is literally crawling with vermin. Every noise or rustle has me convinced the place is either going to blow sky-high, catch ablaze, or a rat has found his way into my actual living space and will bite my eyeballs out with his rabid fangs.

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