Ambien (Mis)adventure & Return of the Vermin II


I complained to my brother about the Midnight Mouse Massacre.  The smartass punk emailed me this, with the note “Get real, Sis.  Mice carry hantavirus.  No mercy!” 

   He is such a smart alec!  It did make me laugh and laugh and cheered me up quite a bit, though.  lol.

     I was awakened around 2 AM by the desperate, pathetic wailing of mice.

     I tried to ignore it and go back to sleep.  Because I knew why they were wailing.

      Nothing doing.  They would not stop squeaking (and I can’t blame them), and I could not ignore them.

      Time to do the deed.  It had to be done.  

      I sighed wearily, rolled out of bed, and put my glasses on.  Then I donned a pair of latex gloves and grabbed a flashlight.

      There, right outside my bedroom door, were three little grey mice stuck in the glue trap I’d laid down for them.  

       One of them appeared to be mostly dead–suffocated in glue.  The other two were quite lively.  They were freaking out.  They were making quite a racket.  

       I sighed again and took off my glasses.  Now my vision was blurred.  

       I fetched three plastic grocery bags from underneath the sink.  Then, quickly, I picked up the glue traps and their hapless captive mice and put them into one bag.  I tied it shut, and then put it into another bag.  I tied that one shut and then put it into the third bag.

       I thought about just throwing them away into the garbage can outside like that…but that would be wrong.  They would be terrified in the garbage bags for who-knows-how-long?

        Then I thought I could put them in the freezer.  That would be faster…but still fucked up.

       Big sigh.  The mice were making the bag rustle a bit.

       I grabbed a heavy skillet from on top of the fridge and stepped out into the hallway of my apartment building, so that my birds couldn’t see The Awful Truth.  Margo, simian. 

       I scanned around for neighbors–nothing.  

       I crouched down, laid the bag on the floor, averted my eyes, and brought the skillet down hard.  Twice.  Twice, to make sure.  Two-bullet minimum, as the hit men say in mafia movies.  

       I couldn’t see any blood or gore.  Too many layers of plastic.

       I pitched the bag outside.  Then I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t.  I don’t think I’ve ever killed a mammal before.  Personally, I mean.  

       I don’t feel terrible about it…it had to be done.  It was still distasteful.  And I am so tired, and I really want a drink right now.

       I wish I wasn’t sleeping alone tonight.

       Or this morning…it’s 5:15 AM.  Rise and shine, sunbeam. 

                  *                    *                    *                       * 

 I’ve been unusually stressed at work recently (regular work, not secret job work) and consequently, my insomnia came back in a big way.  It’s terrible.  I hate it.

    I was complaining about it to a friend, who offered me 2 of her Ambien.  

     “Is it safe?  Does it work?”  I asked her.

      “Yes, it works great.  Just be sure to take it at bedtime.  If you stay up and watch a movie or TV, you won’t remember how it ended the next morning.”

        Seemed harmless enough!  I took the Ambien and hid them in my jewelry box for a last resort (and yes, I know it’s not right to take drugs that haven’t been prescribed to you).  

       A few days later, I found myself looking at the pills with red, bleary eyes.  My carpal tunnel was making my hands hurt.  My students were making my head hurt.  This degenerate scumbag I’d been researching was making my heart hurt.  

        I shot off a text message to my pharmacist friend in California: I have ambien 10 mg.  Is it safe to take?

        He responded: The Surgeon should give it to you the next time he wants to induce amnesia in you! (note to readers: don’t ask)  You should probably take benadryl instead.

         I already eat so much damn benadryl that I ought to buy stock in the company!  

        So anyway…you see where this is going: I ate it.  One pill.

        NEVER AGAIN!

        Never.  Ever.  Again.

        First of all: the dreams.  Vivid, epic, technicolor dreams.  I guess that wasn’t all bad, in and of itself, but towards the end I started having obsessive, unpleasant dreams about the Mathematician coming to my apartment, and I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or awake, and that wasn’t so hot.  I kept trying to wake up from it–you know how sometimes you realize you’re dreaming and can pull yourself out of it…?  Well, I would wake up and hear the sound of a mouse rustling around in my room, because those damn mice came back and I’ve been obsessed with exterminating them recently.  I don’t know if I was dreaming about the mouse rustling around or what, but it was very intense and unpleasant and it upset me much more than it should have, and then I would be dreaming about Dr. Cheating McLiarpants again and it just went ON and ON….UGH!

       So, I finally wake up annnnnnddddd……

      (cause you knew there was more!)

       Hmmm!  Well, look at this!  Looks like someone’s been doing things in my apartment last night–which is really weird, because I was the only person at home! 

        I have almonds in the freezer that I keep for Parrot.  

       Well, someone ate them all, and it wasn’t the bird.  

        The empty bag was in the sink.

        There was a bottle of vinegar and a bottle of vanilla extract taken from the very top cupboard and left on the countertop.  I have absolutely no idea what I would have used either one of those for.  

        Hmmm, what is this…?  Is this an uneaten salmon sushi roll on my coffee table?  How did a salmon roll get here?  Did it grow little legs (fins?) at the sushi restaurant and run over here of its own accord?

        In a panic, I checked my phone.

       I had the sushi restaurant deliver food to my apartment.  I do not remember making the call.  Or paying for it. 

       Cold terror, then, as I realized other possibilities…

       Oh God, tell me that I did not DRUNK-DIAL ANY OF MY EX-BOYFRIENDS!  PLEASE!  PLEASE!

        I scanned my call and text history.  I was in the clear.  Oh thank you, Jesus.  No calls to anyone except the sushi place.

       I dug around in the delivery bag for the receipt.  FRIGGIN $42 of sushi!  Who the hell was I buying it for?  A platoon of marines?

       I found the rest of it in the fridge.  At least I didn’t eat it.  Gawd.

       The birds were okay, and did not seem afraid of me, so at least I know I didn’t mess with them in my inebriated state.

      Finally: I guess I did my nails.  Or tried to do my nails. I should have taken a picture of them before I took the polish off, because it was the worst manicure I’ve ever had.  It looked like I let a 4-year-old do it.  Or someone with a major neurological disorder.  It also seems that I got the clear base coat confused with the clear quick-dry topcoat, because in addition to the atrocious quality of the paint job, there is polish in my bottle of basecoat.  Uhhh…..

        I consulted my computer.  I hadn’t emailed anyone.  Lucked out there. (Tangentially: In AA, you hear amazing stories of what drinkers do to prevent themselves from sending drunken late-night emails.  Some of them are actually pretty inventive.  I heard one guy say that he set up a program on his computer that required him to do a math problem before he could send an email.  I myself used to have every email sent after 10 PM forwarded automatically to a special folder.  The next morning, I’d read the emails in the cold, hard light of sobriety.  It they were, you know, cogent, I’d forward them on to their intended addressees.  If they were, ahhh, not, I would delete them.  I used to congratulate myself on my clever plan to outwit my drunken self-sabotage.  Tell me that’s not junkie thinking at its finest.) 

      I know all of this might sound comical, but it really didn’t feel that way at the time.  Blackouts are scary, and those vivid dreams weren’t so great, either.  

      No more Ambien for me.  PASS!

                *                      *                  *              *                  * 
    Next: these mice and driving me crazy.  I managed to vanquish them for many months, but last week I noticed that they’d gotten into some food in the pantry.  Then I saw one running out of the corner of my eye when I turned on the light in the kitchen.  

       New York City living, man.  Welcome to the Big Apple, Chump!

      Back to the routine: bleach and scrub the bird cages.  Store all the food in the fridge.  Vacuum and bleach the floors.  

       I put down traps.  Eight traps.  

       I hate the snap traps because I’m a wuss and I hate to see their bloody, mutilated corpses…especially if they don’t die right away.  Ugh!  So I put down these instead: 

    “Guaranteed to Kill!” the package says.  I want to know: guaranteed to kill what?  My fucking checking account balance?  Because I’ve caught two and I was hoping that would be the end of it, but the other day I looked into my living room and saw two little gray mice running around, gay as you please, as if they were paying rent and belonged here.  It looked like they were playing tag with each other.  ARGH!

     I also invested in this expensive electronic mouse trap, which supposedly electrocutes them when they step inside.  The Amazon reviews were overwhelmingly positive, and I guess the fried mouse is supposed to look peaceful in death, as if it just went to sleep.  I couldn’t tell you, because it hasn’t killed anything yet, other than $27 at my local hardware store (I couldn’t wait to Amazon to ship it):

      There was a mouse in my room last night.  I heard it.  And no, last night was not the Ambien night. 

      I went back to the hardware store and complained bitterly.  Or as bitterly as a polite liberal white girl from the sticks can complain (I should have taken lessons from the Surgeon.  That guy was a world-class complainer.  He had no shame.  El zilcho).  

      “Glue traps,” said the Pakistani clerk.

      “Glue traps are gruesome!  And inhumane!  How would you like to die in a glue trap?”

       He looked at me like I was crazy.  “Do you want to get rid of the mice or not?”

        “Of course I do!  But what do I do when I find them alive and stuck halfway off of the trap, ripping their little feet off?”

       He laughed at me.  “I don’t know?  Call the police to protect you?  HA! HA!”

       So I bought some glue traps.  Does that make me a bad person?

       So be it.  I have to get rid of these little assholes.  My birds are all on lockdown because I have all these traps around, and I’m having to clean and bleach the floors as if I was my crazy OCD mother, and I am spending crazy money on these little tards (sez the mouse: Who wasted money on a $30 electric boondoggle, tard?  Thanks for the pasta, tard!).

        Good news: no roaches in some time.  Even a little one.

         FINALLY: Remember the huge monster roach I smashed in the last installment?  Would you like to know what C. did with it?

        She opened the locker of a mistress she dislikes and put the roach inside one of her boots!  ARRRGH!!!

        Unfortunately for C., she was not there when the roach was discovered in the boot…but she knows it was found, because the inside and outside border of the locker is now liberally powdered with boric acid.  

2 thoughts on “Ambien (Mis)adventure & Return of the Vermin II”

  1. Dear Miss Margo,

    Sorry to hear about the mice. You have to stuff steel wool into every opening in your apartment walls – sink pipes, radiator pipes, whatever. Figure out how they are getting in. The little buggers leave a scent behind, and other mice will come in.

    Of course, you could get an owl. They eat mice and an owl would be quite the conversation starter when people came over. You could watch it hunt.

    Back in my drinking days, I used to take notes when I watched certain TV shows I was likely to be asked about. This was after I was embarrassed by saying I had watched a show, but then not remembering anything about it when the conversation turned to specifics. I also used to write down the final scores of Yankee games I went to. Man, did I get drunk at Yankee Stadium. Like yourself, I thought this was clever, not a sign that something was wrong.

    Obviously, you should never get on C.’s bad side. What impresses me about her is that she saved the roach knowing what she would do. Usually people who have anger issues also have impulse control issues. But she is able to plan and execute, even improvise when the opportunity arises,all in the pursuit of goals that an eleven year old would find immature. I wonder if her abuse of clients is as real as her shenanigans with other dommes and her ex-boyfriend. I imagine she is happy when she is planning to hurt someone. That might make her a very exciting domme for a certain kind of sub.


  2. My ex used to make all sorts of messed up food products during Xanax/Tempazepam/Soma/opiates blackouts.

    Like a multi layer sandwich with just about everything on it (different meats, sauces, mashed potatoes, etc, which he couldn’t eat when he found the rest the next day. Boiling bread. Microwaving then frying mustard. So weird

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