News, Views, and Shmooze....

A Jerry Sighting

Sunday evening, while I was dancing at a friend's daughter's bat-mitzvah, my husband saw something flashing up the stairs.

Then down the stairs.

Then along the hall, where it slipped beneath the door to the basement.

Jerry.

He's big.

That's what my husband says, and I believe him.

My husband used masking tape to seal the area beneath the door to the basement.

Monday I phoned  Michael the exterminator and described the hand-width my husband showed me to indicate Jerry's length.

"That's a rat," says Michael.

I'm thrilled. "When can you come?" I asked.

"I'll be there today, I promise."

Michael hasn't come yet.

Jerry has been awfully quiet.

Our Mouse

Our mouse -- Jerry, I now call him -- is still at large. He has managed to avoid the peanut-butter laden traps Michael set out and has claimed one of our breakfast room chairs as his.

Maybe Jerry doesn't like peanut butter. Maybe there aren't enough traps. (There aren't.) Maybe, as my son-in-law says, Jerry is laughing his head off at our pathetic attempts to catch him.

And then, in yesterday's L.A. Times, I read the "Science File" heading:

"Without Gene, Mice Don't Know Meaning of Fear."

Scientists have identified a "fear" gene in mich that when removed turns them into daredevils, seemingly heedless to both inborn fears an drisky situations that normal mice have learned to avoid through experience.

The gene, known as stathmin, controls the production of a protein linked to the creation of long-term fear patterns...

I'm pretty sure my stathmin levels are fine.

Jerry's, on the other hand...

When the Cat's Away

It's back.

Not the roach.

The mouse.  At least, I hope it's a mouse.

It's not the first one. Michael removed it, remember?

But they're still busy working on the house next door. This morning the banging began at 6:40. I suppose I should be grateful for the wake-up call, since I didn't set my alarm correctly.

But I'm not, really.

Michael was here yesterday, setting traps. One near the door to the basement, where we found the last one. The door to the basement is across from my study. The other trap is in the kitchen, near the air-conditioning vent.

Last night, when I returned from playing mah jongg, I was leery about stepping into the house. I want it caught, but I don't want to find it.

Silly, isn't it?

When One Is One Too Many

On my desk, peeking out from under a yet-to-be-filled in Sudoku puzzle, is a roach.  I stare at him for a moment, then lunge.

He is faster than I and scurries off.

To where? I can't find him among the clutter of papers. Flashing through my mind is Barbara's annecdote about the fax machine that was invaded by....

I phone Michael, the exterminator.

"How big is it?" he asks.

"Big."

"Water bug," he says. "You don't have to worry about him. They can't live inside."

I know water bugs. I've seen the huge variety -- in Israel, they're called "jukes" -- and my visitor isn't one of them.

"Not a water bug," I tell Michael.

Michael tells me he'll come by Monday to check the entire house and spray inside and out.

When I hang up, I see "him" again.

In the interim, search, I have neatened some papers, moved my cell phone and sunglasses out of the way.

I watch as he scampers across the desk and hides under my web cam.

I move the cam.

He heads for my keyboard.

I move the keyboard.

I slam my palm down.

Victory.

Micro(wave) Managing

Last night--or to be more accurate, at four-thirty this morning--it occurrs to me that our Sharp microwave is under warranty. I've been brooding about the microwave--not just because of the roaches, but because of the smoky odor it emits whenever it's being used.

I'm not sure why I was up so early. Probably because I'd eaten too much after fasting on Sunday. (Shiva Assar b'Tamuz --the seventeenth of Tamuz--began the Three Weeks, a mournful period that commemorate the seige of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Holy Temples. It ends with the fast of Tisha b'Av.) I should have stopped after the lentils and rice. I didn't need the Jamoca ice cream. The popcorn was really de trop.

I slipp out of bed, go downstairs, and find the microwave pamphlet and the 800 number for Sharp. After I punch in my zip code, a recorded message gives me the names and phone numbers of the two closet authorized service centers.

The first is in Peoria, Illinois. Not exactly "close" to L.A., where I live. 

In the seconds that follow I'm dreading locating a box for the microwave, taping it shut, shlepping it to UPS. And what about the postage? I bought the microwave at Target for under $60. I'd be better off getting a new one and chucking this one.

But then I'm offered the second authorized service center. It's less than a mile from my house. (Now Peoria makes even less sense.)

So this afternoon my son loads the microwave into the trunk of my car and accompanies me to the service center, where I tell a cute guy named Tony about the smoky smell. When he asks, I hand him my sales receipt.

"We'll check it out," he says.

"There's one more thing," I continue. I hesitate. "It's a little gross."

Tony waits. He raises a brow.

"There's a roach in the microwave." I point to the oval window.

Tony peers inside.

Another guy behind the counter says, "Happens all the time. They like the heat." Nonchalant, with a Russian accent.

I nod. "You've seen this before?"

"Many times."

"So how do they get into the microwave?" my son asks.

"Next time I see one, I'll ask him," says the Russian guy. He laughs.

I laugh, too. My microwave is under warranty. My roaches are Sharp's problem.

I hope.

More on Les Roaches

The dead roach is now a pathetic, shriveled remnant on the bottom of the window display in the microwave. Yesterday, one of his family was screening the area all day, sweeping the oval window in broad strokes.

The dots are still there.

The power on my microwave just went out, and there are no digital numbers in the window.

Coincidence?

I don't think so...

Now I've discovered that I lost power all over the house for a few seconds.

A power outage, obviously. Too many people using too much electricity because of the insufferable heat.

That's probably it.

The Roach Wars

I found a dead roach this morning.

In the past few months it's been war. I phoned Michael, our screenwriter exterminator, when we spotted our first roach, but Michael hasn't returned either of my calls.

Twice my husband pulled out the fridge that abutts the kitchen counter where we usually spot these insects that have made their home in ours. We find lone scouts on the other counters, but our roaches prefer the small counter where the hot water urn sits. Roaches apparently enjoy warmth. Twice my husband sprayed the area with K Gro Ant and Roach Killer, but our roaches are hardy, and determined.

So am I.

Every morning, and sometimes during the day, I find two or three  huddling under the urn, planning their moves. I expect them, so I am no longer revolted by their presence . (It's the stealthy roaches that make me cringe, the ones that take me by surprise and scuttle across a shelf and disappear--where?) But I'm not exactly thrilled to see them. I raise the urn quickly, poised for attack, paper towel in hand, but the roaches skitter off with Indie 500  speed, and at best I conquer one.

The other day I took the roach killer out of the utility closet and headed for the kitchen.

"Dangerous, Rochelle," my husband warned. "It's a kitchen counter. We put food there."

"Not near the urn," I said.

I promised I would soap and rinse the area well after the battle.

The next two mornings that's what I did. Lifted the urn. Sprayed the escaping roaches.

Got 'em all.

But.

The dead roach is on his back, legs up...in the liquid-crystal display window of our almost-new microwave.

My daughter spotted the first one in the microwave window almost two months ago.

"You don't want to see," she said.

She was right. I was horrified. My first inclination was to toss the microwave and get a new one, but what would prevent another roach from squirming its way inside?

Sometimes we bang on the display window, and the roaches scatter. But not always. Sometimes they appear when we're using the microwave.

Sometimes there are two roaches in our microwave window. Once, I saw three. And I'm pretty sure  the tiny dots I see near the liquid crystal numbers are roach eggs. My roaches are mating in my microwave.

Lovely.

When I'm not disgusted and frustrated, I'm fascinated. I watch them, wonder if they're watching me. I study their tiny filaments, their spindly legs.

I want them gone. Out of my house, my kitchen, my microwave.

But now one of them is dead. Will his brethren remove him?

There are dots in the window.

Michael, where are you?