Damn the Man

My plan tonight was simple: groceries, gym, laundry. I know, my life is so glamorous. However, after throwing a load in the wash, I realized I needed to reload my card. (This laundry room doesn't take quarters, only cards that can be filled with $10 or $20 at a time. LAME.)

I went to the machine only to find that it was missing. Apparently, the machine had been stolen, and until it was replaced, cards could be purchased in the rental office for $40. Who wants to put $40 on a laundry card at once? And furthermore, who is available between the hours of 9am and 6pm to purchase these cards? This is why I hate my apartment management company.

So I was left with the dilemma of the wet laundry. I don't know any of my neighbors (and after seeing a tranny in the elevator last weekend, I don't think I want to) so I couldn't borrow a laundry card. I remembered a scene in Uncle Buck, where he dries laundry in the microwave, but that seemed like too much work. So I ended up draping wet laundry on every available surface in my apartment.

I would include a picture, but it just looks way too pathetic in here.

Sky Blue Sky

One of the best things about living in San Francisco is getting out of the city on the weekends. As much as I love it, the dirt, the smells, the cement, the noise, and the people can all wear you down. It's always good to get out, whether it's north or south, and see some wide open spaces.

Last Saturday morning, after a low-key night in, four girls woke up feeling well rested and without hangovers. This is a rare occasion, so we decided to break from our usual brunch/shopping/lounging routine and go for a hike.

The day was gorgeous, and afterward we sat on the beach with beers and champagne, and watched the sunset. So romantic. I guess it was our belated Valentine date, since Emily was too sick to join the rest of us for dinner on Thursday. I love these girls.

Call a motherf*cking exterminator.

Last night at 12:30 AM I was awoken by banging, stomping and shrieking. I assumed that Kayla had just arrived home from her weekend in Minneapolis, and although all I did this weekend was sleep, I was pissed that she was being so loud. That is, until I received the following text message: Oh my GOD. We have a mouse in our house.

Look - my skin is tough (sort of). I've killed live cockroaches and picked up dead ones. I've had a fat rat cut me off while I tried to run up the steps of the Houston subway stop. I've eaten an entire bowl of cereal with milk that had expired a week prior. I've had a homeless man chase me. I've seen two men throw up on the subway and one almost die. I've even walked down the streets of NYC barefoot - a place where mice/cockroaches/rats do, too.

But honestly, nothing could have prepared me for last night's text message.

Kayla busted into my bedroom seconds after the text was sent. I could only make out her silhouette - her dark arms flailing in the air, body shaking. The story went like this: she walked into her bedroom, suitcase in hand and flipped on the lights just as the mouse zipped across the floor, landing safely behind her TV.

We screamed together and expressed how much we hated this city (it's a love/hate relationship, as you know). Then all we could think/talk about was the episode of Sex and the City where the mouse runs across Carrie's face as she's sleeping. And then all we could think/talk about was, why was the mouse in her room? She's clean. SO CLEAN. And I'm messy. SO MESSY. Sometimes I eat in my bed!

Does that mean there is a little mouse family living amongst my piles of t-shirts and dirty jeans?

I'm looking for someone to tell me what to do. Because I just can't do this. I can't. What's next? An albino rat?