Operation "Get That Rat Out of My Flat!"

This place looks like Paddy's market!

--My Mother

This evening finds the Rat's Nest in a state of disarray, piled ceiling-high with junk. Nothing's where it ought to be. A small armada of pots and pans is moored in the hallway, and there's a dead-rat necropolis atop the fridge. There's a suitcase in my bed, a vacuum cleaner in my wheelchair, and Stella, well, she's trying to eat the television set. I don't know what became of my sneakers. I think the dehumidifier might have taken them prisoner. Either that, or they ran off with my tap shoes*.

That is to say, I'm packing. I am pleased to report that, after an exhaustive (and sometimes bizarre) search, a new Rat's Nest has been found--hang out more flags! There's just one wee catch: the old tenants won't be out till late November. Until then, there will be a limbo period, during which I'll be sleeping in a box in Stanley Park. (Just kidding. I'm staying at Gail's. Stella will have to stay in her cage during the limbo period--can't have her walking over someone else's carpets with her dirty rat-feet--but in a 4' x 3' x 2' cage, it won't be too hard on her.)

While packing, I've turned up the most unbelievable rubbish--a beanbag chair buried under a drift of papers (there was a time, indeed, not so very long ago, when that was my only piece of furniture!); a dead rat preserved in spirits; the world's tattiest paintbrush--oh, and about a thousand obscure little notes to myself, written on everything from the backs of bills to torn-off pieces of meat pie boxes. Most were completely indecipherable, but a few stirred memories:

In the wee hours, words becoming...other words

America's Next Top Model becomes Annoying Top Models (more accurate, perhaps?). Ripley's Believe it or Not becomes Ripley's Boogersnot. My name becomes a two-word description of a sex act so obscene it's forbidden in most of America, and possibly parts of Britain and Germany as well. These miraculous transformations occur thanks to insomnia goggles--ocular trickeries visited upon unsuspecting readers after a minimum twenty-four consecutive sleepless hours. I usually get them when I'm blobbed out in front of the Internet or the telly, looking for something to read or watch.

Cracks in pavement, kicking with shoes

Instinct tells me this refers to a strange period in my life, when I found myself suspended between the end of one era and the beginning of another. I had decided to abandon an education in medicine in favour of four years of art school, but I had a month to go before the shit hit the fan, so to speak. In one of the wisest moves I've ever made, I decided to enjoy the hell out of that month. I went for long walks at twilight, savouring the familiarity of sights I'd never see again, and waving to folks I'd soon lose touch with forever. I rode on buses with my boyfriend when I was supposed to be studying virology (or endocrinology, or your choice of other -ologies). I went on mad rampages through Toys-R-Us. Hula hoops and Nerf bats were involved, and I got thrown out. I quit my job in a rude and obnoxious way. And then, when summer's last sigh had faded, I took my scholarship money and ran. (Yes, I had to give it back eventually.) It was the most irresponsible month of my life. I miss it, sometimes.

Zounds!

I wanted to start saying "Zounds" a lot, because I thought it ought to be a more popular word. Fortunately, I forgot.

Addio, giorni brillanti, speranze, fiori,
Il ciel d'inverno non ha colori.

This was written directly on the floor of my solarium, and took five minutes and two Brillo pads to scrape off. There were several more lines, as well, but they were smudged and illegible. I put them there about a year ago, as winter descended over the city. A straggling bird had perched itself on the seagull ledge, and was singing with great passion--eyes squinched shut, chest thrust out, the whole bit. Feeling sentimental, I put those words in its beak. When I looked down to record them on the floor, the bird flew away.

...he intends to bring my breakfast under the influence of Communism.

A quote from "The Short-Timers", referring to a dawn assault by a Viet Cong rat! (I liked the way it sounded, the bringing of one's breakfast under the influence of Communism, and meant to use a similar sentence structure to describe Stella's antics at some point. I never came up with anything good, though.)

Monsieur Canibal video

I meant to make a video of Stella beating up on her teddy bear, set to the tune of Monsieur Canibal, but I never got around to it. I still might, however. It's a good idea.

Arse-Face Towel

There's a line of...er, indelicate towels one can buy on the Internet: one end is marked "ARSE" and the other reads "FACE". This is ostensibly to prevent folks from wiping their faces with the end of the towel that's been up their crack, but the real idea is to get laughs. I wanted an Arse-Face towel, and wrote it down so I'd remember it next time I had money. Sadly, I never have money, so I still haven't got one.

Speaking of ulterior motives, the only reason I'm writing all this is to avoid carrying on with my packing. I hate packing. Still, I'm moving everything out of here next week, so I'd better get to it.

* I don't tap dance. The reason I have tap shoes is that I enjoy wearing them on shopping excursions and driving my fellow shoppers round the twist. Clickity-clickity-clickity!