I'm Sorry, GusGus

"I think I have a mouse in my apartment" I called my parents yesterday morning.
My mom said, "You should probably buy a mouse-trap honey."
My dad said, "You should probably stand on a table."

I casually mention it to my co-worker over lunch.
"A mouse? You should tell your landlord. Also probably buy a trap."

Resolved in my quest to do just that, I later brought it up again to her on our way home, so that we could stop at the drug store.
"Athletic little thing, I live on the third floor!"
"The last girl who lived there had a mouse too! I think she also bought a mouse trap for it.  She named him Gusgus--like the cute little guy in Cinderella--you know?

Oh great. Now he has a name! And I'm picturing him with a funny little hat singing, and sewing, and saving the day. What was I doing?! I couldn't murder a small, helpless creature. I was always complaining about living alone, perhaps I'd let him be my roommate for the winter!

We passed the drug store. "I'll just deal with it later" I told her.

But then I heard little feet scuttling in my dreams. I heard them everywhere. Every creak on every floorboard, was a disease-ridden animal. Increasingly, I saw mice everywhere: Every leaf that blew past with a gust of wind, fluttered with the movement of a small rodent. Every shadow that moved even remotely quickly--he was everywhere. Haunting me. Plaguing me.

I finally convinced myself that I should buy a mouse trap. The only ones CVS had to offer--black ones that looked stupid-proof. It was structured like a clam:  A hinge on one side and a serrated jaw on the other. You opened it, set the spring to a click, and when there was pressure in the front, the mouth snapped shut.
It looked like once it caught the mouse, the victim  would be completely concealed from view. Except for maybe his tail. In my now suddenly murderous inner-monologue, I pictured his little tail left dangling out of the trap, and as I smiled with sick satisfaction, and I bought the contraption.

With strategically-placed peanut-butter, I put it in the little crook next to the closet by the front door where he last ran. Intentionally making lots of noise--because I didn't want to see him. I didn't want a beady-eyed glare staring me down as I set his own death trap.

Days passed.

Every time I walked through the door, I glanced at my little black trap. Relieved that it was wide open, right where I placed it, but dreading the moment when the small, crawly thing will actually be consumed by its lethal jaws, and I'll have to dispose of the corpse.

...

Tonight, it finally happened: when I came home from work, the trap was missing from its spot next to the door. Talking to my father on the phone at the time, I told him about the caught mouse, even described the little tail sticking out, just as I'd imagined. The deed was done.

Nauseous with guilt and disgust to rival Poe's most heart-wrenching tragedies I went into the kitchen to muster up the strength necessary to pick up the deceased soul.
The conversation with my father:
Dad:"Is he dead?"
Me:"Of course he's dead!"
"How do you know?"
"The trap's not where I put it, plus I saw a tail sticking out of it. What do you mean, 'is he dead?'" what a stupid question to harp on, Father. Here I am, a grieving murderer... 

I turned the corner from the kitchen, back to the closet. It was gone. It was gone. 

THE TRAP AND THE MOUSE WERE GONE. 

Naturally, I screamed.
Naturally, my dad couldn't stop laughing.

I jumped on my bed. Because that would help. I saw him briefly--his little foot the only thing in the trap, the rest of his body wiggling, trying to shake it loose.

Then he was gone again.

All I could picture was a helpless little creature, army-crawling himself with his last breaths to escape. Or all of his little mice friends, vowing to move the fallen comrade with honor, if they can just get him to safety. "Come on, men! Hoist! Get him out of here! We saw what happened to Gusgus last year! Freddy's still breathing!" The mouse captain inspiring his crew to Save Private Mousy.

Somewhere in my closet was a half-dead mouse. I should've relieved him of his misery. It was just trapped there, in tortured torment, for who knows how long now? How long had it been wriggling, praying for death by my front door?
But I couldn't do it. I couldn't even look for it.

In a panic, I called my friend, Ryan-Patrick. Never had a human seemed so manly, so strong, or so wonderful, as in the moment he said he'd dispose of the writhing creature in my closet. But by the time he arrived, the mouse was nowhere to be seen. The trap was still there. mouth clamped shut, empty. The little guy's buddies must have made a successful rescue.

It escaped. It escaped. Now there's a broken, maimed, angry mouse, loose in my apartment.

He's going to slowly climb up my bed frame and whisper in my ears the pain of his little mouse foot, vowing his revenge on my attempted murder.

... I'm having trouble falling asleep.

Black TIE?? Not Black EYE? My Mistake

The Harman Center for the Arts Gala  - one of Washington DC's biggest cultural events. By far the most glamorous and formal evening I've ever been a part of. This year, the honoree was Julie Taymor (the creative mind behind the Lion King on Broadway, the Tempest with Helen Mirren--who was also there, Frieda, and a bunch of other really incredible, largely award-winning things). The greatest perk of my job thus far was the assignment to be Julie's personal contact person for the weekend, her handler.

I felt like Cinderella (or maybe Cinderella's personal assistant.)

The Gala was a dream; the night before was a nightmare. But a kind of funny nightmare, which is why I had to write it down:

For reasons that are unrelated to the Gala, and are irrelevant to this story, I had been crying. 

Really solid, streaming, sobbing, weeping tears. You know, the kind of good cry you get in once a year. So I crawl into bed - nose stuffy, head cloudy, with eyes so puffy it's a struggle to keep them open. So I don't bother. I reach for my phone to set the alarm for the morning--to go see my dear friends, Julie Taymor and Helen Mirren - in the pitch black, the phone is knocked to the ground beside my bedside table. Immediately, I lean over, with unthinking full velocity, pull my body down to reach for the fallen soldier.  Because my eyes are closed, I don't seen the thick, wooden bed frame sticking out past my bed. On my way down, I hear a thud, then feel a blast of pain shoot through my left eye. 

I swear loudly. Because I live alone, I swear again, louder. 

I jump up to get some frozen peas for what I'm sure is a peach-sized black and blue bruise. I don't have frozen peas. The only thing in my freezer is a frozen pizza and those instant meal, microwave pad-thai boxes. 

I run to the bathroom, frozen noodles glued to my face, to examine the damage. How am I going to explain a purple shiner to the first female to ever win a Tony award for directing?! Excuses race through my head.

I don't drink, so I couldn't use intoxication.

Some legitimate considerations: 

-I got hit by a car. But don't worry, I'm fine. 

-I got mugged; crazy people out on Halloween. But don't worry, I'm totally fine. 

-I saved a small child from a run-away piece of construction machinery. I'm a little sore, but I'm really, totally fine. 

Anything is better than the truth: 

I RAMMED MY FACE INTO MY BED FRAME. 

I can't tell the level of damage. My eye is swollen, and pinkish, but was that from crying? It hurts to open or wink, but again--preexisting post-weeping conditions? I suppose I will have to wait until the morning to really get an accurate assessment on how well I need to craft an excuse. 

My do-it-yourself noodles are quickly losing their cold. Desperate, I return to my freezer. Wonder of Miracles, I have an ice tray! Some ice fairy must have put it there and filled it with water, so that in this moment I can have sweet, relieving ice.  

Sandwich bag full of ice in hand, I crawl back into bed. 

The next morning, the sandwich bag is now full of water, but it's still chilled. Both of my tired eyes appreciate the cool, so I share the wealth with the right eye. Thinking back on the events of the evening, I want to roll my eyes at the stupidity! But alas, I cannot.

I do go back to the mirror- one eye cannot open quite as wide as the other; but the asymmetry is negligible.

Wild relief: no shiner.

No need to lie to Julie Taymor about a car accident or to Dame Helen about my heroism. I just have to make sure I don't use the wrong fork at dinner or trip on my dress. Because there's a real possibility I might hit something on the way down and get a black eye.

P.S. Julie Taymor, Elliot Goldenthal, Helen Mirren, Jennifer Damiano, Fabrice Calmels, Albina Shagimuratova and so many more brilliant people at the gala were as amazing in person as you'd imagine them to be.