Home�You never know,� I say with somber sincerity. �You never know.� She laughs at this and tosses her hair in defiance.
My toolbox sits open on the kitchen counter � in the event of an emergency, it�s ready to go. All its contents are displayed in a way that makes them easily accessible and each piece is shiny and clean. In other words, they�ve never been used. I wasn�t always this fastidious � okay, anal retentive � but ever since I bought my apartment, I�ve feared some massive event that would require a moment�s notice repair. My mother reminds me constantly that owning an apartment brings and entire set of new responsibilities. No more calling the super to unclog the drain, no more complaining to the landlord about peeling paint and invading ant armies. �You�re going to have to take care of it by yourself,� she warns.
At first, I welcomed the challenge. My apartment desperately needed a new paint job and the ratty fuschia-colored shag carpet needed to be removed immediately. The paint job took four days (I�m proud to say I did it myself) and the floor took two days, one to remove the carpet and buff the hardwood, and one to gloss and dry. The apartment was gorgeous and I looked forward to living a perfect Ethan Allen/IKEA life.
And then the mice came. The weather turned cool and the little critters preferred the warmth of the old pre-war apartment building that the cold cement outside. As a self-proclaimed neat freak, I never left out a crumb towards their upkeep, so instead they resorted to chewing on the drywall under the floorboards and within the walls of my beloved sanctuary.
There must have been several thousand of them, all chewing furiously to store up for the pending winter. Then one day I noticed a hole. It wasn�t big enough to put my fist through, but it was certainly sufficient to release a rodent into my pristine dwelling. My mind raced � what could I possibly use to prevent that from happening? The pages of my cherished IKEA magazine � the children�s furniture section, I wouldn�t need that � sufficed.
Then, in the middle of one night, I had a revelation! I remembered Home Depot�s incredible hours, and coincidentally, it was four in the morning. This was my chance, this was a sign! I sped over to the store, armed with only a credit card. My eyes wild with inspiration, I scanned the entire warehouse for the tools I�d need for the job. I laughed wickedly down Aisle 5, dragging behind me a cart full of supplies.
I woke my sister up with the sound of hammering, mixed in with mumblings to myself about how those �damned mice would pay for this.� She thought me mad, as I had holed myself into the corner of the room, surrounding myself with shiny hammers, wrenches and other tools that I wouldn�t need for the job. She yawned and complained, �It�s five in the morning. Couldn�t this wait?�
I hammered in the last nail. No mouse would ever break through the improved, hand-crafted wall I alone had created. �No!� I smirked and wrung my hands in sheer delight. �No! Home Depot is open 24 hours!� She shook her head and fetched the yellow pages to look up a 24-hour psychiatrist.