The building we live in sends out a weekly email newsletter. It usually contains things like “Elevator one is being worked on such-and-such date and will be unavailable,” or “Mark your calendars for the upcoming Halloween party.”
Normally I just scan through it, find nothing of interest and then delete it.
A couple of weeks ago though I was doing my usual scan when a word jumped out at me.
Needless to say, I read a little closer.
Apparently there is a rat problem in the flower garden outside the front door of the building, but maintenance is working on it.
I’m sorry, what? I realize I’m new to this big city, downtown living, but ewww!
I immediately turned to Ricky and said, “The first rat I see, my ass is headed back to Nashville.”
(You can see where this is headed, right?)
A couple of days after my big proclamation, I saw a rat. Middle of the day, people walking around, and that little fucker ran right across the sidewalk outside my building, not a care in the world.
(And when I say little fucker, I should really say HUGE, GINORMOUS fucker because that thing was B.I.G!)
I freaked out and immediately told everyone I saw for the rest of the day.
Seriously, my conversations went like this,
Them: “Hi, Lucy.”
Me: “I saw a rat!” I am a scintillating conversationalist, I tell ya.
Sadly, those of you in Nashville have probably noticed that I am NOT back, but believe me there were a couple of hours (who am I kidding? DAYS!) after the rat spotting where I seriously considered it.
But this you can bet on—the first time one of those little fuckers gets in my apartment? I. AM. OUT!
(Prepare your guest bedrooms!)