A Mouse Tale

I don’t cook very much. I also grocery shop sporadically, and am usually incapable of planning meals beyond the next sandwich I’ll construct for myself. Feeding other people spontaneously is therefore not something at which I excel. I’ve come to terms with it. But as a result, the deep drawers in my kitchen that house a miscellaneous collection of ancient pasta and little-used exotic spices rarely get opened. A couple months ago, moments before some girlfriends were scheduled to arrive for takeout and a bitch-a-thon, it suddenly occurred to me that some sort of appetizer might be expected. With crossed fingers, I opened one of my kitchen drawers. Hopefully I could find something edible that could be dusted off and presented as an appetizer. 

As I grabbed for a container of slightly stale mixed nuts, I was appalled to find that while I’d been ignoring the contents of my kitchen, others had not. Lipton Chicken noodle dried soup mix was liberally scattered about. The paper wrapping on a can of coconut milk had been torn to bits, then seemingly abandoned in defeat. One drawer up, cumin seeds and black pepper kernels were jostling against random spice containers. And every surface was generously covered in a layer of tiny rodent-sized shit. I took a large sip of red wine and shut the drawers. 

Cleaning is not a priority for me, never has been. I briefly contemplated whether there was a scenario in which I could avoid dealing with this entirely. Having rodent poop pile up unknowingly in my kitchen was one thing and could be excused. (Or so I convinced myself.) But being aware of the existence of the poop and making a conscious decision to let it go unchallenged? I noodled it over. No, unacceptable. Yes, I may be a slovenly creature masquerading as a responsible adult. But we all have our limits.  And apparently allowing my kitchen to become a rodent feces depository was mine. So I cleaned up as best I could as I heard my doorbell chiming, and abandoned the container of now contaminated nuts. The shiraz would have to pull double duty as before-dinner drink and appetizer. 

One can be quite delusional about one’s independence until faced with a crisis. I’m slightly ashamed to admit it, but my first panicked phone call was to my parents. My mother, never shy about giving her opinion, stressed that I needed to move quickly if I wanted to retain control of my kitchen. As far as she and my father were concerned, I needed to stop procrastinating, get some traps, and kill some mice. Despite their advice, I decided to attempt a more humane solution. It’s not that I was conflicted about the prospect of killing the mice. I simply loathed the idea of coming in contact with a mouse, be it alive, scurrying across my kitchen floor, or as a carcass. Why spend $1.50 on a basic trap, when I could spend $20 on a solution that could end with the mice just departing on their own volition? Or so promised the electric device I purchased. A series of high frequency pulsations would soon send the mice army scurrying back from whence it came. I plugged in the device near the drawer with confidence, hopeful that this little problem would clear itself up without me getting my fingers any dirtier than they already were. I then made an impassioned little speech in which I requested the mice to cease and desist, simply for good measure, and then went about my business. 

Secretly pleased with my diplomatic and non-violent approach to the problem, I was optimistic at first. But it quickly became obvious that my civilized attempt at eradicating my rodent problem was not working. On a daily basis I checked for new poop. Tragically the rate of droppings did not decline ever so slightly. Despite the undeniable proof that my technique was flawed, I clung to it for a few days out of sheer stubbornness. After a period of procrastination and whining over the unfairness of it all, I cleaned the drawers thoroughly, threw out all infected food, and encased everything else in Tupperware. While cutting off their supply to my Lipton soup mix must have been frustrating, the poop deposits continued to accumulate. They now had no access to food, and as I’d not found any evidence of a nest, clearly my kitchen drawer wasn’t actually their primary place of residence. It appeared they were staging the rodent version of a sit-in, leaving droppings of their feces in protest. Unwilling to admit that a more violent course of action might be required, I moved the device right into the drawer, in amongst the highest concentration of droppings, and crossed my fingers. Rational people around me strongly campaigned for pre-meditated murder, but I stubbornly ignored their advice. A friend who had recently dealt with a similar mouse problem donated her mouse house traps to the cause, but I left them in my car trunk, not wanting to deal with the reality they represented.

My delusional reliance on the device was finally revealed for all its idiocy on a Tuesday morning at 5am, about 3 weeks into the infestation. I awoke to the sound of the mice rearranging furniture in my living room. They’d found a dusty can of ant poison that had sat under a table in the living room since June, and were busy moving the can into what I can only guess was a location more convenient for them. I found the can in the middle of my kitchen floor, a good 3 metres from its previous location. I came very close to shitting my pants. 

Awakening to the actual sound of the mice having their collective way with my apartment had me terrified to sleep. It hadn’t occurred to me that they would actually leave the confines of the kitchen drawers to explore further a field. Haunted by visions of them crawling over me as I slept, I started barricading myself into my bedroom at night. And I took the extra step of stuffing a towel underneath the crack of the door, aware that mice had the ability to squeeze their contortionist bodies into impossibly tiny spots. I managed to sleep, but I had to give myself a pep talk before I could push myself out of bed in the middle of the night for my nocturnal pee, petrified that I’d squish a mouse body underfoot in the dark of the night. 

Upon arriving home from work the next day I patrolled the perimeter of my apartment. More poop in the drawer? Check. I hesitantly walked into the living room and grabbed my coats and coat rack from the sofa, where they’d been tossed the night before as I’d barricaded myself into my bedroom. I hung the coat rack back in its normal place over the door and glanced back at the sofa. A whole new level of horror was revealed to me. Where my coats had just lain, the sofa was liberally covered in mouse droppings. The gag reflex was instinctive. The little bastards had scaled the side of my sofa! It struck me that they were getting awfully comfy. Were they building a nest? If I stuck my hand in a coat pocket would I find a squiggling mess of baby mice? It was a humbling moment. I’m an adult, and a reasonably independent one, but I so clearly was not equipped to deal with this sort of shit. On the verge of tears (and I never cry), I noticed a partially shredded plastic bag on the sofa, where my coats had recently rested. A second of confusion, and then I remembered what was in the bag. The previous evening I’d broken down and finally brought the mouse traps that had been located in my car trunk into the apartment. But exhausted and still slightly cranky about the unfairness of this infestation, I’d decided just having the traps in my apartment was progress enough for one day, and I’d left the bag on the sofa. Unbeknownst to me, the humane mouse houses that trapped, rather than killed mice, were still coated in peanut butter. And clearly the lure of peanut butter was more than enough motivation for the rodent army to scale my sofa. Diplomacy be damned. I’d presented them an option - non-violent abandonment of my kitchen, which they’d chosen to reject. And so I began to plot murder. 

Rushing down the stairs to my car, I ran into my downstairs neighbour, Jill, who was likewise hysterical. A week or so after I first discovered the rodent poop I’d called my landlord, and in my typically cautious way, just threw the topic into the conversation to see what sort of reaction I would get. He was polite, sympathetic, but basically the attitude was ‘good luck with that’. After the interior-decorating incident, I called again. My persuasive skills once again failed to light a fire under him. Apparently Jill’s phobia-inspired rantings had produced action. A day earlier, Jill had come home to a dead mouse at her doorstep, enthusiastically killed by her cat. Unless action was taken, Jill would be moving out by the weekend. An exterminator was scheduled to arrive within days. But being all too familiar with the pace at which my landlord chooses to respond to repair requests, I was still resolved to take my own action.

A half hour later I found myself in the rodent and pest control section of Home Depot, on the phone with my father. We discussed the merits of various instruments of death. No longer willing to pussyfoot about, I bought some heavy duty traps and poison bait. A friend had oddly volunteered to come over and help me set the traps, so with a glass of red wine close at hand, I coated the trap area with a generous dollop of peanut butter. Practically trapping my own finger in the device while setting it (the combined effects of clumsiness and Shiraz), I began to understand the scale of violence the trap would soon unleash on the army of rodents that had taken up residence in my kitchen. I was undeterred. My friend had the absolutely brilliant idea of placing the trap inside an open plastic bag, so that if I was actually lucky enough to execute something, I could dispose of the carcass in a way that minimized the chance that I’d come in contact with the body. All I had to do now was wait. 

At 4am that night I awoke slightly hung-over, and very dehydrated. And I instinctively knew there was a dead mouse awaiting me in my kitchen drawer. An internal debate ensued, but I knew that I wouldn’t get back to sleep without going to the kitchen for a glass of water. I would have to venture into the kitchen and hope that I wouldn’t actually come in contact with the carcass. Death permeated the air as I cautiously tiptoed into the room. I was in no condition to look at a dead mouse without puking, so sprinted back to bed, my glass of water in hand.  

Given my strategy for handling unpleasant tasks is avoidance to the point of neglect, the next morning I delayed dealing with my victim until the last possible second before I had to head out to work. Delivering a short pep talk to myself, I approached the drawer with terror. I kept my body low to ground and I stood as far away from the drawer as possible. On first attempt I pulled on the drawer handle so tentatively it just rolled back before I could see anything. The second attempt revealed the bottom half of a tiny mouse body. I edged closer for a better look. I had envisioned bulging eyeballs, blood, tuffs of fur scattered about. I was almost disappointed the carnage, well, was so clean and civilized. I was still on the verge of puking the entire time, but I took a deep breath, tied the handles of the plastic bag together, and ran down the street to the city garbage can, determined to get the body as far away as possible.

After over a month of poop patrol and increasing paranoia, I was shocked to learn that the army of mice that I thought had been waging a reign of terror upon me was actually a one-mouse operation. Because that was my one and only kill. Two days later the exterminator came by and set up bait traps in various suspicious areas around the apartment. The traps promised to kill mice, but in a way that dehydrates the carcass of all bodily mouse fluids, eliminating the chance of stench. You have to give the inventor of such a device points for creativity. And points for being a functioning member of society capable of suppressing his sociopathic tendencies, as far as I’m concerned. 

Has this experience made me stronger? That’s debatable. It solidified my reputation as a procrastinator with questionable cleaning standards and a weak stomach. But technically, yes, I have exterminated my first rodent, so another item I can check off the ‘Yes, Heather, you really are an adult’ list. Up next? Learning to master my power drill without wetting my pants. 

A Turkish Bath and Some Sweaty Canadians

I’m somewhat appalled that I’ve forgotten how to sweat profusely with nonchalance. Or, more specifically, I’m not yet at a point of ambivalence when I realize there’s sweat pooling in the front of my sports bra. Apologies to those of you who just visualized that. But walk half a block in the streets of Istanbul in August and ‘soaked’ is a perpetual state of being. 

I’ve taken to carrying deodorant with me everywhere I go, and putting it to use when a code red status is reached. (And honestly, I wish the average Turkish man would follow my example on this one. I will say no more.) One of our favorite rituals is finding the side ‘porch’ of mosques (yes, atrocious, but I’m unclear on the correct architectural term), modestly whipping up the back of our skirts, and cooling our thighs on the shaded marble. It’s debatable whether we covet our morning stops at Starbucks more for the caffeine or the temporary oasis of air conditioning it provides. Ice-cream is consumed on a daily basis for it’s ability to chill the brain temporarily, and I don’t even feel guilty about it. (Some of you will understand how huge this is.) And at the end of the day when we return to the hotel, we examine that day’s wardrobe for the inevitable salt stains that will act as a reminder of how hot it really was that afternoon.

So, maybe you’re catching on. We sweat in Istanbul, we sweat a lot. 

We’ve tried to put a positive spin on it. But I find you can only ‘glisten’ so much before you’re repulsed by yourself.

So given all of this, its somewhat surprising that yesterday afternoon, we paid money to sweat even more. After a frustrating morning battling wall-to-wall tourists in Topkapi Palace, we retired to Cemberlitas Hamam in the Old Town, one of Istanbul’s oldest and most famous traditional Turkish bath houses. 

I’d have to say we were fairly ignorant about the experience in advance, but in general I think that’s the best strategy because it keeps things interesting.  We knew some scrubbing was involved, as a colleague in Toronto had advised visiting the bath-house before the acquisition of a tan. (A most definite check on that, as I’m still in possession of my ghostly pallor.) And we’d ascertained that said scrubbing would be performed by a female. But beyond that, we were clueless. 

Upon entry we were given scrubbing cloths, pointed in the direction of the change room, and told to take everything off but our underwear. Instantly flashing back to my ayurvedic massages in India where I was denied even the smallest scrap of covering, keeping my panties on sounded very generous. 

We were then escorted to the main bath area, an Ottoman structure dating from the early 1500s, with a soaring dome-shaped octagonal ceiling. Beneath the dome was a very large slab of warm marble, and sprinkled upon the slab, visible through the steam, was a collection of pretty much naked women, also clad in their panties. This I had expected. More surprising was the state of undress of the attendants. In amongst the panty-clad patrons was a half dozen Turkish middle-aged matrons, uniformly kitted out in black bra and grandma panty sets or bikinis. I guess one could look at it as just one step past what I might see in a restaurant in Toronto, where black and scanty is the uniform of many young waitresses. But there’s a long way between being 21 and pouring yourself into a painted-on, butt-cheek-exposing skirt  and gravity-defying halter top to serve cocktails, and being 45 and your work uniform being a bikini worn in 80 or 90 degree temperatures, while you scrub down sweaty foreigners.  

Taking all this in and attempting to process it, Kristen and I were delivered to an open section of the marble slab, and told to lay down and relax until it was our turns. Easier said than done. It took me a minute or so to acclimatize to the idea, but then I dropped my towel and lay back on the marble - bits on display and already sweating copiously. Kristen was a bit more hesitant, but fair enough, I say. About 10 minutes later one of the matrons came and motioned for Kristen to follow her to a bathing area, really just a couple metres away on the slab. I continued to sweat. 

Cracking an eyeball open as I heard Kristen being led away, I caught a glimpse of our bathing attendant. She was absolutely fantastic. I guess I have no imagination, but I’d never considered wearing a bikini top this way. It was upside down. Now I admit, me in a bikini is nothing to write home about. But part of my strategy is to actually wear the bikini top in such a way that I give gravity a boost, and the girls are given as much elevation as a stretch of spandex can enable. Our attendant had a different strategy entirely. Wearing a bikini every day for work, I’m assuming her approach was based on comfort, possibly to minimize chaffing. But the bottom section of a bikini top that would normally rest below the breasts was in fact above the breasts, and the large pre-formed cups hung upside down to oh-so-casually shield her fairly substantial pendulous breasts. The straps that would normally be tied around the neck hung loose, bouncing against her generous stomach as she scrubbed patrons. Pondering it all but not wanting to stare, I closed my eyes again, and returned to my sweating, my musings occasionally interrupted by a giggle or squeal coming from Kristen’s direction. 

Fifteen minutes later it was my turn. Essentially the process is as follows. You lay sprawled on the heated marble slab. You are liberally soaped up, using a large linen bag that is dipped in soapy water then squeezed over your body so you’ve enveloped in suds. You’re then aggressively scrubbed with the abrasive cloth you were given on entry into the bath. As each section of your body is completed, you are doused with a bowl of cold water. Hence the squealing. Occasionally she would slap me on my pretty much bare ass cheek - my cue to flip sides. Not really what I needed, the sound of my cellulite being slapped echoing through the bathing chamber. They could probably hear the reverberations on the other side of Istanbul.

A squabble amongst another attendant and some patrons tore my attendant away for a few minutes. Unclear whether she was done with me, or whether we were just taking a hiatus, I just decided to lay there quietly and keep sweating. Five minutes later, I peered over. Three attendants appeared to be in a heated exchange with two patrons, and everyone was clearly frustrated. The nature of the disagreement eluded me. Perhaps some soap had carelessly been tossed in someone’s eye, or the scrubbing had been too aggressive? As they gestured I realized that despite the bikinis and grandma panty-sets, they were really no different than the clusters of women we’d see every night on front stoops in the neighborhood surrounding our hotel.  My attendant seemed to be the chief communicator, but after much gesturing and rolling of the eyes the attendants conferred and my attendant was back, muttering ‘the Saudia Arabians, always the problems’. I smiled awkwardly and closed my eyes as she reached for the suds bag. My knowledge of the intricacies of Middle Eastern relations is rudimentary at best, and seeing these relations play out inside a Turkish bath, well, I felt completely unqualified to enter the debate. 

Nearing the end of my scrub down, she started on my arms. Now I admit, I’m not great at helping along the natural exfoliant process. Like multivitamins, exfoliating is something I know I should do, but I rarely get around to it. So I’m appalled to admit that when the attendant started scrubbing my upper arms, what I can only assume was a concoction of dry skin, copious amounts of sunscreen, and a slick of sweat rolled up into a grey, sheet-like layer, that lifted with the scrubbing mitt. She clucked under her breath and asked me ‘where you from, lady?’ I replied ‘Canada’. ‘This Canada very dirty’. How mortifying. I felt somewhat compelled to defend my country’s reputation, and wracked my brains for rebuttals. Now I could have gotten into a debate over how the pollution of Istanbul had probably added to my apparent filth, but my argument seemed feeble in the face of such matronly clucking and shaking of the head. If I’d been capable of blushing in such heated conditions, I would have, but I just shrugged and let her wag a finger at me. 

With a farewell slap on my butt cheek, she gestured towards a small door off the main bathing chamber. Inside I found two hot baths, similar to a hot tubs, but larger, and without the jets. One was large enough to do a mini lap, a couple strokes and then you’d be done, but it was feasible. There was an older women in the larger tub as I entered the room, so I relegated myself to the smaller one. Panties were still in tact, but to be honest, we’re still talking about getting into a tub with a pretty much naked complete stranger. Now for some people, maybe that’s the headline of a pretty fun evening, but for me, when the other person in question is a 65 year old woman, well, it’s just sort of odd. As I’ve mused before, perhaps this experience is not that different than getting into a hot-tub, but the protective spandex covering my bits is an important distinction. I left my hang-ups intact, and relaxed in my own private pool, and closed my eyes. A couple minutes later two more women enter, the younger, quickly dipping into the larger pool, but the older women paused to spit on the narrow pathway of pebbles that separated the two pools. Being pretty much at eye level with the spit as it found its destination, I reflected that perhaps I’d spent enough time bathing, and it was time to move onto the final stage of my experience, the oil massage. 

There’s not a lot to tell about the oil massage. I was close to being unconscious throughout the whole thing, so yes, it was incredibly relaxing. I was pretty much a walking oil slick at its completion, and struggled to place one foot in front of the other as I ambled out to the sitting room, totally and utterly relaxed. I emerged to find Kristen seated on a bench with a cool drink in hand, massage oil having turned her hair into, well something best not captured on film, but a giant smile on her face. Relaxed? Check. Exfoliated? Check. Returning to my shower at home would be downright pedestrian after this. But as I left the hamam I stopped to purchase a scrubbing mitt from the gift shop. A little bit of Istanbul in my bathroom in Toronto. A melding of cultures can happen anywhere, now can’t it?