My unpacking finished, cleaning complete, two rooms painted, the anticipation of starting my job
at fred flare on Monday and I am feeling great about my first week here in my new apartment.

Unfortunately that feeling didn't last for long when I heard a loud knock at my door. It was the
super of my building reprimanding me about cardboard boxes I had taken out earlier. There
seemed to be trouble about where I put them and the way in which they were tied together. So
much trouble! You see, there are very strict trash rules in the building and in Brooklyn in general.
Fines will be given out to the building and then to me if I don’t adhere to the rules immediately.

I take this very seriously. I study the rules, talk to my friends about the rules. I come into work
and tell Chris and Keith that my supervisor has set me straight. They tell me "super" actually
stands for superintendent, not supervisor. Apparently I still have a lot to learn.

I am now obsessed with the trash. So much so that I notice when other tenants put their
cardboard boxes in the wrong place, don't tie them together with twine, and don't separate their
bottles and cans. This is very helpful because whenever this happens I get another loud knock
at the door. You see, being the new girl and all, the assumption is that I am disobeying the trash
rules again.

All of this behind me, I'm feeling great about my new apartment. Then the inevitable happened.
Mice! I see one – or was it two? – under the living room couch and scream!! I call my mother and
cry. I set up camp in the bedroom. Then I develop my strategy. They’re going to have to play by
my rules! My plan is to poison them and scare them away with the television on 24 hours a day,
or until they are gone. Better yet, dead!!!

This is how I met my downstairs neighbor. All was going well with my plan until he decided he
could not take the TV on constantly. I found this out at 4 am when he came banging on my door.
I could tell how unhappy he was from all the screaming and swearing. I calmly explained I had
mice and apologized. I said I wished he would have told me earlier and without the swearing. He
stormed back downstairs. The next morning I knocked on his door to let him know I was sorry
about the noise but didn't appreciate his delivery. There was no answer and he has never been
heard from again.

The mice were still there, however. The poison was taking too long to work and now no TV. A
new strategy was in order: I don't like mice. Mice don't like kittens. I like kittens. The solution
was simple.

The morning after the incident with the downstairs neighbor Chris and I set out in search of a
kitten. We trucked all over town in search of the perfect one. Several trains and not so nice
places later we ended up at the ASPCA in Manhattan. This was the nicest of all the places we
had been. It was the most expensive, too. But the kitten came with a fantastic gift bag. We
thought that was cute. There were several contestants in the new kitten contest but the winner
was a 3 month old, 2 1/2 pound, all black kitten. We named him Billy, short for Williamsburg.

I no longer have mice – Billy took care of that in a flash – but it looks as though my neighbors
still hate me. At least my new roommate is tons of fun!

05/2002