Of Mice and Mormons

I hope to include in subsequent posts random quotes from my crazy history prof. This post's quote, from Tuesday: "This is Wisconsin. Embrace your heritage and drive irresponsibly. Hell, the Attorney General and half the legislature drive drunk, why not you?"

I had planned to write a long, brilliant post discussing the ways in which the movement of American History in the 2oth century is masterfully captured in the progression of the Rocky movies. However, today was somewhat surreal, and I feel the need to organize my thoughts (and give you, good reader, reason to consider exactly what type of life I'm leading here in Madison). The following diatribe is quite long, so reader be warned.

Upon wakening, I sat down to check my e-mail, prevented from taking my first-thing shower through the evil machinations of the people upstairs, who saw fit to also take a shower at 7 am, denying me the hot water necessary. Thus, it was in a somewhat sleep-addled state that I beheld my houseguest, a small brown mouse, scurrying away back under my radiator, and thence to some unseen hole. Now, I was not so much upset by the mouse's decision to invade my home (though I do question his choice in that I have no food in the apartment for him to steal, what with my poverty), as I was with the sheer untimeliness of his visit, with it being far before the customary calling hours (as firmly established in Victorian times in the case of Woodhouse v. Murdstone). My mother taught me never to tolerate rudeness, lest it breed, and therefore I have declared unholy war upon the vermin. Look for further chronicles of our terrible and glorious combat in posts to come.

Now, the presence of a mouse in my apartment, in a bizarre representation of my scarred psyche, immediately brings to mind my mother's constant admonitions that if I don't keep my apartment clean, I shall attract vermin. Ordinarily I would do what I normally do when I hear my mother's voice, which is take a hit off my brandy sword and then write a blog post (hence this missive and the depleted supply of brandy left in my sword). However, such actions would be uncouth at 7am, and as I am a gentleman drunkard, I could not violate these rules. So instead, I silently commanded my mater to shut her yap, and proceeded to pick up all the garbage off my floor. On the plus side, I can see my floor again, which is welcome. I had traps from an earlier infestation, but no cheese with which to bait them. I then proceeded to the corner store to obtain the instrument of my furry companion's demise, only to discover it didn't open until after I had to catch the bus. In a gesture of futility, I placed the unbaited traps anyway. Needless to say, the mouse was not stupid enough to bite. To which I only reply, kudos, my friend. Kudos.

I made my way to campus, as today was the first Bagel Hour of the semester, and I had to set up. For my non-Madison friends, Bagel Hour is a time when we of the department can get together, drink coffee, eat bagels and doughnuts, and basically complain about what our students are doing. It's a weekly ritual, and I've been in charge of running it these past two years now. It's something I truly adore about every week. For you NU folk, think of it like our Friday morning movies. We seldom did anything truly worthwhile, but it was loads of fun. Sadly, this semester I cannot attend all of Bagel Hour (see my earlier post on the abuse of power), and I went to history class. Prof was still crazy and lots of fun, and we still haven't gotten to the end of WWII, despite the fact that it's been two weeks now, and that the class is supposed to cover history from 1945 to the present. (For those of you not quite up on world events, WWII was before that era.)

Still, with the loss of Bagel Hour, my day seems to have a void, and I feel I've spent the rest of the afternoon looking for something that I had lost. Oh, cruel fate, to separate me from my favorite non-drinking related activity.

After returning home, I proceeded to Walmart to purchase more mousetraps, as well as peanut butter with which to bait them (apparently it works better than cheese, or so say all my compatriots. English grad students, it seems, are often plagued by such vermin, and have many tried and true ways of eliminating them). While at that den of evil, I got to see an old man yell at the woman ahead of him and the cashier for apparently mixing his sacred purchases with her tainted ones. What the purpose behind such villany could be, I have no idea. Mayhap he suspected that he would end up paying for them, while this intricate con duo would utilize faster-than-sight techniques to re-place the goods in the woman's cart. Whatever the case, this scuffle turned into a shouting match between all three parties, and I left in disgust, cursing the store and the vermin that drove me there in the first place.

Later that afternoon, having relaxed with thoughts of imminent mouse death and just completing the new Stephen King novel, I was ambushed in my domicile by two Mormons. Now, I've been avoiding these people for weeks, having foolishly answered my door earlier this month and met them. I was horribly hung over, and I told them to come back later, scheduled an appointment, and gave them my phone number (the way my head was splitting I would have given them my credit card or the key to my parents' house if they would have only left me alone). Since then, I haven't been answering my doorbell or my phone, hoping they would take the hint and leave me alone. (I have alienated several of my friends this way, and left a very perplexed pizza delivery guy standing outside, I believe.) Sadly, Mormons apparently cannot take a hint, and I, believing myself about to get a care package from home (lousy parents and their promises of material goods), instead found two Elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints standing outside.

Those who know me know that while I may be pretentious, outspoken, often obnoxious, and in many ways a borderline sociopath, I can't really be rude to strangers. So, resigning myself to a wasted hour, and thankful I was clothed and had spent the morning cleaning up my apartment (thanks, rodent), I invited them in. Now, I like to think of myself as openminded, based not on any ulterior motives, but rather on my colossal ignorance of matters outside my areas of expertise (if wise men say that the path to wisdom is acknowledging ignorance, then I'm one of the wisest folk out there). I have nothing (that I know of) against the Mormon faith (if they believe it, good for them, see you all in Heaven), or these individuals. I simply do not like to be bothered. I have specific times set aside contractually for being bothered. They're called office hours. Yet here they were, in my home, so I listened and spoke and ended up with a copy of the Book of Mormon and a newfound respect for my Catholic schooling, which, whatever the drawbacks, was I assume far superior to their Mormon schooling, which apparently left them convinced that the Protestant Reformation was sometime during the late 1700s or early 1800s. But more importantly, I am left with the question of what exactly do people like that do in their spare time? I'm not "hip" or "with it" or "cool" by any stretch of the imagination, and I do not know what cool people do with their time (I'm told it involves drinking, which I do, and illicit acts with members of the opposite sex in dark, smoky clubs, which I do not do). But these two gentlemen seemed the most awkward men I've ever met. Do they do normal things, too, like play video games, or watch movies, or anything mainstream? I assume they must, and yet I cannot picture it. Is the failure of my imagination? I simply don't know.

Now, as "Rock Me Amadeus" starts to play on my computer (my DSL service provides a radio-esque thing which is apparently tuned to my preferences, but I'm fairly certain I've never listed Falco as one of my top ten), I realize this is indeed a long post. So I'll wrap it up. The weirdness of the day was concluded with an extremely off-setting episode of Smallville, where a main character died, adding the final off-putting touch to today. Time to go read The Souls of Black Folk and come up with some way to teach my students how to write a coherent paragraph tomorrow. Hopefully tonight I'll hear the "snap" of death descending upon my unwelcome visitor. If not, other possible options suggested include using knives, an axe, a frying pan, guided missiles, or anything else from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Or, if all else fails, maybe my new Book of Mormon will have answers. Or I can throw it at the mouse.