So, as of this morning, I’ve realized that I basically live in a slum.
My apartment in the East Village of Manhattan. This is supposed to be a good neighborhood. I see new buildings and parks being built every day, folks...
I wonder if the rats have found those, too.
Let’s back up a bit…
I’ve been sick as a dog for three days now. On New Year’s Eve, I was feeling a bit better (mostly due to TheraFlu), so Mr. Manning and I went out for a champagne toast at the bar just downstairs. We had a great time, but by the time we got home, both of us were feeling awful. Mr. Manning picked up a stomach bug somewhere and was puking all night. I was congested and achy and all sorts of gross. You’d think it couldn’t get any worse…
And then we wake up this morning to find a dead MOUSE in our living room!
Oh, yes, people: a MOUSE. A long, slimy New York City mouse.
About an hour or so later, I find myself handing the thing (wrapped in a ziplog bag) to my landlord. When he starts laughing and responds with “Well, this isn’t Park Avenue, what do you expect?” …
I. Go. OFF.
I pulled out my inner prosecutor and tore the dude to SHREDS.
I don’t think even Tom Cruise from “A few Good Men” could’ve handed Jack Nicholson his own ass better than I did my landlord.
Long story short – I think I gave him an altogether new view of Southern women, which I’m very proud to say might’ve dispelled some “weak Southern Belle” stereotypes this guy had in his head.
One Rebel Deb, zero slumlord.