And the Thrill is Gone

Last weekend, my sister-in-law's boyfriend - we'll call him Jim - asked an excellent question. We were in the kitchen after breakfast when he paused after setting a dish in the sink.

"So, if I may ask," he began cautiously. "Why were the bananas in the oven?"

We both glanced at the bananas he was referring to. They now sat on the counter, their blackened undersides creating a skunk-like appearance from the five minutes they spent in a preheating oven - before I'd tried to insert a cookie sheet full of biscuits and remembered they were in there. Whoops.

Briefly, I considered offering Jim the true story. I considered telling him how I'd discovered a giant hole gouged out of our last bunch of bananas, and how closer inspection revealed track marks from two prominent front teeth. Since we don't have a mutant baby - and besides, Gavin has eight teeth now - Jon and I had to accept a difficult concept.

The true story is, we've got a rodent problem. Ugh.

"Well..." I stalled.

I almost did tell Jim all of it. If only he had been a jerk, I might have. But this was the first meeting between us and Jim. So far he seemed like a nice guy, and The Rodent Problem definitely didn't feel like a good getting-to-know-you story. So I decided to say something vague, see how he responded, and take it from there.

"The other day I discovered a bite taken from one of the bananas," I said, and waited.

My explanation appeared to satisfy his curiosity; he nodded knowingly. We left that conversation there, although I continued to wonder what conclusion he had reached in his head. Did he assume I was trying to keep Gavin out of the bananas? Did he think Jon had been taking random swipes from the fruit bowl? Was rodent infestation normal for this guy? Or was he just trying to be polite and not ask too many questions, biding his time until he could escape our gross new/old house?

This mouse situation has caused the reality of inhabiting an old home to come crashing down in our faces. Upon moving in, we bleached and scrubbed our way through all drawers and cabinets, and still we've got critters creeping around, gnawing through sealed bags of brown rice, helping themselves to our fruit. We've got a team from wildlife control coming out in a few days to seal up gaps, and luckily there's no evidence that they are anywhere but in the lower kitchen cabinets (and at least one time on the countertop that formerly hosted a fruit bowl), but I'm still horrified.

My interest in old homes has played out kind of like a lusty relationship. At first I coveted the way the house moved and walked and whispered sweet nothings in my ear like CHARACTER and POTENTIAL and COOL OLD CRYSTAL DOORKNOBS. Then I started noticing its flaws. The old windows, most of which have been painted shut. The tiny closets. And, you know, The Rodent Problem. Until then, the other flaws didn't matter too much.

But now, the thrill is officially gone.