The Battle Within

I am not a dirty person. In the three years that I have been living in my lovely studio apartment in the city, I have had exactly 1 roach and 1 nondescript bug in my apartment. The roach incident was after I had rushed off one weekend to visit friends at the shore in the heat of July and neglected to empty the trash. I was a big girl; I killed it, I picked it up with a napkin, laid it to rest in the trash bin, and washed my hands. And I'll admit it: I was proud of myself for killing my first (and thankfully last) roach.

But this winter, I have had mice. After living a relatively mouse-free existence during my tenure in the apt, these little critters have decided that they've been neglecting their neighborly duties and have come a-callin'. The maintenance man attributes the little darlings' (audacious as they are, they're practically becoming pets, and yes, I feel your pain Camilla) unprecedented visits with the fact that I live on the first apartment level (very accessible--apparently the mice are simply too lazy to hoof it any farther) and the fact that every abandoned building within a 1-mile radius of my building is being demolished to make way for new condos, causing the mice to scurry to our building for shelter.

But now I have a confession. I've wrestled with revealing this for at least a week, not knowing quite how to say it, or what you'll think of me. But I think we've come to the point in our relationship when I have to just put it all out there, just take the risk, and hope you'll accept me: When a mouse foolishly fell for my cunning scheme of placing peanut butter at one end of a mousetrap, I couldn't get rid of the body. I had to--gulp--call my boyfriend on the phone and have him come over and do the dirty work for me.

It's such a stereotypically girly thing to do. And although I am sure it makes him feel like the Popeye to my Olive Oyl, it makes me feel a little bit like a fraud. But the funny part about the whole thing is that I am so averse to getting anywhere near a mouse, dead or alive, I don't even want to get over this phobia.

So, now that the cat's outta the bag (and hopefully patrolling my apartment for unwanted guests).... I have to ask: Does this make me a bad feminist?