I Stand In Judgement

A train pulls into the station. I'm standing on the platform. I take stock of the cars closest to me. Crowded.

I step aside. I watch as Type A people get on. I wait while impulsive people, aggressive people and tardy people with poor time management skills shove their way on to the subway car.

People who hate their jobs push onto the train. There's laundry to do and dinner to fix at home so it won't be any picnic there. They're not thinking about that now. Get me out of here. Take this job and shove it. Except I need the job so I'll be back here tomorrow doing the same thing over again.

I watch entitled people and people without proper boundaries get on the train. I watch people who cannot delay gratification get on the train.

The icing on the cake is when a morbidly obese, sweaty man runs down the stairs and pushes himself forcibly on the train. For the love of god! He's literally throwing his weight around!

Step aside to let the people off the train the announcement says. All of these people ignore it. In their defense, the people exiting the train could step livelier.

Almost everyone gets on the train.

A small crowd assembles to catch the next train. An express train stops and people join me on the local side. More people come down the stairs and wait. The crowd swells. People crane their necks. Some lean ever so slightly over the platform to see if the train is coming.

The train pulls in. Acceptable. The air conditioner is going full throttle.

I won't get a seat for another two stops but this train is much more civilized than the last one. The last one was so full of desperate people that the folks standing in the doorway kept brushing against the closing doors which would cause the doors to open and close again and again. Sad.

One of our cohort from the platform gets a seat right away. There's not actually room for her in the seat because they are designed only for tiny people. So she does that thing that women do when it's seat but not really a seat. She sits at the very edge of the seat.

The ride is uneventful. Everybody gets along. Nobody smells bad. Nobody asks for money.  Nobody does Show Time. Nobody plays Mariachi.

A few minutes later I get a seat that the lady sitting at the very end of the seat, like a sparrow on a branch only much larger, could have gotten if only she'd waited. There's two slim people flanking me, so we all sit In relative comfort, our backs upright against the seat, our butts where they should be. As God himself intended.

From the archives:
Radio Silence
Chicken Scratch
This Shit Got Real

I make it there eventually

I’m on the subway and in spite of being a seasoned New Yorker, I make a rookie mistake. I get on the train at the wrong platform and now I’m going downtown instead of uptown. Furthermore, I’m in such a daydreamy, contemplative fantasy land that I don’t realize the error until I’m good and far from where I wanted to be. Instead of progress I’ve gone backwards. Negative progress.

I correct things and get on the right train. I spend a minute or two berating myself for possible undiagnosed and under-treated ADD, then catch myself and get negative about that.

I spot a friend who I haven’t seen in a long time. People who don’t live in NYC think that we never run into people here. What are the chances? But the truth is we do. All the time.

The friend has to get off in three stops so we have a micro interaction. A lot gets exchanged though.

He doesn’t recognize me initially. I’ve been worried about this very scenario lately. I’m wearing some newish clothes that flatter me, makeup that fits with a makeup-no makeup trend I’ve been following and in spite of needing a trim, I’m having a good hair day.

You look so good! He says. This is an entirely new look for you. Maybe he was being polite but I take him at face value. I liked what I saw in the mirror this morning.

I think about saying something to him. I’m eating now. I’m eating enough and that accounts for how I look. I decide not to. It’s enough that I connected it and said it to myself.

We catch up a little about him.

He gets off. If I hadn’t gotten on the wrong train I wouldn’t be on this one, running into a friend and talking with him about this and that. He leads an interesting life and is a wonderful person.

It’s stunning how slowly the train is moving. Now with nobody to talk to, I notice it.

As impatience starts forming around the edges, I negotiate with myself. You’re looking for time to write poetry and prose. You love to make art. So now you have some time. Make art.

So I get out my phone and I make art.


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The New Environs

These sidewalks soon to be old friends.
The worn groove made comfortable - cozy even!
By the repeat tread, week by week, seasons running into each other.
Or colliding as the case may be.
The northeast being itself.

And so it is as it has been before and will be again.
Drunk on the hard work of navigation, the full throttle .
After a time, so quick, really.
This becomes my coffee place, my drugstore, my doorman, my Tuesday.
I take my small residence, my share of the space.

You see, the waiting room, the couch in the lobby, even the train.
That's my writers colony, my MFA, my studio.
So this is all crucial, as secondary as it is.
And as singular as I am to see it at all.

Circa 2015

I love the population density of NYC. I like people watching. Sometimes other women just stop me in my tracks.

I'm sitting in an outdoor cafe. This is not something I do often. A woman with dark hair walks by. Her hair is styled but not overdone. There is a name for this hair. It is called beachy waves. Magazines like to explain how to achieve these waves.

Some of her hair is its natural deep auburn color and some of it is dyed a rich forest green. It shouldn't work but it does. It's not haphazard. It’s not punky. It’s not garish. It is elegant. She is wearing an autumnal green coat that is darker than her hair. The effect gives me the same feeling I get looking at a beautiful painting.

This is a look I could not pull off. That is precisely what I love about seeing this woman. This would look good on very few people. She is one of them.

A middle-aged woman joins me on a subway platform. She's a style train wreck but there is one bright spot. She has this cloth tote. The construction and the luxe materials make me think that this is not a 5 or 10-dollar bag. My guess was that it sets you back 50 dollars. Maybe more.

It has a youthful whimsy that evokes the patterns of Marimekko if you mixed in a touch of Lily Pulitzer and Paul Rand.

This woman needs a total overhaul. Someone could help her match her bag. As it stands now, the bag would look better on me. In other words, I would like this bag.

I remember a woman from earlier in my life. A young social worker from a Jewish organization would visit us when our son Jacob was hospitalized. She was with us in some of our darkest moments. Jeremy and I discussed the support she gave us. But we also talked about her clothes.

She was a member of the orthodox Jewish community. She dressed modestly. Skirts had to fall well below the knee. Arms needed to be covered. You can't be flashing skin around if you're her.

She conformed to all of the rules and regulations that her culture asked of her. And then she totally rocked it.

The sweaters and skirts were chic. There was a little bit of irreverence to some of her choices. She'd be covered up but the fabric design would be fashion forward. Her pencil skirts didn't look frumpy. Something would be a little asymmetrical or there would be a flirty element in the sleeve detailing.

She brought to mind a modern version of Audrey Hepburn. And even though fashion was the last thing on my mind and I could wear whatever I damned well pleased, I borrowed elements of her look.

It's autumn. I stare at all of the shoes. I think that Cozy Mocs are over until I see this year's version. They are more streamlined and less bedroom-slipper-like. There isn't any fleece spilling out the sides. Indeed, the pair I have from 2014 are passé. This is where it's at now. I want a piece of this action.

Ultra shiny ballet flats that match the woman's skin tone exactly. Saturated coral lipstick on an otherwise subtle face. A young Columbia student wears too much makeup, but gets away with it.

A 50 year old with a long blond/gray braid without a hint of bright color on. She looks luminous rather than plain.

There is one man. His face, facial hair and man bun are perfect. He is the only man in the world who looks good in a man bun. There is a male fashion icon walking around the streets of NYC. It is he.

I jokingly think about women appropriating the man bun after men appropriated the man bun from women. Then I see a woman who is clearly doing this. It's incredible - no joke.

It's not the magazines or the runway shows that make me want to expand what I will wear, or at least try stuff on. It’s the streets and the subway. It's the hospital. It's Starbucks.

I'm on the A train now. A 70-year-old woman is sitting in front of me. She's wearing scrubs, Crocs, is carrying an out of style purse, and her glasses frames are neither here nor there. She has high cheekbones and gorgeous tawny colored skin. The right photographer and hair and makeup could turn her into a lifestyle model for AARP.

Her hair is thinning and is dyed bright magenta. I shouldn't like it, but I do.

I wonder if infinity scarves are still in style until I see a stunning young woman, sporting perfect mix of trendy and classic. She’s wearing one. Apparently infinity scarves are safe for one more season.

I'm obsessed with Ombré but don't want to try it myself. Same with matte lipstick and platform sneakers. I adore seeing this around. Just not on me.

I do buy myself a pair of multicolored winter boots.

I am a photographer. I rarely photograph people. I've been thinking about it though.

Last November, I was dining out with Jeremy and our willowy waitress was dressed entirely in shades of cream with a chunky sweater and thick infinity scarf. I went out of my comfort zone and asked if I could take her picture. She was awfully nice about it.

But because of my nervousness I worked too fast. That and the dim light made for a bad photograph.

I need to get ready.

I need to be ready to work quickly in less than ideal light. This shouldn't be too hard. I'm used to this with my non-human subjects.

I need to rehearse a polite and authentic script. I don't have to ask permission of the weeds and flowers and trash I photograph. I need to have a quick explanation as to why I'm doing this. I have some figuring out to do about that.

I need to anticipate a variety of responses. Some people are going to think I am crazy. Some people are going to say no. For people who say yes, I will have s small clipboard with forms where subjects can put their name and email address. I will have business cards so they can check out my work.

No matter how terrific someone rocks their handbag or outfit I won't stop them if they have that hurried look about them. I won't bother them if they're texting.

"One important key to success is self-confidence. An important key to self-confidence is preparation." - Arthur Ashe

I’m at a gathering. I had some fun getting ready. I’m engaged in an oft repeated, casual conversation with another woman. She admires my outfit and asks me where I got it.

I tell her that the top is from the 96^th street Salvation Army, the skirt from Target, the tights and purse from Marshall’s and the ballet flats from Payless.

My companion looks incredulous and delighted. Before she asks me how I do it, I go ahead and tell her.

Most of the stuff you find in these places is crap, I say. What you’re looking for is the diamond in the rough.

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Goldilocks

The NYC subway ridership is a melting pot. If you want diversity, ride the train.

Rush hour starts when school lets out. I'm on the subway, going to a meeting. My kids aren't with me. They are old enough to travel home by themselves.

The subway is doing a brisk business but is not too crowded yet. I have a seat.

A mom enters the train with a little girl. She's about three years old. She has blond hair, very light skin and blue eyes. Her hair erupts in a million perfect curls, so platinum that they are almost white.

The atmosphere in the subway car shifts.

All of the adults on the train notice. Moms with kids of their own smile. Some people exchange delighted glances. Grandmothers get all crinkly eyed and grin, missing teeth and all. Some really maternal types catch her eye and wave or blow kisses. Fathers and grandfathers aren't immune either.

The little blond girl is a big hit.

Many - most - of the people smiling, buzzing and happy to see the blond girl have kids with them. The kids are of are all different ages. Some are babies. Some are toddler aged, like the blond child. Some are older.

All of the other kids are brown.

Their skin color ranges from creamy caramel to coffee, from mahogany to hot chocolate.

Their hair is dark and ironed straight, poofy, frizzy, curly, cropped short or kept long. One little girl has fancy cornrows with colored beads attached. There's an Afro.

Nobody seems to notice the brown children. Not with this girl on the train. She has surpassed all of the other children.

The brown children do not elicit a bad response. They are invisible. No one's face gets all scrunchy when they walk onto the train. No one is whispering about their curls.

As a human, I do not like being taken for granted. If you treat me like chopped liver, I bristle. I turn this over in my mind.

The blond girl and her mother exit the train. Everything quickly goes back to normal.

I hope that the brown kids didn't notice. My gut says some of them did, even if words weren't involved. It might be experienced differently than that.

My mother-in-law was born in 1932. She told me she hated Shirley Temple.

I've seen pictures of my mother-in-law as a child. She was adorable. She grew into a radiantly pretty young woman. When I knew her, her smile could light up a room.

She was Jewish. Shirley Temple made her feel ugly. That's what she said.

I think about the light-skinned blond girl and all of the other kids for the rest of the ride home. When I get off the train, my mind goes to other things. But while I'm still sitting there I feel like an idiot.

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The Expectation Of Quiet

Jeremy and I were living in Park Slope, Brooklyn. I was doing freelance photography during the week and working at a beautiful bookstore on the weekends. I made lots of new friends at the bookstore. Jeremy and I also made friends with the friends of the people I met at the bookstore.

One evening, a friend of a friend of mine from the bookstore had a party in her Park Slope apartment. I remember the apartment. People in NYC always remember details about one another's apartments.

One of the most striking things about this apartment was the large piano in the living room.

It started out as a regular party. There were cocktails. There was conversation. There was recitation of poetry. One of my friends from the bookstore was a poet. That is what she did when she wasn't working at the bookstore. She was reciting one of the poems she'd written that week from memory.

We had all had a number of cocktails. That is when one of my friends suggested that everyone gather around the piano. Fantastic idea. Why have a piano if was just going to sit there gathering dust?

There were these books I was obsessed with a child. They are the All-of-a-Kind Family series. I will tell you that people gathering around the piano to sing together is very All of a Kind Family.

The part of it that was not so All of a Kind Family was that this sing-along commenced past midnight. This was not something at the forefront of our minds. Nor was working at the bookstore early the next morning. There was a remedy for that one. I had recently turned all of my colleagues on to Snapple Iced Tea. Someone would make a Snapple run to the deli next door when we all started to fade.

The friend giving the party sat down at the piano. We all gathered around. There was sheet music on the piano. All of the sheet music seemed to be songs that were popular in the 1970s. I knew all the lyrics already. I have no musical talent except for an uncanny ability to learn lyrics quickly and then remember those lyrics for the rest of my life.

We sang a few songs. What I lack in a melodious singing voice I made up for in volume and enthusiasm. Some of the people there could harmonize. This is good because having them sing with me made me feel like a good singer. That, and the cocktails.

If you are picturing an extremely nerdy scene you would be right. I'll say this for myself. I already know. For a segment of my life, I believe I was cool. That part of my life lasted for twelve consecutive years.  Before then, I was not cool. Afterwards, I was not cool. It was like I was temporarily able to shake off my nerdy features for a bit. Then they came back for me. Once that happened, I put up no resistance.

The evening I am describing is after I became nerdy again.

After much revelry, came my favorite song of the evening. Piano Man by Billy Joel. If you were still thinking that maybe I had some residual shred of coolness left, I am about to put the last nail in that coffin.

I’m admitting publicly that I love the entire Billy Joel songbook. I don’t love Uptown Girl or New York State of Mind as much as Piano Man and Just The Way You Are. Uptown Girl and New York State of Mind are my guilty pleasures. The earlier material is my pleasure pleasures.

It has been suggested by someone very close to me – Jeremy Shatan – that perhaps all of Billy Joel’s material should be considered a guilty pleasure – the entire body of work. I have chosen not to take this suggestion. Jeremy and I sometimes disagree yet he does continue love me just the way I am.

It was without a hint of irony that I joined my friends in a heartfelt, rather emotionally charged rendition of Piano Man.

Then came the knock on the door.

There was a uniformed police officer standing there. Someone had called in a noise complaint.

As I look back over this time, I realize that I was in the wrong. We shouldn't have been engaging in piano playing and singing at such a late hour. There is such a thing, in NYC apartment parlance, as quiet hours. This was beyond anyone's definition of that.

Also, piano playing plus 15 people singing would be a major irritant even during the day, even if you happen to like the Billy Joel songbook, even if you have a sense of humor, even if you drink cocktails yourself.

Knowing that I was in the wrong this one time doesn't keep me up at night.

I love NYC. I love it because of the rich culture, the excitement, the fun. I love that my music-loving husband can go listen to bands that he loves and that we can go to museums. I love that the city never sleeps even as I do. I love the energy. I love that I can take the subway and I am in a completely different neighborhood. In many cases, it's almost like going to another country

But these are not the only things I love. I love the proximity of other people. Even when I don't talk to someone, I like seeing them. Jeremy and I thought about moving to the burbs. A lot of our neighbors were doing it. One of the reasons we didn't do it was the isolation I thought I'd feel.

Everyone who lives in NYC has their own reasons. For some people, it's similar. For others it's not. Some people live here in spite of all the things I mentioned not because of them. Others are doing so by default. They're living here in a state of inertia.

But it's always a choice.

I live in peaceful proximity to most of my neighbors. Some of the most exemplary individuals I've ever met are my neighbors. A lot of them would give you the shirt off their back.

My days of geeky and noisy partying have passed. The parties we have now are birthday parties. They are in the middle of the afternoon. Quiet hours find us either asleep or getting ready for school.

The noise our treadmill makes, the noise our active son makes and the noise of our being alive is upsetting to some people. These people want a sanctuary in a thriving metropolis. These people have a firm expectation of quiet. Some are sensitive souls. Almost all of them have advice about being a parent. We receive this advice in the form of anonymous notes. We receive unexpected knocks on the door from people who have never bothered to say hello or introduce themselves before issuing a complaint.

I could write an entire post about ways to work these things out and ways not to work these things out. I'm saving that for another time.

But here is what I will say today. By leaving me a note or coming to my apartment unannounced you are breaking a social contract. You have an expectation of quiet. But you are not quiet.

I hear you.

I hear the cell phone conversation you had in my courtyard last night. I wasn't trying to listen. It's the acoustics. It comes straight into my apartment at a higher volume than seems logical. Anyone wanting a private discourse in my courtyard should think twice.

You have a delightful and strapping son. But when he was a baby, his cries were so high pitched and pitiful I was in a constant state of gratitude that none of my children had colic. You were having a tough time. I get that.

I hear you running the vacuum when I am ready to go to sleep. When Whitney Houston died, you held a musical vigil. I waited for it to pass. It did.

The sharp click of high heels. The renovation you did before moving in. The sound of your hammer as you decorate. The sound of late summer evenings spilling over as you come home, your children's laughter mingling with your conversation. Your TV. I can almost hear the show you're watching but not quite. It has a laugh track.

I am surrounded by noise. Even as the electric company jackhammers, I hear you. The noise is a two way street.

I wonder if I should be tit for tat. But my heart isn't in it. I'm not a martyr, either. I never have been.

The noise I hear is the sound of NYC. It's the sound of people living. It's the sound of not being alone. It's the sound of living in a community. The truth is that most of it is music to my ears.

Make no mistake. I hear you. It is a choice not to complain. I chose to live here. I chose to live here surrounded by noise.

Granted, none of it is three in the morning, alcohol-fueled, toxic noise. I'm not making that noise either.

There is an alternative to my choice. There is the verdant countryside. A little house on a couple of acres. Tall trees and bushes between you and the neighbors. The sound of birds and wind. A reality instead of a wish. It’s not for me. But it may be for you.

Living with Rodents: Part 3

Getting rid of rodents in a more permanent way.

If you are reading this blog for the first time, first let me say that this is kind of an odd place to start in with Non-Fiction Living. I would like to reassure you that I don't only write about rodents. That said, this is the third blog post I've written about our disgusting and furry friends. I even have a 4th one planned, which I've given the working title Living with Rodents: Part 4, Stories about Rodents. But here I am getting ahead of myself!

In part one of this four part mini-series I wrote about the time that I babysat a rodent. In part two, I shared what it feels like to live with uninvited rodent roommates.

This one is more practical. I'm going to share what I did to get rid of the rodents that moved in with our family without our permission.

First, a bit of history. I live in a very lovely apartment complex. For the purposes of this blog, I will call this group of apartments Park Terrace Gardens. It was easy for me to call them that because that is what they are actually called.

Many people enjoy living in Park Terrace Gardens. As it turns out, many rodents also enjoy living here. They like to live in the apartments. Additionally, they also frequent the common areas such as hallways, lobbies and stairwells. They settle in especially nicely in the compactor rooms and basement areas.

I used to believe that Park Terrace Gardens could eventually get rid of the rodents. For reasons too numerous to go into here, I have developed a cynical outlook. I am no longer filled with a limitless and childlike optimism about professional exterminators and their ability to stage a mass rodent annihilation at Park Terrace Gardens.

I believe that rodents will always live at Park Terrace Gardens. The rodents love it there too much to consider leaving. They love it so much that they settle in and raise their families there. Raise may be too strong a word. They procreate. They do this a lot.

The best I can possibly hope for as a resident of Park Terrace Gardens is that the rodents will vacate my apartment and move in with neighbors. That in addition to the common areas I mentioned previously.

When I first moved to park Terrace Gardens I assumed that common area meant places where I could go along with other shareholders. People. After I lived here a while, I realized that rodents and waterbugs are also very welcome there.

I have some criteria when it comes to evicting rodents from my apartment and forcing them to reside with other shareholders.

When the exterminator comes to spray chemicals around the common areas of Park Terrace Gardens it is a very malodorous process. It smells so toxic that one word comes to mind. That word is cancer.

That is why I don’t make Saturday appointments with the exterminator.

I set out to do everything possible to evict rodents that would not cause cancer. To be clear, I don’t actually care if rodents get cancer. I’m going to admit right now that I like it when researchers study cancerous rodents in the laboratory because presumably this helps them come up with cures for human cancer.

I just don’t want to think that if I get cancer at some point in the future that it was because I let the exterminator in.

You might ask, if the chemicals are so toxic, then why doesn’t the exterminator have cancer? Good question. I have noticed that the exterminator is wearing a special jump suit.  This is protective. The mask he wears is probably of minimal benefit.

I do not want to wear this effective jumpsuit or the useless mask in my apartment.

Solutions for unwanted rodents that do not cause cancer

Eliminate Rodent portals

I am about to give you advice that is both good and lame. You’ve heard it before. It works. But it has caveats.

If you have any gaping, visible holes in your residence, you should either plaster over them (or better yet, get the Super to do it) or stuff them with steel wool. Once you have done this, lay out some glue traps, because the rodents who are used to an open door policy in your residence will no longer be able to exit freely. They will run about in a frantic way looking for the holes. Eventually, they end up in the glue traps. Read about discarding the glue traps while simultaneously denying there is a rodent in it here.

This is obviously good, safe advice. The steel wool and plaster won’t give you cancer. But there are these other holes that develop behind the refrigerator and in places where heavy stuff like couches are  in front of the holes. Who has time to move stuff like that to plug up a suspected hole?

One of my other suggestions involves doing things that rodents hate but people like. The other one involves doing things that rodents hate and people are neutral on. A third one involves something that is a little bit of a pain in the neck, but humans quickly become used to. This third thing is quite disappointing to rodents.

Let me elaborate.

Be a FreshMaker

Before getting to the good part, there is something disgusting that you must do. You must clean out the places that the rodents have been living. These places can include cupboards. Listen to some addicting podcasts while you are working. It will make the time go faster.

Rodents are disgusting. They’ve been using your residence as their nesting, mating, eating, birthing and bathroom facilities. You must vacuum and then scrub with the kind of spray that kills 99.9 % of germs.

You must either wash everything else that was in with the disgusting rodents or throw it all out.

Get peppermint oil from the drugstore or health food store along with cotton balls. If you can pour some peppermint oil directly on an area do so. But most of the time, you should soak cotton balls and scatter them in the areas that the rodents like to go.

Then mark you calendar every couple of weeks to check for signs of rodents and refresh the cotton balls. You can’t just do the cotton balls once. You have to keep refreshing them.

It turns out that refresh is a good word for what is happening. Peppermint smells horrible to rodents. It really seems like they truly can’t stand it. Peppermint might be just as disgusting to rodents as rodents are to most humans.

However, to humans it is aromatherapy. It’s very bracing and clean smelling. It will make you feel wide-awake and clear-headed. Additionally, it will also smell kind of Christmassy like a candy cane. Maybe you’re thinking that you don’t want to smell Christmas in August.  Do you love rodents? Do you want to get cancer? Do you want to wear a jumpsuit?

Make sounds rodents hate.

I used to think that these things were a scam. But then I heard some success stories from a very reliable source. This wasn’t some bozo from the Internet. If you must know, this was my brother in law’s older sister.

Once I heard good things from my BILOS, I got myself one ASAP, and plugged that Home Sentinel unit right into our outlet.

The noise it makes is inaudible to even the human member of our family who has sensory integration issues and is sensitive to stimuli that most other humans are not. But it appears that the noise it makes is extremely unpleasant and rude to rodents. Like it or not, the rodents are both roommates and neighbors. It is the rodent version of really crappy grating heavy metal music played at all hours that the rest of us can’t even hear. We refuse to turn that shit down. They are unable to live with this racket any longer. Win!

Rubbermaid.

Rodents and humans like some of the same things. For instance, we all enjoy eating Great Grains cereal. Jeremy and I do not like sharing this and other favorite foods with rodents. As long as we are willing to share food with rodents, the rodents will not leave our apartment to go live with neighbors or in the common areas.

One thing that rodents like that humans do not is making homes out of cardboard and giving birth right in the cardboard homes. As strange as it sounds to us, this is what rodents like to do.

That is how Jeremy and I came to buy large numbers of plastic containers. Once we cut the rodents off from their food supplies and unreasonable demands for homemade cardboard residences inside of our apartment, they apparently found what they needed from neighbors.

That is why we have two extremely large Rubbermaid boxes filled with crackers, cereals, pasta and Pirates Booty. We call them carb boxes. Maybe it doesn’t sound nice. Better than rodents. Or cancer.

Do all of these things at once.

Don’t be lazy. Don’t try just one of these things and expect it to solve this problem. I can hear it now.  The Home Sentinel doesn’t work. Well, maybe the rodents have decided to stay with the terrible noise you’re making because they still get their favorite food and unlimited cardboard for the ugly nests they inexplicably love. Don’t be ridiculous. Do all of them. Or get a jumpsuit and call the exterminator.

The Home Sentinel.