Ain’t No Bugs on Me: Part III

In the spirit of reconciliation and atonement — (last night was the first time I’ve been to confession since I was 13) — I was prepared to make peace with all of pigeonkind, including the nest above the doorway of an apartment two floors below me. The first time I saw the nest back in January, I contemplated calling Vasco again to see about removal. But, it was in the middle of a long winter and I didn’t want to render two proud pigeon parents childless yet again. 

Besides, I had noticed that someone got rid of the initial nest, leaving the eggs unattended for what I thought was a fatal length of time. When I saw the nest had been re-built I was kind of touched to find the parents tending to it again. When I asked an uncle, a bird expert of sorts, about the eggs’ chances for survival, he said the odds were low that baby birds would result. The pigeon parents, however, would be just as likely to tend to marbles as they would viable eggs.

But no such luck. Before long, the eggs hatched. I couldn’t very well ask for the nest’s destruction at this point. That would mean committing avian infanticide. So I kept my mouth shut as long as I could. As the babies grew, the nest started to fall apart and scatter all over the landing. Also, four pigeons means four times the pigeon poo, which for a tiny space is a lot of poo. Getting the situation solved took three phone calls and a lot of psychosomatic itching. But at least it’s gone and I remain guilt-free.

So, back to last summer.

After three days of getting nowhere on the extermination and delousing front, I took up residence at a Fairfield Inn where the bed linens were gloriously white and free from the creepy crawlies. If there were any residual mites left on me or my clothing, I would surely find them on the spotless sheets and commence killing. After finding out that the skin infection I had, called impetigo, wasn’t contagious, I went back to work as usual.

Having not heard from my building’s management for days at this point, I started calling all the departments in Cook County and the city of Evanston that I thought might be able to intercede. After a couple calls, I was able to determine that this could easily be considered a public health issue and went from there. The kind man who answered my call at the Health Dept. said he’d call management and see that it got taken care of.

Within minutes the building manager got back to me after three days of missed calls, and agreed to pay for half of the time spent in the hotel; for a cleaning service to come in; the doctor and drug bills; the cost of cleaning supplies; the cost of laundering all of my clothing, bed linens, futon cover, throw rugs and blankets; as well as the cosmetics, toiletries and pillows that I had to replace.

After that, everything rapidly started to improve. Giddy with relief, I was able to find a nice cleaning service that could thoroughly remove all traces of dead mite exoskeletons and remnants my Raid foggers. Then my mom, God bless her, came up to Evanston to help me with the laundry nightmare that was stuffing every stitch of fabric in my apartment into a front-loading washing machine at my dilapidated neighborhood laundromat — a feat that cost $40 in quarters.

But before the professionals came in to clean, my mom and I donned masks and charged into my apartment to bag up my clothes and vacuum what we could with our Shop-Vac. We were chagrined to find that while the building engineer dutifully removed my two window A/C units for cleaning, he neglected to put up anything to cover the open window left behind, leaving god knows what to fly in and wreak bird havoc in my already ravaged apartment. I ended up taping a street map of Chicago over one empty window and a piece of cardboard over the other. Exhausted after our cleaning binge, we returned to the hotel and its pristine white sheets and retired for the night.

The next morning we got up early so we could let the cleaning service in and then resigned ourselves to the laundromat for what turned out to be about 14 loads of laundry. We ran a shockingly efficient operation, shuffling loads between the washers and dryers and making polite small talk with the homeless people that wander in and out of the facility all day. By noon, we were done with the laundry just in time to pay the cleaning service.

The hard part, now, was keeping my paranoia at bay while I got used to life without bugs.

I vacuumed every inch of my mattress and furniture and invested in a Dustbuster in case I ever had trouble telling the difference between lint and mites. Still traumatized, it took me three nights to work up the nerve to actually sleep in my bed. I was convinced that the mites had all laid eggs in the mattress and that hatching was imminent. Then, it was weeks before I could get into bed without giving my sheets a good once-over. I briefly considered buying a magnifying glass for this purpose.

In another exercise in paranoia, I asked the building manager to install pigeon spikes outside all of my windows. Through a little online research I learned that pigeons prefer to roost on ledges on a building’s top floor, and especially on ledges facing a courtyard, which mine did. Since I knew it could be a few days until the landlord got around to doing it, I bought what I can only describe as anti-pigeon goo. This concoction is designed to burn the feet of any pigeon that chooses to land on a surface covered with it. It only bothers me a little bit that I have no reservations about being this vigilant.

Thus far, my paranoia has paid off as my apartment has been spared from any further infestations. However, this is just the first step in my crusade against infestation. I will not rest until I see pigeon spikes on every ledge of my building. And my neighbors will thank me. Oh, how they will thank me.

On The Radio

And now that I have that Regina Spektor song in my head...I will be making my first -- and hopefully not last -- appearance on Chicago Public Radio/WBEZ tomorrow morning on the program Eight Forty-Eight. I will be reading the essay I wrote about narrowly avoiding a speeding ticket while driving through Glencoe on my way to work last November. If they are able to connect, the producers hope to interview the police officer that gave me life/career advice instead of a ticket. Eight Forty-Eight airs in Chicago between 9:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m. You can stream (click the 'Listen Now' button) the broadcast here. Or, you can read the text of the essay or listen to the podcast here. The incident was one of my primary inspirations for starting this blog, so I plan to publish the full-length version of the story here eventually, as the radio version is substantially shorter.

Why St. Teresa of Avila Is My Kind of Saint

Long story short, I’m finally getting confirmed this Easter -- I know, imagine that! -- which means it’s time for me to pick my saint name. When I found out St. Teresa of Avila (1515-1582) was the patron saint of headaches, it was a no-brainer — although she did face stiff competition from St. Elmo, the patron saint of women in labor; St. Clare, the patron saint of television; and St. Isidore of Seville, the patron saint of the Internet.

I haven’t had time to read an actual book about St. Teresa since deciding on her, so I’ve been cobbling together interesting tidbits about her courtesy of Wikipedia and similar sources. The more I read, the more I like her.

Typically, I don’t have much in common with mystic Carmelite nuns from Spain, but there’s an awful lot about St. Teresa that I can relate to, even though we live centuries apart. Here are a few examples:

1. When I was in second or third grade I went through a very pious phase and wanted to be a nun (likely inspired by the character Marie on “Just the Ten of Us”). Needless to say, that particular phase didn’t last long, but I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard myself or other frustrated daters say “I should just join a convent.” I was kind of comforted to read that St. Teresa had similar thoughts. She’s often described as a social butterfly and no stranger to love affairs. She first spent some time in a convent as a teenager in an attempt by her father to discipline her. That attempt was short-lived, and she returned to her home. Says one site:

Back at home, Teresa was once again faced with the choice: marriage to whoever could be found (and with each passing year her marriageability was lessening) or the convent. She finally decided on the convent, out of the certainty that otherwise she was bound to go to hell.” 

Word.

2. You also could say that it was Catholic guilt that drove her, as a very young child, to attempt to turn herself over to the Moors who were carrying out the Spanish Inquisition. Her grandfather had been a Jew that converted to Christianity as a result of the Inquisition, leading St. Teresa to feel that she should become a martyr for the cause. Luckily, a relative found her before she could walk out of town.

3. The first thing, of course, that drew me to St. Teresa was the headache connection. And it looks like she suffered from a number of chronic conditions. However, it was this paragraph or two on one site that I identified with the most:

“…Yet instead of helping her spiritually, her sickness became an excuse to stop her prayer completely: she couldn't be alone enough, she wasn't healthy enough, and so forth…When she was 41, a priest convinced her to go back to her prayer, but she still found it difficult. "I was more anxious for the hour of prayer to be over than I was to remain there. I don't know what heavy penance I would not have gladly undertaken rather than practice prayer." She was distracted often: "This intelect is so wild that it doesn't seem to be anything else than a frantic madman no one can tie down."

She eventually was credited with a technique called “mental prayer” and wrote extensively on the subject, but this little bit about her echoed the reasons I’ve used to claim that I’m “bad at religion.” I’ve always felt like religion and faith seem to come more easily to other people — like it’s a skill or something that I have to train for. Like wind sprints. For instance, when I go to church, after I walk in and find a seat, I can only kneel and pray for one or two minutes before succumbing to distraction and giving up. It’s probably more like 30 seconds, actually. It must look to others like I’m either a super efficient prayer or have church-specific ADD.

4. St. Teresa is famous for a lot of her writing (she’s also the patron saint of Spanish writers) and advice, but this quote is one of my favorites: “I do not fear Satan half so much as I fear those who fear him.” I like this because it was relevant during her lifetime — with the Spanish Inquisition and other major upheavals in the Church — and during ours. It’s a useful antidote to the likes of Fred Phelps and other hate mongers that use their beliefs to justify bigotry. I guess some things never change.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

When I got laid off I felt, oddly enough, as if I had finally been given a solid return on my investment — because most often I worry endlessly about things that never come to pass. For once, the worst case scenario became a reality. But now, even though I don’t have a new job yet, I’m starting to think that unemployment is far from the worst case scenario.

 Franklin Roosevelt was on to something when, during the great depression, he cautioned “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” I used to think it was a nice sentiment, but was never quite able to put it into use, nor did I comprehend why it was such useful advice at the time. But now I see examples of this daily, if not hourly. And nowhere is it more evident — at least to me — than in the workplace. Even if you no longer have one.

To me, the prospect of being trapped in a job where you endure daily attacks on your character, talents and abilities is worse than the alternative. Many people have told me that the day they were laid off was one of the best days of their lives, although that comes as cold comfort when you’re newly laid off. They told me that they started to see severance checks as an incentive or reward for getting away from their abusive boss or toxic work environment. Granted, they may be singing a different song if they have mouths to feed and a mortgage to pay. But as Reid McCormish pointed out, the recession has made people more afraid to stand up for themselves and confront the source of the problem out of fear of retribution. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, but it may also give your company a rationale for laying you off instead of your quieter but equally as qualified coworker.

And I’m no group psychologist, but it seems lately that the recession brings out the worst in people, from Bernie Madoff to gossipy office drones — especially if their industry has been hard hit, such as the real estate, publishing, construction or auto industries. As one friend put it to me recently, the workplace would be so much more humane if people reacted to financial uncertainties with love rather than fear.

For example, a friend of mine worked for a non-profit that she adored but had to deal with a boss who became increasingly insulting as finances there worsened. Instead of having a calm, straightforward discussion about the budget, my friend’s boss fostered a hostile work environment where nobody was happy. I suspect a lot of employers are in similar situations and are hesitant to spend the severance and unemployment contributions required to lay workers off. Instead, they find more subtle and insidious ways to make employees miserable enough to up and quit. That way they never have to publicly risk looking like the bad guy.

A quieter form of on-the-job and job-search misery comes in the form of incongruous ethical standards between employer and employee. In the face of potential layoffs and prolonged bouts of unemployment, current and would-be employees are stuck between a rock and a hard place when it comes to reconciling what their boss and what their conscience demands they do. The marketplace is full of conflicting interests, but nobody wants to seem fickle when they’ve been out of a job for six months.

A former professor from my alma mater graciously returns emails and dispenses advice to graduates dealing with professional upheavals. She shared with me a response she gives when asked about such conflicts:

I am seriously uneasy about anybody ever taking a job just because they need the work. I see that as a failure waiting to happen. Yes, the opportunities right now might seem highly limited, but look for the long term. Will this job help you get where you want when the sun again shines on the economy (and it will), or will it hinder you from achieving your ultimate goals?

Look at this as a marriage. Would you jump at marrying that jerk you met in a bar just because you’re tired of being single? I seriously hope not. Nor would you stay in an abusive relationship.

[It seems as if I’m not the only one to notice similarities between matters of the heart and a new job search].

In other words, don’t make decisions this important based on fear. Or, as my friend’s boyfriend put it when she was struggling with her beloved non-profit, “Don’t make any decisions while you’re still crying.”

One couldn't possibly go wrong in following such sound advice.

This post is mirrored here.

Ain’t No Bugs On Me: Part 2

Just prior to penning the first installment of my pigeon problem, my pigeon paranoia resurfaced when I noticed that an apartment two floors below mine had a pigeon nest above the back door. All of the other units in my part of the building have a similar ledge above the door too, but the rest, except for this one unit’s, are screened off. This is prime pigeon real estate; it’s still facing a courtyard that pigeons love, but it’s out of the wind.

I first noticed it one day when I started climbing my stairs only to find mama and papa pigeon trading places, which involved flying right over my head in the narrow stairwell, as they tended to the nest and eggs. I’m pretty sure I hit the deck while they swooped in and out. A day or two later, the remnants of the nest were on the stairway, where it looked like someone, smartly, tried to get rid of it. But pigeons are nothing if not persistent, and the nest was reassembled a couple days later.

Ever since, every time I enter or leave the building I have to come face to face with a pigeon. And I know what they’re thinking: “That’s the girl that had our last nest destroyed. Home wrecker! Let’s dive bomb her!”

Their beedy little eyes are full of loathing. Of that I’m certain.

But back to the first pigeon crisis.

On that rainy Monday morning where we left off, I made a run to the local Ace store frantically in search of bug bombs. I got back home just as the building engineer, Vasco, got there. He helped me identify them vaguely as “bird mites.” I had to vacate for a few hours while the bug bombs took effect, so I called in for a personal day from work and rounded up some things and took refuge at my sister’s, where I finally was able to take a shower. I made sure the water was as hot as I could tolerate and scrubbed and shampooed until I felt bug and itch free.

Vasco had promised me he’d call an exterminator in case the bombs didn’t finish the job and get rid of the nest. Despite numerous calls to Vasco throughout the day, I was not able to get through to him to find out the status of the bug bombs or to find out if the exterminator had been there yet. At that point I started looking in the yellow pages for exterminators to see if I could find someone who could at least tell me what the protocol was — did I need to boil and wash all my bed linens, clothes, rugs, furniture? Would the chemicals from the bombs and exterminator be harmful? And then, how to deal with the millions of dead bug carcasses after the fogger kicked in? Nobody could tell me. And Vasco was nowhere to be found.

I eventually decided Monday night to go back to my apartment, gather up enough clothes and necessities for a couple days, and stay at my sister’s, or somewhere else, until I could get in and do a thorough cleaning.

I entered through the back door, which has an outer screen door, and another door with a window. Immediately I noticed broken glass on the steps and saw a big triangular corner knocked out of the window. Flabbergasted and more than a tad upset, I called Vasco again, and finally got ahold of him. He was very apologetic and apologized for accidentally breaking my window with a hammer when he’d been there earlier. Still livid, I did a walk-through to evaluate whether there were any bugs left that were moving.

For the most part, everything was pretty much dead, though one or two were still crawling here and there. I rounded up another batch of clothes, which I was instructed to put in the dryer. Supposedly, the heat of a dryer would kill anything left on the fabric.

A friend told me I could stay at her place with her roommates since she was out of town, so I packed for the next night or two and went over to her place. But in the process of carrying my clothes down to her washer and dryer in the basement, some sort of giant beetle attached itself to my tee-shirt without my knowing it (to get to the basement, I had to go outside). With my clothes safely dried, I parked myself on their couch in front of the TV to unwind. But shortly after I sat down I felt something stinging me, like a bee-sting, on my lower back. I jumped up and found that huge, grayish/brown beetle and screamed. I decided to flee again to my sister’s for the night.

I had never particularly bug phobic — I stayed in Girl Scouts until I was in high school for crying out loud — but that day did me in.

I stayed with my sister for two nights as I was again playing phone tag with Vasco. It had taken him 2-3 days to get an exterminator over to fog and spray the place, and I told them I wouldn’t be back until they got rid of the offending nest. This, I didn’t realize, is a little controversial in the exterminating world. Some exterminators said spraying the nest would kill any remnants of bugs. However, the act of throwing it away could result in throwing all the bug exoskeletons into the air, which could be harmful to asthmatics or people with breathing problems. I asked Vasco to have the exterminator call me so I could ask him how to clean thoroughly and to find out exactly what kinds of mites I was dealing with (nobody seemed to know for sure).

By the third or fourth day of not hearing back from Vasco, my mom told me to go stay in a hotel out of courtesy to my sister. At this point the red bumps on my legs developed into irritated sores so I started calling doctors. One doctor I reached told me that whatever I had could be extremely contagious and that I shouldn’t be at work and should cancel the business trip I was scheduled to go on. I opted to go to an urgent care facility for a diagnosis since I didn’t want to wait for an appointment. I learned that I just had a skin infection, which was not contagious. I did not, the verynice doctor promised, have the scabies-like infection I was afraid I had. Oral and topical antibiotics would take care of it.

I had given up on getting ahold of Vasco and started calling management instead. I wanted to make sure the nest was gone and that my window units would get a thorough cleaning. I also wanted compensation for the hotel, doctor’s visit and belongings I had to replace as a result of this mess.

However, nobody called me back…until I called the Evanston health department.

To be continued….

...Or Hardly Working?

I keep meaning to add a link off to the left for WBEZ/Chicago Public Radio's excellent ongoing series about jobs and joblessness, called Hard Working. When I read on the blog dedicated to the series that they wanted to hear from college grads aged 20-35 being impacted by the recession, I sent them a little note. As a result, I will now be contributing to the blog by sharing some of what I write here with them, starting with this post.