Lomilomi

So here I am in my newly rented, jasmine-bedecked cottage in the luxury seaside village and tucked into a downy bed like Snow White and falling fast asleep.

And what days! Walks on the beach, buying armfuls of fresh flowers, picking up delectable organic fixings at Whole Foods, stopping for a latte at the smart little cafe on Ocean Avenue. Yeah, this was the life all right. And at night I'd watched a film by the fire, while out the French doors I'd spy a deer sipping from the garden fountain. I was living in a Disney film and that was fine with me. I'd even met a refined older gentleman who was coming for lunch and to paint watercolors. Yes, my life had taken a verdant turn I thought that night in my snuggly bed.

Little did I realize that the noises I'd heard that night coming from the attic was trouble was creeping up in Paradise on teeny, tiny, itty-bitty feet.

In the morning, I decided to investigate while awaiting the landlord's housekeeper and grabbed a flashlight and pulled down the ceiling ladder in my room to climb into the immense attic stored with several generations of decrepit, cobwebby junk. "Welcome to Morticia Munster's School of Housewifery and Dcor" I thought as the flashlight shone on shiny piles of raisins on the floor.

The housekeeper shouted up the ladder.

"Oh, hi, " I replied cheerily. "Do you know anything about these raisins?"

She climbed up and huffed. "That's rat shit, lady! And loads of it." My scream derailed putts over on Pebble Beach's 17-Mile Drive golf courses. "Call the health department! Call the Mayor! Call someone!! What do we do?"

She deadpanned. "Traps. Lots of 'em. Cut back the trees so there's no roof access. Close up any openings," she looked around and shook her head. "At least, that's what we did last time..."

Rat Man came and flirted with me. A beefy woman from the health department arrived to advise on abatement. The tree trimmers erected tall metal ladders and flipped on screaming power saws. Their boom boxes pounded out Rap that consisted mostly of "Bitch!" The fix-it man wore a 50-pound belt of tools and trooped in massive workman boots up and down the ladder tracking rat poop through my pristine room.

I was a wreck trying to sleep that night on one of the 4' living room sofas with my knees at my chin. "What IS that snoring!" I flipped off the duvet and tiptoed outside in my white nightgown and through the witchy talons of furiously blowing trees. As I rounded the cottage, the flashlight beam landed on on a massive hulk against the house. A buck leapt up and crashed his antlers into the forest and I ran back into Rat Cottage and bolted the door. From the attic came the CLINK of a trap, and an ungodly scream that I matched decibel for decibel.

Shaking, I called Rat Man and left a message on his voicemail. "Please, I beg you, come get this dead thing from above my head!" With that, the wind blew the lights out. Why, oh, why had I left The City where all there is to worry about is dinner reservations and muggings.

Traps went off all night as I whimpered on the sofa in the dark. Rat Man arrived at 6AM, and with bleak determination, black garbage bags, and thick rubber gloves stormed the ladder into the gory remnants of last night's rat-rout.

"Don't tell or show me anything." I raised my hands unable to take anymore. "Just please sneak whatever out of here,"

I called Cleaning Lady and asked her to rent a shop-vac, then drove to the hardware store to stock-up on plastic gloves, plastic booties, plastic facemasks, plastic sheeting to cover the things in my room, and boatloads of bleach. She came. She saw. She sanitized. Carpet cleaners arrived en masse. I went to the beach to breath fresh air, now possessing the unfortunate literal knowledge of "I smell a rat."

I peered out to sea, hugged myself, and repeated like a mantra. "You're OK. They're handling it. Just go buy things for your nice lunch tomorrow with your new friend." My teeth chattered as I walked the aisles of my beloved Whole Foods. Or, Mecca, as I like to call it.

The next morning erupted hot and sunny. I made lobster salad from two large lobsters, 3 tablespoons rice vinegar, 1/2 teaspoon soy sauce, 1/4 teaspoon finely grated fresh ginger, a bit of sugar, 3 tablespoons of grapeseed oil, a bunch of watercress, an avocado cut into chunks, and freshly ground pepper and sea salt. Measuring. Cutting. Chopping. I was control of my life again! I'd constructed a work of art. I put chardonnay in to chill. "All better," I smiled to myself.

CLINK.

"Oh, no! Not in this heat!" I called Rat Man. He was gone. Cleaning Lady was gone. It was a three day weekend in the tiny hamlet and everyone had split. Well, Refined Gentleman was just going to have to suck-it-up. I changed into something more persuasive. And while in the bedroom held my breath and quickly spread plastic on the bed, then assembled a soldierly line of plastic bags, gloves, booties and masks.

Then came the knock-knock-knockety on the front door. "Oh, this is so charming!" He kissed me on the cheek and swept in with an arrangement of flowers. I mumbled thanks and tossed it aside like a Field Marshall distracted with pre-mission plans.

"Yeah, well. Mmmm, hmmm. I wonder if you could do me a favor." I crooked my index finger to follow me into the boudior.

He eyed the bed, then me, "Are we having SEX?!"

"NO!!"

"Oh," he pouted and eyed the bed. "I thought this is how they do it today."

"Ahh, no." I said sweetly and asked if he wouldn't mind slipping into all the plastic, "And bring down a moldering rat." I pulled down the ladder and pointed above. He reluctantly agreed and I scooted off to arrange our lunch.

Just as I arrived at the table with the lobster salad, my friend reappeared on the deck resembling an Alien and dangling the trap at a disgusted distance with its 7-pound deceased occupant still attached. I dropped the glass bowl that shattered onto the deck. He hid the rat behind him and ran it over to the neighbor's trash where he ripped off all the plastic, then returned to disinfectant his hands.

We went out for lunch at Clint Eastwood's Hog's Breath Inn. "Carmel has HOGS?!" I lamely joked.

Never saw that nice man again.

2008-Suzanne de Cornelia. All copyrights apply. This article may be reprinted on websites as long as the entire article, including email link and resource box below are included and unchanged.

The author's romantic adventure novel, French Heart, set on wineries in Aix-en-Provence, France, and Santa Barbara will released in 2008. Please sign up today for the book's one-time announcement list on her blog at: http://web.mac.com/myfrenchheart

And more on wonderful Carmel: http://carmelcalifornia.com