Into the Attic at the Sunny Porch Inn

I was right about getting to volunteer to vacuum out the attic. 

Woo hoo.

I could just imagine how much fun I was going to have.  If fifty pounds of rat poop fell out of one tiny hole in the ceiling, what could I hope to find still up there?

I repeat:  Woo hoo.

I envisioned a layer of rat poop 4 or 5 inches deep over the whole attic floor.  I was sure our shop vac wasn't big enough; but then, there was no way we could get a shop vac big enough.  A) They don't make one that big; and B) We were limited by the size of the access hole into the attic.

First, I had to suit up.  I had had quite a close enough encounter with the bubonic plague during our last little sojourn at the SPI, so I opted for a high quality air filter mask -- the kind that you could safely wear during an Ebola outbreak.  I chose it specifically because it said it filtered "organic material."  Don't forget the bandana, tied babushka-style over my hair, to keep out the rat poop, and the plastic goggles.  A long-sleeved men's shirt (approximately 24 sizes too big for me), jeans, knee pads, heavy leather work gloves, and tennis shoes (only because I didn't have any boots) completed my fashion ensemble.  See picture above, with a bonus view of the porch from which Mrs. Porche shot at my brother. 

We left the kids at home for this little adventure at Camp Rat-a-Poopee.

So, while my sister Kathryn and sister-in-law Jen picked up approximately 2 tons of paper trash, scrap metal, bricks, rodent carcasses, bottles (glass and plastic), barbed wire, and brush from the yard (see picture left, the result after hours of work), I screwed my courage to the sticking point and climbed into the attic.

It was clean.

Well, almost.  If you are willing to overlook several hundred pounds of mud dauber nests which, after about 10 minutes I was completely happy to do.  There was a fine layer of dust everywhere, but no rat poop.  At least not near the entrance.

So, I laid down my yellow brick road of plywood across the rafters and crawled deeper into the belly of the beast, pulling the shop vac (I had rigged it up with a "headlight" so I could see), extension handles for the shop vac, and 6 miles of extension cord.

There is one thing I will say in men's favor (well, actually there are a lot of things, but this one is to the point):  They would never put up with the type of behavior from extension cords which I and countless other women routinely accept as normal. 

The instant I plugged the cord in inside the house, the cord, which had been neatly coiled by my father, began to unwind and tangle under its own steam.  I opted to ignore this poltergeist activity in the hopes that it would stop.

Ha!  That just encouraged it.  By the time I got the body of the cord up into the attic, it was a writhing, tangled mess -- It was looped several times around various parts of my anatomy, and I'm prepared to swear it tried to pull me out of the attic.  I finally wrestled it off my arms and legs, pried it off of my neck and threw it onto the rafters, watching it closely all the while for signs of attack.  Instead, it promptly leapt out of the access hole and coiled neatly on the porch below.

I hauled it back up, and it came unplugged.

I climbed back down, plugged it in, climbed up the ladder (keeping a firm hold on the cord so it wouldn't make a break for it again), looped it twice around the ladder, stuck out my tongue at it and said, "Nyah nyah, nyah nyah nyah!!!!"

It got back at me by twisting itself into knots; wrapping itself around the wheels of the shop vac; getting stuck under the plywood, on nails, and on protruding mud dauber nests; and taking every opportunity to twine around my legs, neck, and waist.  

I do not like that extension cord.

Now, I have seen both my father and my husband handle extension cords.   They do not have these problems.  For them, the extension cords lie docilely, quietly, not moving until told to do so, and then they go exactly where they're wanted.  You can almost see the tail wagging.  Are there secret commands I'm not aware of?  Do men have a telepathic connection with these things?  I've never seen an extension cord try to strangle my husband; I, however, routinely face death by electrical cord whenever I run the vacuum cleaner.

Now the question is, is the problem with me, or with the extension cord?

Don't answer that.