Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Lancaster, Jen (read more books .txt) 📖

It’s unusual to see her like this because there’s absolutely no one and nothing she doesn’t like. Case in point, this morning she finagled her way onto a chair I didn’t fully push in, climbed on the kitchen table, and swiped and ate a banana (peel and all) and most of an overripe pear. [Actually, yes, we do go through a ton of antibacterial spray in our house. Why do you ask?]

We follow her gaze all the way to the back of the yard where we spy… something gray with a pink tail.

“That is the biggest freaking rat I’ve ever seen!” I shriek.

“Jen, it’s a possum,” he replies between bites of his Billy Club sandwich. “You really need to have your vision rechecked.”

Darkly, I reply, “I would… if my assistant ever made me an eye doctor appointment.”

“I’ll put it on the list.”

Don’t get me started about The List.

I hate The List.

I want to punch The List.

Every time I need something done, Fletch says he’s going to put it on The List but at this point, since nothing in the history of ever has actually been accomplished on The List, I don’t believe The List even exists.

The List is a Lie.

I scrub at my eyes and squint at the distance between me and the possum. “What’s he doing?”

Fletch peers out the window behind him. “He appears to be eating dog shit. That’s what they do; they consume waste.”

This is so wrong.

I drop the salt and vinegar chip I’m about to eat. “So, what you’re telling me is this possum is a giant rat, only with a better PR department. Are you going to call the doody removal service now? Please?”

Recently we had a few warm days when the snow in the yard melted and all the dog crap that magically disappeared in the winter magically reappeared. The guys who mow our lawn are supposed to take care of this but we won’t see them until spring. Also, their usual preferred method of “removing it” entails driving a riding mower over it, chopping it into a thousand shards, and then nodding enthusiastically when I inquire if it’s gone. The whole thing turned into a bit of a Mexican standoff [In the figurative sense, not the pejorative.] and we need a better long-term solution.

He nods complacently. “It’s on the list.”

I grit my teeth. “In the interim, we’re just going to have the possum take care of it?”

He takes a thoughtful chew. “We’d probably need to bring in more than one possum for that to be an effective solution.”

This? Right here? Is why he’s a terrible employee.

But if I fired him, I’d have to pay him unemployment. [I checked.]

I make the executive decision to find a waste removal service my damn self and it turns out we can get weekly poop-removal for eleven dollars! Eleven dollars!! I can’t imagine how the company possibly makes a profit by only charging eleven dollars because the time needed to pick up the dogs’ deposits is not insignificant.

Maybe we use the same accountant?

I hope they’re up-cycling the waste somehow and selling it as fertilizer so it makes financial sense because I’d like for them to stay in business so I never handle dog poop again. Last year we had a tiny yard and a lot of snow, so in the spring it fell to me to do clean-up as Fletch was busy at his job drinking lattes and wearing shirts with fancy cuffs. A sudden thaw left us with a backyard that looked like the open sewers of Bombay and even though I was wearing protective rubber boots up past my ankles, let’s just say they weren’t high enough. As I sloshed through the SlushPoopy™, I would have happily paid someone ten times eleven dollars. When I finished my gruesome mission, I stripped everything off from the underpants down and threw it all away. That I didn’t somehow catch hookworm is nothing short of a miracle.

After lunch I snap a photo of the possum and post it on my Facebook page. People write on my wall telling me that if we’re seeing a nocturnal animal in the daytime, he’s likely ill. When I relay this information to Fletch, he replies, “How do you know they’re sick? Was he in his bathrobe? Did he have a tiny cup of tea?”

So now I have yet another furry creature to worry about. Poor little Libby almost died as a puppy because of starvation, which is why I never give her too hard a time when she steals food. We didn’t get her until she was perfectly healthy, but I still have trouble letting down my guard. Both my cats Tucker and Jordan seem happy enough, but at seventeen and eighteen respectively, they’re thinner and less energetic than they were back in their heyday.

Of course, Maisy has her issues and even though she’s doing well, particularly because of Libby, I perpetually fret over the “what ifs.”

I don’t quite know what to do with a sick possum or how I might go about having him treated. If I could even get my hands on him, I’d probably have to take him to a different vet because I’m kind of embarrassed about my last visit when I took Tucker in for date rape.

Yeah.

Talking about this visit at lunch is fun.

“What do you mean your cat is a ‘date rapist?’” Gina asks, while Stacey and Tracey gawp at me, trying to form questions.

I set down my grilled cheese because I probably can’t recount the story without hand gestures. “You know how Libby had a little adjustment period when we first got her? Everyone was jealous and there was some aggression. We’d keep them from fighting and in turn Loki and Maisy would get frustrated so they’d hump each other.”

Everyone’s witnessed this at my house at one time or another and it’s a sight to behold. Maisy’s always been the main culprit and what’s so weird is she’s female and generally opts to hump the wrong