Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never Too Late for Her Dumb Ass to Learn Why Froot Loops Are Not for Dinner (25 page)

Stacey’s still confused. “Wait, does he have syphilis? What is the test they administer to find out if your cat is a date rapist? Did they check him for HPV?”

I wave her off. “Not anything specific like that—they just ran a ton of blood work to eliminate all the other possibilities and they determined there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him. He’s just a pervert.” I lean back in my chair and sigh. “It’s the cycle of abuse.”

Stacey processes this and then says, “So what you’re telling me is they didn’t do a swab under his claws or anything.”

“Right.”

Tracey interjects, “Now are the other cats… is it a big hump-fest? They’re just taking it?”

I run my hand over my ponytail, forgetting that it’s probably greasy from my sandwich. “No, they’re kind of sad and withdrawn… you know, they’re not on Facebook anymore and they’re not really seeing their friends.”

“They’re probably not going to go back next semester?” Stacey adds.

“Yeah, they’re probably not going back,” I laugh.

That’s when I launch into possum updates and I mention how Fletch, bless his Appalachian-American roots, has offered up what he finds to be the most elegant solution. “He wants to shoot the
poor creature to put it out of its misery, to which I responded, ‘We’re not shootin’ us some possum in Lake Forest.’”

Seriously, would you hire this man?

Regardless, the possum thing ends up being moot because I don’t see him for a couple of days. Perhaps now that we’ve hired the poop patrol, he’s off to greener, more vile pastures. Plus, it’s since snowed again and I don’t see any signs of him having come in the yard.

I’m getting ready for bed and the dogs have had their final out of the evening. That’s when Libby decides it’s time to wrestle and afterward everyone inhales a gallon of water. Even though “final out” is Fletch’s responsibility because he tends to be clad in real shoes and not just slippers, he went to sleep early and the task falls to me.

As Libby’s still working on the “come” command, we keep her on a very short leash. In fact, the few times during the day that we don’t walk her, we clip her on a long lead within the backyard so she’s always in our sight when she does her business. We have a small hole in the fence by the pool mechanicals and we have it blocked off, but this dog’s got the flexible exoskeleton of your average city rat, [
Or possum.
] so we’re extra careful.

In terms of being smart, Libby is very, very pretty. She’s sweet and trainable but she’s not much of what you’d call a “critical thinker.” This is evidenced every time she clotheslines herself at the end of a long lead, which is every time she’s on it. She’s yet to figure out where her personal force field ends and her wipeouts are both spectacular and frequent. No matter how many times
we slowly and deliberately demonstrate her reach, the lesson never seems to stick.

Loki, on the other hand, understands the “come” command, but he could give a good goddamn about it when he catches the scent of something in the wood line, which leads to me having to traipse through the snow in my bathrobe and slippers to retrieve his yappy ass. So now, I’m choosing to save myself some aggravation by clipping Loki to the long leash. Libby’s always sucking up to him and I figure if he’s confined to a fifteen-foot radius, she won’t go anywhere.

I figure wrong.

Immediately Libby takes off for the other side of the yard and I find myself bounding through snowdrifts in Crocs and a robe. Then we play a long, freezing game of hide-and-seek, which culminates in Libby spotting the hole in the fence. We both make a mad dash and reach it at the same time. Libby, however, has the good sense to not trip over the small grayish object right in front of it.

I am not so lucky.

And by the way? Apparently the possum had returned at some point earlier in the day.

To die.

As I brush snow off my knees and scramble for the puppy, I have a choice: I can avoid hypothermia by keeping my robe shut, or I can remove the belt, tie it into an ad hoc leash, and drag the frisky puppy away from a serendipitous snack.

I pick the option that doesn’t include a midnight emergency vet run.

Mind you, none of this would have happened if Fletch
hadn’t gone to bed in anticipation of rising early for his class in the morning. As figuring out how to take care of our business record-keeping must be on some list other than The List, Fletch signed himself up for a two-day QuickBooks class.

When I come inside, and after I defrost, I wake Fletch up to tell him I found the possum and that he needs to bury him. He mumbles something about property taxes and Animal Control and promptly goes back to sleep.

Typical.

I spend all morning taking the three dogs out on leashes [
And cursing what should be an assistant’s job.
] because I don’t want them getting close to the tasty, tasty, disease-infested possum. When I finally reach someone at Animal Control, they tell me they don’t pick up dead animals in people’s yards and that I should simply double bag him as though he were a pound of hamburger and toss him in the trash.

How much would that suck if you had a deer croak in your yard?

Regardless, not only does this feel unspeakably sad. I also don’t want to piss off the kid who drives the little golf cart to pick up our trash. I’ve barely gotten over past lectures on the proper disposal of cat litter and his impassioned soliloquy on
Recycling and You—Our Partnership for Greener America, Or, Really, Lady, Is It That Freaking Hard to Put Your Empty Wine Bottles in the Specially Marked Bin
?

Point? I decide a proper burial is required.

I e-mail the following note to Fletch:

Where is my good buryin’ shovel?

Since we moved up here, I’ve had very little use for my vast
collection of shovels-cum-weapons, largely because it’s safe and boring up here.

Fletch doesn’t respond to my note, so I poke around the basement and garage until I find the pointiest shovel in our vast collection. I don my warmest and most somber coat and set to my task.

I feel like the possum would be happiest being laid to rest in the woods but I quickly determine that this isn’t an option. Funny thing about the ground in Illinois in January—it’s rock solid. No wonder Chicago’s underworld is always dropping bodies in the river; it’s so much easier on the back.

As I scout the landscape from my spot in the woods, I spy all the places where Libby’s been digging on the side of the house. I figure the ground must be warmer there as she’s able to displace a good deal of dirt in a fraction of a second, before dashing inside with muddy paws to dance all over clean bedspreads. I find a lovely resting spot directly beneath the window on Fletch’s side of the bed. I dig down some and figure this to be a sufficient amount. I mean, I’m not burying a human body, so there’s no need to worry about going down six feet, right?

Then I steel myself for the worst part of the task—moving the possum. I walk over to where he is and I gently attempt to lift him with the business end of my shovel.

The little bastard is frozen solid to the ground.

For two horrifying minutes I attempt to pry him loose until I finally free him. And if I never have to witness the sound and feel of dead marsupial being wrenched from the frozen earth again, that would be aces with me.

I want to be gentle and respectful but mostly I don’t want to break off any bits because I’m pretty sure Fletch doesn’t want me showing up at his class shrieking about possum parts.

Then, cradling my good buryin’ shovel, I bring him over to his hole in the ground, quickly tossing scoops of dirt on and all around him.

I say a few words over him and try to sing “Sunrise, Sunset” but realize I don’t actually know most of the words. [
I suspect I may be remembering the “Where is the little girl I married?” line wrong, too.
]

Then I step back to admire my handiwork and just as I’m congratulating myself for a job well done, I have a terrifying thought—what if he’s not actually dead and he’s just “playing possum?” I mean, he seemed pretty stiff and never flinched a bit when I poked all around him, or stumbled over him for that matter, but maybe that’s all part of his defense mechanism? [
The possum and his ability to plant, or nature’s little Ann Veal.
] While I’m working it all out, a flock of geese flies over my head, squawking, and I practically jump out of my skin.

I take some twigs and fashion a small, tasteful cross to adorn the mound of dirt which, frankly, looked a lot easier when Pa Ingalls did it on
Little House on the Prairie
.

When I get back inside, I e-mail Fletch again:

Possum buried. Shovel still outside because you might want to rinse it first.

Then I begin to wonder if I dug his grave deep enough so I do a quick Google search.

Way off on that one.

For future reference, should your feckless assistant ever be off at a class learning to operate QuickBooks and you find yourself alone and needing to bury a marsupial, I suggest you do the Google search first.

Fletch finally has a break in his stupid class and sends me a
note where he uses the word “biohazard” no less than three times, to which I reply:

Listen, if YOU don’t want me accidentally creating biohazards, then perhaps you should be a better assistant.

Fletch doesn’t respond and we will definitely discuss this at his next performance review.

Since there’s nothing for lunch, [
We’ll just add this to your file, too, honey.
] I run errands. As I’m checking out at the grocery store, the clerk asks how my day is going.

Listen, if you’re not prepared to hear the response, “Not bad, but I buried a possum,” then I suggest you not ask such leading questions.

Anyway, I fear this story may not be over, due to the nature of shallow graves and Libby’s propensity for digging, so perhaps one day we’ll see the possum again.

Until then, please join me in a moment of silence for a marsupial I called Chewie.

Godspeed, my friend. Godspeed.

I
’m terrible at a lot of things.

I mean, really just awful.

Hear me sing and you’ll accuse me of killing music.

Watch me dance and you’ll pray for a return to the rhythmic stylings of Elaine Benes.

See me run and you’ll make a mental note to buy a new sports bra. [
And some diet soda.
]

Challenge me to add one-fourth plus two-thirds and observe the circuitry in my brain melting.

I can’t thread a needle, cut a straight line, or convince my dogs it’s not cool to crap indoors. I can’t hold my breath for more than ten seconds, remember any numerical sequence longer than four digits, or open a jar without first stabbing airholes in the top of it.

I can’t apply fake eyelashes without looking like my eyeball’s grown a beard.

I can’t ride a bike. I mean, I could thirty years ago, but I haven’t tried since then and I guarantee those skills have deteriorated. I won’t even opt for the regular exercise bike at the gym because I’m afraid I’ll fall off. It’s recumbent bike or nothing at all. [
That I can’t drag myself to the gym with any sort of regularity anymore goes without saying.
]

I can’t play Sudoku. I can’t play cards. I can’t play chess. I can’t play checkers. I can’t play tic-tac-toe. (Or, at least I can’t win at it.)

I can’t inhale.

I can’t read in the car.

I can’t fold a fitted sheet.

I can’t keep a secret.

And I’m fine with all my failings because I do one thing better than almost anyone.

I can fly.

On planes, I mean.

If air travel were a sport, I’d not only be pro, but I’d have my own endorsement deals. Despite having no control over the vagaries of weather, mechanicals, and air traffic control, I rock at all other matters flight-related. I can pack for a week on the road—and not just to a beach vacay. I’m talking outfits for media appearances and book signings and scrubby stuff to wear in hotel rooms between events—using nothing but carry-on luggage.

The key is color coordination. With a few simple solid dresses, plain cardigans, Capris, alligator shirts, and a couple of cute print scarves, I easily cram a week’s worth of looks in the overhead compartment. I’m sure Rachel Zoe wouldn’t approve of my immensely
boring personal style, but I don’t approve of those hairy vests she wears, so we’re even.

Also, if you take more than a pair of flats, a pair of heels, and a pair of flip-flops or sneakers, you’re doing it wrong. And you won’t get scabies if you wear your nightgown more than once between washings. [
Again, been tested.
]

Because I inevitably pick up more stuff along the way, I leave enough room in my suitcase to accommodate for those things. Traveling is the best time to get rid of your ratty underpants, old socks, and spray-tan stained bras. [
Okay, those may just be mine.
] By leaving worn undergarments in the trash, you won’t feel guilty for tossing them out and you won’t be stuck with a ton of dirty laundry upon your return home. Win, win!

The benefits of carrying on are practically unlimited—first, the airline doesn’t get to wallet-rape you on checked bag fees. Also, if you carry on, the likelihood of you ever seeing your suitcase again rises to one hundred percent from approximately three percent. Plus, you never know what’s going to happen to your plane once you get past security. Recently I had a flight canceled because of a missing crew member. We passengers were all, “Missing? Missing how? Like late for work missing or like call-
CSI
-missing?” [
Although rumor has it this is airline bullshit for “didn’t sell enough seats on the plane so we rebooked all of your sorry, inconvenienced asses.”
] As airlines have strict policies about separating travelers from their bags, if you haven’t checked anything, you’re a lot more nimble if there’s the inevitable flight cancellation or change.