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.
Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:
You should never hire the cheapest assistant you can find, even if you are married to him. Also, and I can’t stress this enough, buy yourself a good shovel, because you really never know when you’ll need it.
C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-O·N·E
I Know Why You Fly
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 fol
d 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.
I find the lighter I pack, the quicker I move. I recently topped my previous personal best at Washington Reagan Airport by getting from the curb through security at O’Hare in less than two minutes. Two minutes! No exaggeration! That’s because on the way, I always put all my jewelry in the zippy part of my purse, and when I step out of the car, I’ve already got my boarding pass, license, Kindle, iPad, and quart bag in my hands, ready to be thrust in a bin the second I get to the conveyor belt.
Over the years I’ve flown enough to earn medallion status, which means that sometimes I get to go through the priority line. I love the priority line. I live for the priority line. The priority line is bank. I will do unspeakable things to access the priority line.
If you have any say in the matter, you want the priority line because it’s filled with road warriors, the folks who fly every Monday morning and Thursday evening, every week, every year, until they get divorced or promoted. They’ve done this a million times and it’s a point of personal pride to cruise through security quickly. This line is for pilots and flight attendants, too, and you know they’re on top of it. Once in a while, you’ll see a bona fide jet-setter in this line. [They’re always carrying Louis Vuitton luggage. Always.] They want to get in and out as fast as they can, due to the extreme mortification of being spotted flying commercially.
The priority line is for pros.
No one travels in their pajama bottoms in the priority line.
No one brings the pillow from their bed in the priority line.
No one requires an explanation that “no metal” includes coins in the priority line. No one tries to plow through anyway, despite carrying enough quarters to feed an entire city block’s worth of meters for a week.
No one has to get the full-on-plastic-gloved-how’s-your-father after failing the metal detector because they had the good sense to remove their n-i-p-p-l-e ring before they got to the airport in the priority line.
More likely, they never got it pierced in the first place.
The priority line fills me with the smug sense of self-satisfaction that is almost wholly lacking in other areas of my life, due to my inability to manage many of the basic aspects of living.
Sometimes when I’m in the priority line, I like to predict who’s going to be trouble in the regular line. You, who I just witnessed buying the enormous water bottle? Try not to look surprised when security removes it from your bag. And you, I’m wagering in thirty seconds you’re going to be bitching about you had no idea you couldn’t bring a half gallon of shampoo, likely because you haven’t watched the news in ten years. [I also predict you cut your hair yourself. Often, these qualities are soup and sandwich.] And you, with the purse, the backpack, the suitcase, and the shopping tote—the “limit two carry-on items” business is not simply a suggestion.
One time I watched an otherwise normal-looking woman holding a bunch of bananas in the security line, which… what the fuck? Where was she going that bananas don’t exist? Sure, I could see wanting to have a banana on the plane as a snack, because they’re fairly tidy and there’s no annoying crunch factor and they’re self-contained. Plus, personally, I have a pathological need to never throw bananas away. [My freezer is a testament to this. Oh, and if anyone needs one hundred thirty-seven overripe bananas to make bread? Call me!] But six bananas? For a lady traveling alone? I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing when the TSA guy explained that unless her bananas were in a bag, they counted as a carry-on piece. And then I watched as she ran the bananas through the conveyor belt and then how all the TSA guards gathered around the screen pointing and asking in incredulous tones, “Are those bananas?”
I posit that travel can make the very best of us a little stupid; for those who blithely stroll through the metal detector with a dinner-plate-sized belt buckle, maybe they’re just having an off day. What I don’t get is why airline travel causes people to forget very basic manners, but it does and they do. When I had to catch a connecting flight in Memphis recently, I was overwhelmed by the heady smell of all the rib joints in the terminal. To me, airport food is a necessary evil. I try to stick with reliable standbys like McDonald’s or plain turkey sandwiches or bags of almonds due to my penchant for avoiding airline bathrooms. [How do people join the Mile High Club in there when I have to open the door to bend over and pick up a paper towel?] But one whiff of Memphis barbecue and I was ready to throw my rigid travel rules out the window. Unfortunately, I had only five minutes to get to my gate and what was I going to do, suck on a pork bone while jammed between everyone else flying coach?
Apparently I was one of the few who didn’t make this choice. I watched in horror as passenger after passenger boarded with stacks of short ribs and sampler plates and burnt ends. Although not seated directly next to anyone tonguing up a mess of ribs, I was fortunate enough to have a visual on a man one seat up and over cleaning every scrap off of his order, before neatly storing the naked bones in the seat-back pocket in front of him.
Previously I thought I couldn’t hate anything more than flying out of the United terminal in O’Hare where passengers load up on Nuts on Clark’s cheddar and caramel popcorn. I’ve spent many an unpleasant flight next to egregious finger-lickers, but in terms of lip smacking, nothing compares to being seated near someone enjoying the Neelys’ slow-fired finest.
And yet if I were to express exactly how much they were annoying me, I’d end up on the terror watch list.
So not fair.
I believe my purpose in life is to be the World’s Manners Monitor and I hate when my efforts are thwarted.
The
travel portion of my book tour this year concluded in Seattle. Can I tell you something about Seattle? Everyone there is a filthy liar. They’re all, “Don’t move to Seattle—it’s so rainy!” And yet every time I’ve been there, a tiny amount of rain falls before the whole sky explodes into rainbows and sunlight. Seattleites mean to hog up all the stunning vistas and good coffee and flowering bushes for themselves. Bet on it.
Anyway, I finished doing Seattle media very early in the morning so I had the day to shop and explore. My friend Joanna traveled to New York with me to work as my “assistant” for the day and I wanted to buy her a present. On the way to Pike’s Market, I found a Finnish store full of Marimekko goods and I got her some stuff I knew she’d love.
My policy is to never buy more than I’m going to dispose while on the road, but it was my last city and I figured the world wouldn’t end if I checked my bag. So I stocked up with confidence before inhaling my own weight in crepes and espresso.
I spent the rest of the day on the hotel’s deck watching tugboats dock enormous container ships, while listening to some blowhard yammer into his phone about how he bought one thousand copies of his boss’s book in order to keep him on The New York Times best-seller list, which, OMG! I’ve yet to figure out who he was talking about but when I do… BUDDY, I’M ON TO YOU.
Point is every part of my Seattle visit was amazing, from the media to the weather to the food to the event at Third Place Books to the shopping.
Naturally, shit was going to fall apart on the way home.
That’s just how it goes.
Part of the reason that I’m an excellent flyer is that I’m an early arriver. When the airlines tell me to arrive at least two hours before my scheduled departure, I do. Once in a while, this allows me to catch an earlier flight. A lot of times this means I spend a couple of hours camped out at the gate if there’s no Admiral’s Club. Give me bored and early over stressed and late anytime.
Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development Page 18
