I am Woman, Hear Me Shriek

We've been in our new house for a couple of months now, and I'm almost used to the stairs and the idea that I can send RJ out in the backyard to play and search for squirrels. The "wildlife" has been a bit of a surprise. We're not exactly in the country. But, the neighbors tell us that a peacock had set up residence on our roof for a few nights before we moved in. And, one particularly chubby squirrel has appeared enough times that RJ named him Perkins.

Two nights ago, while RJ and GiGi played bumper babies on the front sidewalk (she's parked in a stroller, he rides his tractor into her. Bump!), I pulled weeds. Because I have a goal to try and keep the yard picked up, I actually walked the weeds to the trash cans rather than just tossed them behind the front porch pillar.

As I walked up, I notice that my hybiscus is a little broken. A lot broken. And, is that fur? What is that fur?

Shrieeeeeeeeeeeek! It's something dead! And it's furry!

I hustled the kids inside, and when hubbsie got home, I sent RJ upstairs to put away underwear while I frantically whispered, "There's something outside at the trash cans. It's furry. I think it's dead. I don't know what it is. You  have to handle it. Please handle it. I can't handle it."

I am woman. Hear me shriek.

He handled it. It was a possum. Poor possum. I'll have to make a donation to a wildlife fund to purge myself of this.

Because, while I am woman, and I am lawyer, and I am strong, powerful, and can handle just about everything, I can't handle furry and dead.

I am woman, hear me shriek.