I know. The heading is ultra lame but if I giggle at people being named "Breaston", then obviously my sense of humor is not exactly of the refined kind.
Unfortunately as of late, I have had a bit of a crazy social schedule and this has lead to me not being home enough to notice changes to my surrounding property. This apparently includes dead medium-sized marsupials in my backyard. At least possums are supposed to be medium-sized. This one however did not follow the normal marsupial rules because it is reminiscent of an extremely well-fed domestic cat, one that has eaten all of the other neighborhood cats in a fit of rage. I don't know what possums have to be wrathful about but I imagine it has something to do with the foul-smelling fluid that is secreted from their anal glands (thank you wiki for making a dead animal THAT much more disgusting to me).
In any case, I was alerted to this by the guy upstairs and we had a brief discussion on the pros and cons of eliminating this problem ourselves. But when we got to the topic of disposal techniques, we paused. I have no woods in which to ditch the body and my neighbors are all irritatingly close so we eventually settled on animal control as the most feasible option. This is how my conversation went:
"Hi, my name is Lola Lakely and I live in the town of ____. I was referred to you by my local police department." Then I launched into the sequence of events that lead to the possum.
"Excuse me, what did you say you needed?"
Ok, so I had to nutshell it for her. I tried again. "I have a dead possum in my backyard, can you come and retrieve it please?"
"They actually are called opossums, miss, when they live in North America," came the clipped, slightly annoyed reply.
The fact that she needed to correct me on this should have been my first indication that the phone call was not going to go as originally anticipated. "So what, they have aliases when they travel to different countries?"
Dead silence. Oops, maybe joking with the woman who is responsible for animal waste removal wasn't the smartest idea. I mumbled an I'm-an-idiot apology to her and asked," Do I have to be home when you come and get it?"
"Where did you say the OPOSSUM is?" (I swear she said the word in all caps. Bitch.)
"It's in my backyard in a trashcan, floating in some water."
"Then you do need to be home, miss, because this service will cost you $60."
"That's not including gas."
"60 plus dollars for coming and throwing out a dead POSSUM? That's ridiculous."
"I don't make the rules, lady." Okay so now I've turned from a miss into a lady and apparently the woman is now a belligerent truck driver. "If it's found in your backyard, you pay for it. If it's in the road, the town does."
Light bulb! "So what you are telling me is that if I go home tonight and throw the possum in the street, the town will pick up the tab?"
So now I'm sitting here at the computer, typing out this blog, dressed in black leggings and a form-fitting black top waiting for my friend Kane to arrive so he and I can dispose of the possum. The only thing I'm missing is a pair of black stilettos, which although they would look kick-ass with the outfit, I am dubious over how it will effect the removal process. Because if I trip and fall while attempting to fling the dead possum into the middle of the street, I am not sure I will want to get up.
However, I can still feel the excitement rippling through me because I've already picked out the street where the dead marsupial will be residing for the next 24-48 hours. Take that, creepy guy who always comes out of his house to leer at me during my Saturday afternoon jog!
Lola- 3 Morality- 0