The One You've Been Waiting For

Possums.

I fucking hate them. If hatred toward possums were measured in people, I would be China.

This information is by no means secret. Oh no. I've been talking about my possum hatred for years. And I freely admit that I don't have a completely justified reason for hating them. To my knowledge there have never been any possum attacks on humans in the United States, although to be honest I'm not totally sure. I tried to Google it once but pictures of possums popped up and I had to close the browser window. That is, after I stopped screaming, "Ugh! UGH! Gross gross gross! Go away! GO AWAY!"

Many of my friends and family take pleasure in teasing me about my possum phobia, but none more than my dad, who delights in bringing up the subject just to watch me squirm. A few months ago I was home for a visit and we were watching TV, surfing channels when Dad hit one where some dude standing in a kitchen happened to say, "That's the biggest possum I've ever seen!" It was one of those reality shows, the ones with stupid names like "When Disgustingly Sick Animals Infiltrate The Sanctity of Your Home." Naturally I started to freak out and Dad broke into the biggest grin I've ever seen. His dimples almost bumped into his ears. Jerk.

The basic gist of the show was that this huge HUGE possum used its evil powers to get into a kitchen cabinet, where it waited for some unsuspecting victim to open the door so it could POUNCE, then sink its razor-like fangs into human flesh. Bloodthirsty garbage-eating spawn of Satan! As if that wasn't bad enough, the guy, THE GUY put on a leather glove that went all the way up to his shoulder (his shoulder!) so he could reach into the cabinet and pull the possum out by its gigantic rat-tail.

REACH! INTO THE CABINET! WITH HIS HAND! With the intention of touching, nay, GRABBING the possum! BY THE TAIL!

Watching it play out on TV made me hyperventilate. No lie. I was screaming and freaking out so bad that Mom, who was all the way across the house in the study, came out to make sure someone hadn't died. She was a little confused when she found me curled in the fetal position and Dad laughing with a force that started to trigger his asthma. Even thinking about that show now, months later, I cringe. It was horrible.

Why bring this up now? Graduation, that's why.

Last Friday my parents took me, Cassie, Zach, Brittney and Kelley out to dinner at Macaroni Grill to celebrate Graduation Eve, which isn't a real holiday but it totally should be because you're all excited and get to open presents. Mom and Dad had surprised me by bringing a square box wrapped in festive paper, which they told me to be careful with because it was fragile. I made a mental list of what could be inside while we waited for our table. It was pretty heavy so I guessed barware. Maybe some cool martini glasses. Oh, or those awesome hand painted plates with scenes of European cafes I saw at Crate & Barrel. We had cocktails, passed around the naked baby pictures (I wish I was kidding), ate dinner and then after dessert it was time to open presents. I took extra care with my present from the parents, gently peeling back the paper to reveal -- YES! -- a Crate & Barrel box. Hooray! There were oohs and aahs from the table. Then I opened the box, and saw a tiny patch of brown fur.

Sonofabitch.

They got me a possum stuffed animal, and I almost threw the damn thing across the restaurant to the hostess stand. Dad picked it because it has a "realistic and lifelike tail." Sick. And to make matters worse he paid $20 to some Save the Possum foundation for it! Everyone knows that the only good possum is a dead possum. Everyone knows that! So why, WHY, pay good money to prevent possum extinction?! Talk about being part of the problem and not part of the solution.



I promised I wouldn't throw it away even though it's disgusting, and the possum (whose name is Mort -- French for "dead") actually went out the bar with us later that night, where he spend the evening hanging from our table umbrella at Christy's or hanging out on my friends.





After a few drinks I agreed to touch the possum (story of my life, eh?) but only so I could demonstrate for everyone what exactly makes the little fuckers so repulsive.



Mort is currently in a box in a drawer in a closet that can't be opened because my couch is in front of it. You never know with possums.


PS. Do you know why the box was so heavy? Dad put four lead weights in the bottom of the box to psych me out. It was so clever I couldn't even be mad about it. I aspire to that level of trickiness.