Tonight I was leaving a school board meeting (for E2) when I received the following text from the hubs:
"Don't let the kids out the back tomorrow."
What kind of fucking text is that?? I call my husband and he says, "Apollo (our dog) killed a possum."
My car ride home is approximately 35 minutes. In these 35 minutes my husband and I exchange squeamish girly noises and then proceed to discuss how to get rid of this disgusting mother fucker.
Me: Are you sure it is dead? What are we going to do?
Hubs: Apollo was throwing it around like a damn ball - it is fucking dead. I don't know how YOU are getting rid of it. I am going to work tomorrow. Don't let the kids out back.
Me: Are you out of your fucking mind?? YOU are getting rid of it.
Hubs: Nope. Not happening. You married a Jewish boy, remember?
At this point I recognize he is 60% serious, 40% joking.
YOU HAVE A FUCKING DICK AND A SET OF BALLS. USE THEM.
I post on Facebook that I need a shovel. I call EVERY person I know that lives within a 10 minute drive. NO ONE answers the phone. Hey, neighborhood friends??? WHAT THE FUCK?? Are you all passed out off your damn red wine at 9:30 pm?? I NEED A FUCKING SHOVEL!
While driving, I continue to call, text, oh and google "Do possums have rabies?" because not only does my vagina of a husband think I am going to get rid of the damn animal, but I also need to take the fucking dog to the vet tomorrow.
HALLELUJAH!!! A FRIEND ANSWERED THE PHONE.
They have a shovel. She is leaving it at her doorstep. 10 pm, here I am putting a shovel into the trunk of the car. For sure, I have seen this before. That's right, it was an episode of Law & Order. Forensics show blood and hair in the trunk along with the shovel used to bury the body.
Yes, this is where my mind goes....Woman arrested for burying her husband, later to be released as forensics show it was the remains of a possum.
I call the hubs and say wheel the garbage can to the backyard so you can shovel this fucker into it. Again he says he is not going to do it and my job is "taking care of the house."
"YOU HAVE A DICK AND BALLS. USE THEM. And by the way, TAKE CARE OF THE HOUSE? That's fan -fucking-tastic. I'll take care of the fucking house. I am taking the damn Amex and taking care of the fucking house. I am going to take care of the plantation shutters I want, the mother fucking hardwood floors, and don't forget my covered patio! That's fine husband, I'll get rid of the damn possum and then TAKE CARE OF THE HOUSE." Fuck you, mother fucker.
(Side note: the hubs is laughing so hard at this point and he too has a mouth like a sailor. We are perfect for each other.)
In the mean time I had posted to our women's yahoo group (that's a whole other blog post) asking if there were any animal rescues that could help. Post after post said possums play dead so they stop getting attacked and most likely the animal was alive and would be gone in 30 minutes.
I relay the info to my husband and he assures me it is dead. He reiterates the story and says 100% it is dead.
I get home with the shovel.
I turn on the flashlight on my phone.
Husband takes shovel and goes outside.
SON OF A BITCH
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