This post could also be titled I Need A Girls Day!
Big sigh…and so the story begins….
We have been working hard to remodel our living room. We painted the walls and tore out the carpet and now it resembles a cabin. A man cave. The walls have photos of hunting and football hanging on them. It really does look great.
The floor was uneven so my husband to take the snap in place floors up, sand the floor down a little and add some floor concrete something or another to make it more even.
The sanding caused the house to be covered in dust. As in, nasty, thick icky awful dust. The. Entire, House.
But the living room looks amazing.
It was about to get crazier.
The Cabela‘s catalog arrived in the mail. Suddenly, I find myself debating over whether we would get a camouflage toilet seat and a bone collector shower curtain – in our only bathroom.
And I think, “How does this happen?” because it looks like it just MIGHT happen.
As the conversation after dinner dwindled on this subject, S1 grabbed the pot of chicken scraps and headed out to the chicken coop for our four chickens that have survived the raccoon massacre last summer. Jake and I were chatting when the door burst open and slammed against the cabinet I hold all my glass things on – nothing dropped.
“PossumInTheChickenCoopGetThe22,” he rushed in one breath.
S1 and Jake quickly loaded up their guns and ran outside. Here is how S1 tells the story….
“It started when I was carrying out a pot of chicken scraps and I had this weird feeling something was in there so I kept my flashlight away from the window to not care what might be in there so I get ready to dump out the chicken scraps when I thought I would shine my light around in the corner was an opossum. So I put down the pot, run to the house and grab gun. Dad came with me and I shot it in the neck “all done” I think to myself when Dad asked me if there are any more. I thought tat was crazy at first then turning, I see another one. I quickly reload and shot it in the head. I make a thorough search of the chicken coop after shooting that one. We walked up to the house and got pictures taken and I finally took out the chicken scraps again, checking that I missed no other opossums to surprise me.”
I would not let the opossums come into the house. They left the nasty, sharp teethed varmints in the snow beside the kitchen door. The next morning, the other boys had to check them out. S3 tentatively was checking to see if they were dead and S4 hissed, making S3 jump back and the other brothers double over in laughter.
The boys asked if we could have the possums for dinner that night.
“No!” I shuddered.
“Oh come on, we ate roadkill!”
“This is nastier. No,” I answered.
At work, Jake called and teased we should have some for dinner. “No!” I answered determinedly.
Friends stopped in and asked me seriously, SERIOUSLY, if I was going to cook them up for supper.
“No!” I shrieked.
My husband arrived home from work, “Hey!” he bellowed through the house, “How are we supposed to eat those possums if they ain’t skinned yet?”
The boys rolled their eyes at me and sighed dejectedly. “Mama won’t let us,” the moaned.
What a mean Mama I am.
I posted this on facebook….
I keep finding myself saying this today – “No! No, I am NOT cooking opossum for dinner! No, it is not coming into the house! Yes, we ate roadkill but NO opossum!”
These are words I never thought I would say.
It got quite the response. My brother in law said, “Just eat the dang thing. You know you want to.”
No. No, I do not want to.
Someone, someone save me!!! You all keep me here and I keep posting these stories for you but really, I could use tea at Downton Abbey and all that formality to help balance this all out.