We all know I’m not the best blogger, and that’s fine. But I feel like writing right now, so if anyone wants to listen, that’s cool 
We found out last weekend, after moving my mom out of the last house we all lived in as a family (stand by on that one), that there’s a possum living in the basement. I went down there to put away some stuff that I’d taken out for my Relay For Life, and there he was, staring at me, right in front of where all our stuff is stashed. I had a silent freak-out, since the last thing I wanted was for it to go apeshit and jump on my face or something (since that is, of course, what it would do– not scamper off in the other direction or play dead or whatever it is possums do), dropped the stuff in the general vicinity of everything else, and ran back upstairs to tell the BF. He told me to go tell the landlord, and oh while I’m at it tell her that the hinge on our apartment door snapped in half when we got back.
After a long discussion of whether or not the possum is a marsupial or a mammal or whatever classification (genus? species?) it is and how the landlord had squirrels that climbed into an unsealed chimney and were running around her bedroom, she said she’d call an exterminator in the morning. What we got was a Havaheart trap.
We must have the smartest mother-effing possum in our basement because he not only tripped the trap, but he’s on the lam. We can’t find him. And now there’s about 10 years of miscellaneous stuff sitting in boxes in our living room because the landlord told us to avoid the basement until we catch the sucker.
Which poses a problem for our living space. The BF is somewhat a neat freak, or at least his clean streak manifests itself on lazy weekend afternoons when the best idea is a cold beer and some sunshine (hard to come by this June in the Boston area, but that’s another gripe for another day that I’m sure you’ve already heard, so I’ll save it) and not vacuuming and dusting. He hates clutter, and I hate cleaning. It’s not a good situation.
Today, though, I felt a little inspired (though you wouldn’t know it because I’m writing a stupidly long blog post and not doing a damn thing about it yet), so I decided that I’d check the trap and see if I could move some boxes downstairs while the BF was at work.
I still can’t tell you which I was more afraid of: finding a dead possum in a trap or finding a live possum, again, staring at me as I enter the basement. I didn’t find either, which is of course the third terrifying option, the one preventing me from moving boxes out of the living room.
We have the Jason Bourne of possums in our basement. Ugh.
