Working Girl Wednesday: I Have PTSD
Or, Possum Traumatic Stress Disorder
Ya’ll got kids? You know I got kids, two eighth grade girls to be specific.
It’s exactly four years, three months, fourteen days, two hours and ten minutes before I can drive them to their freshman dorms at college.
Not that I’m counting.
They really love me, ’cause look what I found in my desk chair this evening. (My possum tale
has gone down in the annals of infamous family history. They beg me to shriek, “It’s PLAYIN’ dead!”)
Maybe it was a tough day at the law office, but I have to admit that I jumped a mile when I saw this stuffed but still oddly ghoulish-looking possum that my darling kids left for me.
This one has a name, “Cheese Puff,” but I’m here to tell you, even stuffed possums look like creepy dead things in a low light.
This interesting possum fact from Planet Possum
has not in fact done anything to calm my newfound PTSD:
While “playing possum,” they emit a smelly substance from their anal gland which smells like rotten meat. This makes the opossum appear to be a rotting carcass and most predators will not eat him.
Cheese Puff. Right.