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          Rodents and Realities

There’s a rodent in my soffit.

It sounds mildly obscene when I write it down and step away. Words strung together that should not be, events flying by that make it true. All within my control. Everything out of my control. If only.

I am frozen. Calcified. Fearful. And apparently sexist.

Which is worse? Being frozen into inaction by the fear of your spouse’s Parkinson’s? Or realizing that you, a card-carrying feminist, strong willed, bra-burning, (especially lately!) and frightfully independent, carry within you the  belief that he should handle it. He’s a man. It’s his JOB.

I can rationalize it. Explain it away. Make it sound fair. After all, I deal with the teen girls most of the time. The least he can do is deal with the hairy beast that’s skateboarding across my living room ceiling!

And for the record, I’m minimizing the problem. It’s a longboard. And the sucker’s dribbling giant walnuts. Or maybe bowling. And he’s taunting me.

The rodent, not the man. HE does other things to taunt me. Longboard’s not one of them. And most days the worst I must deal with is that he’s so damn smart.

Again, man. Not rodent.

Too bad smart can’t fix everything.

Parkinson’s. The rodent in my soffit. The bat in his belfry. The dizzying beast.

IT’S NOT FAIR. I want to scream it into the wind. Go back to being three years old and throw an epic tantrum. But fair isn’t a thing, and no one’s listening. No one’s standing by with hugs, and kisses, and a cookie. They’re all busy ignoring a pandemic. Bitching about fucking masks. And freedoms. While they serve up their freedom to a self-described pussy grabber with ties to the mafia. A wannabe dictator. Would you like fries with that?

And I can’t go there. It’s the place where friendships implode. Where people scream, and froth, and ignore. Where progress withers, hope suffocates, anguish writhes, and pandemics flourish.

People DIE. And no one cares. Or votes.

And the Rodent lives.

I’d like freedom. The freedom to not be afraid. The freedom to think toward the future. The freedom to have a normal conversation with my partner, and not have words fail us, dyskinesia distract us.

I’d like the freedom to ignore the chattering rodent. Know that it’s been eliminated. That we are vindicated. Free.

I can’t go there. Not today.

I say that every day. Because the rodent in my soffit takes up all the air. All the energy. All the dreams.

The rodent in my soffit requires care and feeding, or it gets mean. Bares its teeth in a preview of what’s to come. So it’s medicated. Boy, is it medicated. And boy, is it screwed if we run out of money. Boy, are WE screwed.

Because let’s be honest. The rodent always wins. Eats all your crackers. Poops in the pantry. Hides in the rafters. Creeps in the basement. Nibbles at foundations. Sucks the life out of you and then waits until the next generation. The rodent always wins.

So I can’t let THIS rodent win. The one on the longboard. The one, quite literally, IN MY SOFFIT. The one dribbling walnuts.

The man needs to step up. Slay the rodent. Protect the maiden.

Sexist as shit. Tell me about it. I beat myself up. But I want it gone. NOW. And I don’t want to be the one doing it. I need to know I’m protected. And that this… This one little thing…won’t break me.

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