Being a feminist, even a moderate feminist like me, can make it tough to dodge duties unsuited to the squeamish. In my case, squirrel removal.<\/p>\n
Like most people, I prefer my squirrels outdoors. So I wasn’t exactly pleased when a squirrel decided to invade my turf. One morning last winter, when I was barely awake and shuffling down our basement stairs, something with a bushy tail flashed past me, mere inches from my toes. So I ask you, what’s a feminist to do? Yell hysterically? Scream for help? Well, … yes. I also scrambled up the steps, slammed the door, and told myself the squirrel would find its own way out.<\/p>\n
For the next few hours I wondered what my squirrel was up to. I even tried to talk myself into marching downstairs and facing him down. Or creeping downstairs and checking things out. Or opening the cellar door just a crack, peering down the steps, and shutting the door fast before the squirrel became suspicious.<\/p>\n
What kind of feminist was I, I asked myself, as I paced a floor above the intruder. Surely Gloria Steinem would stand her ground against a tiny rodent. Thank goodness I wasn’t famous enough to be a Rush Limbaugh target. “Femi-Nazi hypocritical wimp Madeleine Begun Kane is ascared of a wee little squirrel,” he’d surely say if he knew I existed. … (A Squirrely Lesson is continued here.<\/a>)<\/p>\n