But Then Again, Adult Diapers Would Make Everything Easier

by Barbara Poelle

Husband and I bought rollerblades and on Saturday we bladed the length of the island. ( I know, I know, we came back to a message on our answering machine that went [BEEP] uh, hey guys, it’s me, 1994, I am just calling to see if I can get my rollerblades back. And oh, yeah, this answering machine too….)Anyway, it’s only about 12 miles but we had the brilliant idea to leave at high noon, so by about mile 5 I looked like I had fallen into the Hudson and by mile 7 I smelled like I was using horse intestines as a life preserver.

 So we come home sweaty and exhausted and I nag husband to check the mousetraps, because we still haven’t caught Stewie. I have been telling myself that he will not be back, as he was so psychologically damaged by our initial encounter that he rightly views our domicile as one inhabited by a predator akin to a puma. So I am in the other room and I hear Husband say, “Oh my God.” I, of course, bend my arms at the elbows and start rapidly flapping my hands in the air and saying, “What-is-it-no-don’t-tell-me-what-is-it-no-don’t-tell-me…” in that super helpful way I have. So Husband calls me over and pulls the trap out to show me that not only has the peanut butter been pretty much licked clean off of the unsprung trap, but in its place, as if left by the Cosa Nostra, is a single turd.

“Catch this.” It clearly stated.

I roared, while the camera crane pulled back to frame Husband on his knees and my angry fists shaking above my head, “Stewiiiiiiiiiiie!” then I stomped into the office and pulled out some glue traps the super gave us, and yelled, “ How dare you be both irreverent and hilarious at the same time! Nobody does that in my house but ME!” So now we have these glue traps everywhere and I keep picturing something really odd getting stuck to them, like a milk dud or Rod Blagojevich. Someone told me that I am not going to be happy when Stewie hits that thing at mach 8 and tears his legs off, but I am like, “Hey, who poked the puma?”  Which, incidentally, would also make a wonderful new game by Milton Bradley.

But I get it. I mean, I would infest our apartment too. It is a really fun place to be. Like the other day when I was on the phone and Husband was strolling by and stubbed his toe on the coffee table and tumbled onto the couch where he drove his knee into my hip bone and when I reflexively howled and grabbed it I cracked him in the skull with my elbow.  GOOD TIMES! Or after we rollerbladed only 12 miles we had to take a 2 hour nap. GOT LIFE BY THE TAIL! Or when I broiled dinner but neglected to actually turn the oven to broil and almost killed us with bacteria. LIVIN’ THE DREAM!

But that’s the thing: most of life is such a mundane repetition of burnt dinners and stubbed toes that it takes a lot of sifting to find the excitement. But yet, without that mundanity (I’m trying it) the exciting moments  maybe wouldn’t stand out enough to make their mark as beacons in the mist of memory. This is what a good novel must be able to do for us, find the excitement without losing the reality.

See, although I am fairly certain that most major literary figures are not wearing adult diapers, nobody is stopping to evacuate their bladder while contemplating leaving their paraplegic fiancée, or reflecting on the summer they defeated an evil clown (although Pennywise makes me want to evacuate my bladder). But it’s inferred that, yes, as human beings, there is consumption and evacuation happening. While no one wants to read a direct reflection of their daily lives, everyone wants to read characters functioning within the constraints of what the plot has denoted in a realistic way. This doesn’t mean that everyone should be rushing back to their WIP and typing in “Do you think the cartel will find us?” he called from the bathroom as he evacuated his bowels (why is this entire blog a lesson in scatology?)but it means you must take real time into effect when plotting. People eat. People sleep. People set mousetraps and buy lotto tickets and shrink their wife’s favorite summer hippie shirt. These are the personal touches that make a good novel an empathetic one and therefore a great one.

Now go check your manuscript for the simple anecdotal pleasures of life that make it that much more accessible. I am off to audition for the fabulous new game show…say it with me: “ Who! Poked! The Pumaaaaaaaa????”

 

 

Comments

[Alli]

I love your posts! I always make sure I'm not drinking anything hot or bubbly when I read them, though. Great points re: simple amectodal pleasures. Thanks for reminding us and such a fabulous post!

[Abby Zidle]

Who? Poked? The Puma? (brought to you by the makers of "Tiger by the Tail" and "Crocodile Tears? I Got Yer Crocodile Tears!")

[anjalimitterduva.com]

Barbara, I agree with Alli. I've followed your posts for a few weeks and they always resonate with me, crack me up, bring up a good point about writing, and make me hope to meet you one day.

[misspm]

you know they don't die when they hit those traps, right? They squeaky and chitter at the top of their little mouse lungs, sounding exactly like a little mouse being tortured to death, because, well, they are. Eventually, they fall over on their little mouse sides making much more pathetic little mouse noises, until exhausted, they lie still and play dead until the exact instant you reach for the tray and they start squeaking and struggling as they sink deeper into the glue... Just hit them with a hammer. It's easier.

[Lauren]

Please please PLEASE don't use glue traps to catch your little mouse buddy. They advertise those as humane traps, but once the mouse is stuck, it just lays there until it starves to death or suffocates. Even if you set it free it has no way to get unstuck. We had those in the warehouse where I used to work, and it's a really pitiful sight. Even a snap trap is a nicer way to kill them because it's quick at least (although I used to set them off with my shoe so the mice could escape, because I'm kinda crazy and can't stand to see things die. They just thought we had really smart mice).

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