"...And If the Coen Brothers Won't Direct It, Don't You Think Jonathan Demme Could Tap into the Necessary Pathos?"


Part II:

Subconsciously, of course, I had an inkling about the culprit.

Them was animal scats.

Looking at Former Naturalist Groom, I pled, “You used to teach Small Mammals class…so what creature emitted this junk?”

In our marriage, this question is the equivalent of “Does this make me look fat?” in other marriages. The poor male needed to be very, very careful how he answered.

You see, it’s possible I have a wee issue with things rodential. I had missed classes in college due to encountering squirrels on the path; I had called the police when a bat got into my house; I had experienced a mini-nervous breakdown in junior high when the end of my neighbor’s hamster’s tail broke off in her hand (and this, before that same hamster killed and partially ate his compatriot the time I pet sat).

Groom was aware of both my history and my desire for honesty. Thus, he didn’t want to affirm or deny the possibility that a creature with clawed, scrabbly feet, a pointed tale, and a lust for blood might reside within our house.

Cleverly, he drew upon his history of teaching diplomacy to student naturalists and answered my question as he would have the “Does this make me look fat?” query:

“Well, what do you think?”

What I thought was that it was time to pack my bags and head to a hotel until a team of eleventy-seven pest control professionals had rid the house of every possible rodent, even if they had to inject the place with clouds of toxic gasses that would subsequently cause the fetus in my belly to grow three eyes.

Turns out, what Groom thought was that the drawer was full of something clearly larger than mouse emissions and that they had come from a shrew or a vole. His reasoned reaction entailed not a week in a hotel but rather getting some traps, yet—hello, Einstein Trump--traps do not even come with a swimming pool or air conditioning or cable tv, so where was the fun in that?

Harrumphing, I watched from the corner, arms crossed, while he set a handful of traps later that day. As I harrumphed, I realized that the traps were all in the kitchen, and the kitchen was an essential part of my nocturnal route to the bathroom. I couldn’t get to Bathroom without Kitchen. Hmmm. Suddenly, having considered the logistics and realizing Kitchen Bypass = exploding bladder, I found myself on the horns of a dilemma.

Harrumphing even more, I distracted myself by musing about The Strange Case of the Half-Eaten Banana, a mystery that had been unfolding inside my work bag that week. Every night, I would put a banana into my satchel and lean the bag against the back kitchen door, where I could grab it on my way out the next morning. Strangely, a couple of times that week, when I would get to my office and fish around my bag for the banana, I’d find it already half eaten. Pretty high-larious practical joke, O Uninspired Family, is what I’d been thinking up until the day of Rodent Squizz in the Oven Drawer.




But.

Now.

Gnawed-upon bananas and masses of excrement beneath the cookie baker and no place to relieve myself—all these traumas mixed together in my psyche, as I faced the truth of wildlife afoot inside my home.

And it wore a tiny t-shirt reading “I Defecate for Potassium!”

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Part III pending...

“Still Negotiating with James Cameron to Direct, But Since He's Kind of a Crusty Wanker, I'm Working a Side Deal with the Coen Brothers”


We used to live about one hundred yards from our current home, in a house that had one bathroom, which was located on the main floor, off the kitchen.

I got pregnant while we lived there.

The father of the baby was my husband.

Whew.



At any rate, right about Month 7 of that pregnancy, I started sleeping on the couch in the living room, as the eight-times-a-night trudge up and down the staircase from the bedroom to the bathroom had begun to wear down footpads, knee cartilage, and morale. On the couch, though, I was mere feet away from the embrace of the bathroom. Plus, it was easier to sleep sitting upright on the couch, a technique that helped fight off heartburn, which was another hazard of late pregnancy. So there I was, night after night, beached on the couch, clutching my Tums, my tp, my bowl full of Moose Tracks ice cream, and my belly (third hazard of the last trimester: round ligament pain).


I wish I could tell you twelve babies walked out of me shortly after this photo was taken. But no, I was the prow of a ship thanks to only one damn baby. However, in my defense, he weighed 60 pounds.


Although I was lumbering, the system was elegant.


Then I opened the drawer underneath the oven one day and found it full of

--How you say it?--

fecal matter.

Looking quizzically at Groom, I asked, “Is there something you need to tell me?”

He avowed innocence, crossing his heart, batting his charming blues, taking me into the bathroom and providing evidence that he had made deposits in the traditional place. Recently.

My attention then shifted to Girl, then two years old. At that point, she was pretty well potty-trained. Yet she had the look of an imp crossbred with a rascal sprinkled liberally with scamp. What’s more, her rear end, in its occasional personified state, might have spotted that under-oven drawer and fancied it just the right height for some toiletual unleashing. When I showed her the problem in the drawer, she hugged my knees tightly and swore, “No, Mommy. I pwomise I awways make my tinkles in da widdle potty in da bat-room.” Ever a sucker for a knee hug (note to Groom), I bought her story.

Next, it occurred to me that I was in the grip of some pretty fierce hormones, and perhaps they were amnesia-inducing. Being generally bleary, I needed to entertain the idea that I might have wandered off the couch one night and, thinking I was in the bathroom, squatted in the oven drawer. Stranger things had happened. Like the time my bra wound up hammered to the wall of a bikers’ clubhouse in Denmark. Logically, isn’t pooping in an oven drawer a natural extension of radically misplacing lingerie in a public place?

However, with a fourth hazard of late pregnancy being reluctant bowels, I felt pretty certain the crime was not mine.

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Part II forthcoming...