BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It’s true.

Food goes in, goes through a series of bio-chemical processes that break it down into nutrients our body can use, then the waste material shoots out the other end. Sometimes at a pretty good clip, especially if fermentable fiber was in your diet.

Now, I could go into all of the technical stuff, such as Ptyalin – the enzyme in saliva that converts starches to sugar. Peristalsis – the muscular contractions that enable you to swallow, as well as move the Chyme along until it becomes full blown poop. Pyloric sphincters… and on, and on. But, this isn’t an anatomy lesson, nor is it a biology class.

You see, the thing about poop is that whenever mentioned around my daughter, she immediately goes into the screwy faced “ewwwwww” mode, and runs from the room. Why? Well, I guess because poop is kinda gross. And, she’s a girl. Not being sexist here, just stating an observation. Boys tend more toward “potty humor” than girls. It’s a societal fact.

So, by now I suppose you are wondering why I am even talking about poop. I mean, after all, it’s not like Christmas is all that close just yet. If you don’t get that reference, just check out Southpark and it’ll make more sense.

No, the thing here is that poop, as a general rule, isn’t something one talks about in polite company. Sort of… I say “sort of” because poop suddenly becomes a viable topic of conversation – be it at the bar, dinner table, watercooler, what have you, when at least one of three criteria are met.

1. You are a child.
2. You have a child.
3. You are over 40.

Why?

Well, let’s break it down.

First, when you’re a kid, poop happens. Generally in your pants. Therefore, folks out to make a quick buck have gone to great lengths to make animated shows and silly songs about pooping. “She’s/He’s A Super Dooper Pooper”… Elmo does Potty Training… It goes on and on. So, for kids, poop is a perfectly acceptable subject not only for conversation, but for songs and cartoons as well.

But at some point poop becomes a “dirty little secret.” It’s as if once you have learned where to deposit the poop and all of the “paperwork” involved with making said deposit, “The Poo” is now “Taboo.”

This poop moratorium lasts for several years – either until you have a kid, or if you skip that joy, until you turn approximately 40.

Now, when you have a kid, what you have basically done is created for yourself an eating and pooping machine. That’s pretty much all they do for the first year or two. Eat, poop, eat, poop. When they start walking and talking, then they not only eat and poop, they make art with it and tell you about it. You become jaded to the concept of poop. It’s a normal thing. The only time it isn’t is when something changes about the poop. But, that doesn’t stop you from talking about it. Not at all. In fact, it pretty much spurs conversation. There you are, changing a diaper, and voila! You turn your head one way, then the other, giving it a good inspection. Open the shade for more light. Inspect it some more. Then, you call out to your wife:

“Honey! C’mere…”

“Why?”

“You gotta see this poop.”

“Why?”

“It’s shaped like Justin Bieber’s head. You gotta see it.”

“Hold on while I get the camera.”

See what I mean? Shapes, sizes, colors, quantities.  Poop just becomes a part of normal conversation. Next thing you know, you’re telling everyone at work about the Justin Bieber Shaped Poop, or the industrial adhesive quality of the last diaper you changed, and you aren’t fazed in the least. Other parents are right there on the same page with you. Hell, they even want to see the pictures of the poop head. But, be warned, some of your younger co-workers  who are childless may be put off by this, especially if the subject comes up in the lunch room.

Our third option comes about as we age. Poop – or more accurately, Pooping, becomes an important part of your day. If you don’t offload that pastrami sandwich and half a package of Oreos, then you just don’t feel quite right. And, of course, since your metabolism is changing, the doctor starts offering up advice.

“Doc, I haven’t pooped in two weeks.”

“How much fiber do you have in your diet?”

“Fiber… Well… I accidentally bit a piece off a Popsicle stick last month and swallowed it. Does that count?”

“Not enough. Go to the feed store, get yourself a bale of hay. Eat 5 large helpings a day for three days straight, drink 47 gallons of water, and then lock yourself in the bathroom with a clothespin and a copy of People magazine.”

“I don’t like People magazine. Can I take a Playboy instead?”

“No. This isn’t a recreational visit.”

Then, just to take things a step further, as if we really need to do so – when you hit 50 another MD hands you a bottle of Drano for your intestines, then wants to stick a camera up your wazoo… Yeah, the greeting card companies have actually come up with a “Congratulations on your Colonoscopy” card. Go figure. So, if you think poop was okay to talk about at 40, then 50 should be a breeze because it’s definitely all about the poop when you hit the half-century mark.

And, speaking of Intestine Drano – Even the OTC drug companies are all over this. Just for fun they bombard you with it daily. There are more products out there designed to expel the poop from your body than there are to stop it from leaving. (Whether or not that statistic is really true, I have no idea. I just made it up. But then, this is a satire blog…)

Seriously though, check the aisle at your local Pharmacy. Plenty of poop aids. You can usually find them near the 57 brands of TP and sphincter wipes.

So, there you have it. Everybody poops. TV personalities, porn stars, the guy at the 7-11, authors, bloggers, doctors, lawyers, cobblers, butchers, bakers and candle stick makers. Everybody. Although, I have to admit, I’m not so sure about politicians and/or Justin Bieber, but that’s a different blog.

The thing is, it’s just one of those facts of life. Therefore, even if you don’t have a kid and aren’t over 40, go ahead and make it a fun topic of conversation without any stigma. It’s only poop. Embrace it.

Just don’t get any of it on me…

More to come…

Murv

So, my kid is brilliant.

I know I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. In fact, I’ll repeat it again right now for good measure. My kid is freakin’ brilliant. She’s in the gifted & talented program at her school, she has a reading comprehension level umpteen jillion grades ahead of her own, and a vocabulary that will sometimes astound you. Not always on top of the slang, as evidenced by an earlier blog entry, but hey, I’d rather she not be.

So, why am I telling you this? Believe it or not, it actually has something to do with the story.

You see, being brilliant – I did mention that, right? Anyhow, being a brilliant child, the O-spring is also enrolled in the College For Kids program at a local community college campus. If you haven’t heard of it before, it’s kind of a neat deal. Gifted kids from all over get to come and take classes in all sorts of things – from oil painting to biology to robotics to chess to geo caching, and a ton of stuff in between. They have two sessions – winter and summer. Winter happens on Saturdays for 5 weeks. Summer happens for one straight week in August.

See where I’m heading?

Yeah… See there, you’re brilliant too… Anyway, the O-spring managed to pull the three classes she wanted this session, (like the real deal, it doesn’t always work out that way), which means we have to head out the the college right around morning rush hour.

Being a bit anal retentive about punctuality, we tend to leave a little early, just in case something happens to slow us down, and then we spend 15 minutes sitting in the lecture hall doing that Dad – Daughter bonding. This means she talks to me about Pokee-Man cards and I listen. Sometimes we even talk about things that old dad actually knows something about, such as writing. She has it in her head that she wants to be a writer. I have yet to find a suitable way to discourage her from that folly. Who knows? Maybe she will actually be successful at it, unlike her pops. Time will tell… But, I digress as usual.

On the day in question we were heading up the main drag, only a couple of miles from home, and we ended up stuck behind some guy in a four door sedan who either had no idea where he was heading, or simply wasn’t awake. From what I could see, the only thing of real interest to him was his cigarette. Well, that’s not entirely true. He was also deeply involved in some sort of driving game which entailed speeding up, slowing down, and going from 40 to 0 in nothing flat for no apparent reason. Another apparent part of the game’s strategy was to make sudden swerves to the right, then jump back into the lane.

This went on for a good mile or better, with me unable to get around him due to other traffic. Eventually I began to mutter all manner of expletives, some of which I had been using for years, others of which I had learned from Luets (my multi-lingual buddy). I even made up a few names for the guy and issued detailed instructions – upon deaf ears, of course – about what he needed to do with his car if he wasn’t going to take the time to learn how to drive it.

The O-spring watched and listened in silence. She’s heard ol’ pops rant before, so this was no big deal. She just watched the idiot in front of us, and waited to see what would happen.

Finally, cigarette man screeched to a halt, turned on his blinker, and made a painfully languid turn into the parking lot of the McDonalds. Thankful that I was now going to escape the rolling roadblock and still have plenty of time to arrive at the college for the first class, I sped up and pushed us along on our way.

My 10 year old daughter, still quiet, swiveled her head to watch the lurching car putter around the McDonalds parking lot as we drove past. Before the arches had even made it into my rear view mirror, she clucked her tongue and in a matter-of-fact tone announced, “Well… Apparently somebody hasn’t had his Frappe yet this morning.”

Told ya’ she was brilliant. How could she not be? With a sarcastic mouth like that, she’s obviously got my DNA…

More to come…

Murv