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

I’d start a Twitter account for this sort of thing, but I just don’t have time. Besides which, I’d just get myself accused of trying to capitalize on the “Dad Says” dude, and his success.

So, anyway, there we were, on vacation. I should probably write a vacation blog and tell all sorts of stories about how E K made us march through the woods and over huge boulders, all in the sweltering 95+ heat, with 12,000,000% humidity, but I’ll have to get to that later… Maybe… I guess it’s a we’ll see sort of thing.

Okay, so back to the real story here. There we were, on vacation, last night of the trip, and we were staying at The Davie School Inn. When we asked about “eats” the owner directed us to The Brick House restaurant, a couple of blocks away. A little eclectic fusion sort of bistro with interesting decor and good food. We even sat at the “Twister Table”… Seriously. It was painted like a Twister mat. Kinda weird, but kinda cool at the same time. After ordering up a couple of Mothership Wits for ourselves, and a Root Beer for the O-spring, we set about perusing the menu. When all was said and done, after salivating over the many wonderful sounding selections, believe it or not we all ordered sort of the same thing – E K had steamed mussels and a house specialty salad. I had steamed mussels and a spinach salad. The O-spring had… Yes… Steamed mussels, but instead of a salad she opted for French Fries. Odd combination, yeah, but hey… She’s a 10 year old. Besides, how many 10 year olds do you know who willingly order steamed mussels and then rave about them for two hours? Yeah, that’s our kid. Go figure…

But, that’s not what this is really about. Well… It is sorta, but not exactly. You see, as we sat there enjoying a wonderful dinner, some tunes were wafting in from above. This prompted E K and I to discuss our Vinyl Collection, because it has yet to be all converted to CD. In particular, we were talking about The Police and Sting. Why? Because a song by Sting was playing, silly.

Anywho, fast forward 10 minutes or so. The kid is blowing bubbles in her root beer, shoving French Fries into one side of her mouth, and discovering the creamy goodness of the steamed mussel broth at the bottom of her bowl. Yet another song by Sting begins pouring in from overhead. Being old, and because of that a bit addled, I looked at The Evil Redhead with a puzzled expression.

“That isn’t the same song we just heard a few minutes ago, is it?” I asked.

E K, being in the middle of masticating a mussel, held up a finger to indicate I should wait a second for her answer. However, before she was able to engage peristalsis and swallow the food, the O-spring spoke up.

“No, it isn’t the same song,” she said, then by way of explanation offered her personal analysis of the brass section content. “The other one was a lot more horny.”

E K choked on the half swallowed mussel. I spewed Mothership Wit all over the wall across from me. The server applied the Heimlich Maneuver to the redhead, propelling the glob of  seafood along a bizarre trajectory that landed it in the pale blue beehive of a 97 year old patron across the room who was trying desperately to enjoy a Bruschetta, even though she had forgotten her teeth. Another server who was attempting to avoid the shellfish projectile slipped, sending a tray full of chilled soup cascading across a party of 18 several feet away, prompting the…

Okay… So it wasn’t that dramatic. But, EKay’s eyes got really big, she half choked on the piece of garlic bread in her mouth, and I almost – not quite, but almost – spewed a mouthful of Mothership Wit across the table.

The O-spring looked at us and said, “What?”

E K leaned over and whispered, “You probably should have said brassy, because horny is a slang word that means someone really wants to have sex a lot.”

The O-spring having been through the “talk” at school, besides being brilliant as well, knew what sex happened to be – in theory.  Also, being 10, while she is familiar with the non-specific theory behind it, the subject is still residing in that “EWWW, GROSS!” area of her psyche. Personally, I’d like for it to stay that way until I’m dead, but hey, I’m a dad, and that’s how dads are.

So, since that’s where the concept resides, that’s what the O-spring said. “EWWW, GROSS!”

This was somewhat heartening, to say the least…

There was a moment of quiet, then she looked across the table and said, “You’re going to write a blog about this, aren’t you, Dad?”

Obviously, she hadn’t lost her faith in me…

(Aww, come on, quit groaning… you knew I would have to make at least one Sting song lyric related pun…)

More to come…

Murv