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’m a little odd, but I guess we already knew that, didn’t we?

But, my “half a bubble offedness” aside, I’m also a bit of a medical anomaly at times. Just ask my buddy Gina. I say ask her because she’s one of those folks who packs initials around behind her name. As in MD, which as we all know stands for, “Me Doctor.” So, Virginia Witt MD, can tell you I’m an odd duck. Take for instance that she recently suggested that I try Zyrtec for my allergies. Non-drowsy, 24 hour relief, and I can still manage to function and work… Yeah… Uh-huh… Right. I was comatose for 36 hours. But, I don’t blame Gina. It’s all because I’m not quite right in the body chemistry department.

Just for grins I’ll give you another example, and it will even be far more relative to this story… (How’s that for a ham handed segue? Okay… Well, more of a rump roast handed segue then? Good.)

Anyway, yeah… Chicken Pox. The itchy, bitchy scourge of kids everywhere. Well, except for those who have had the vaccination, of course. My point is, I had them. Like every other kid on the block back in 19-koff-koff, I had the speckledy spots, annoying itch, fever, and general crabbiness o’ the pox. Good thing I got that out of the way, right? I thought so. Until I was 21, that is. I was working at Videoconcepts (as I’ve noted in other nostalgic blogs) and one of our customers came in with her kid to rent a movie. The next day she called us to let us know that her kid had broken out in the Pox, so beware. Well, no biggie for me. I’d already had them. I was safe.

Not.

I contracted them again. I’m here to tell you, Chicken Pox as an adult is just as bad, if not worse, than as a child.

Okay, so all good. I’ve now had Chicken Pox twice. If the antibodies didn’t build up in my system the first time around, surely they must have on the second go. I am now invincible against all things Chicken Pox related.

Then I met E K. Now, before you go to emailing the Evil Redhead and telling her that I’m blaming her for something, just hold on a sec. You see, it’s not her fault. As outlined in the “Mahwage” blogs, I “lell in fuve” and courted her. We were married. And then the Chicken Pox came… But, not right away.

You see, upon our getting hitched, I gained a couple of nieces. However, due to them living in a distant land called Washington State, it was a good bit before I ever met them. However, in the interest of not waxing ridiculous about the one or two years between the wedding and meeting the nieces, I’ll skip forward to the summer of the Chicken Pox.

These new additions to my extended family were a bounding, energetic pair of girls aged 4 and 5 as I recall. Or, maybe it was 3 and 5… Either way, they were pint-sized munchkins with more energy than humanly possible, and they were an absolute joy to be around. We did the sightseeing, BBQ’ing, and all that stuff that goes on when family visits from out of town. Our nieces took a shine to me, for what reason I will never know, and before long I became “Uncle Murk.” Soon, the favorite game became “Toss Puppy Patch.” Puppy Patch, you see, was a small, stuffed dog. I think it had something to do with a cross between Cabbage Patch Kids and Pound Puppies, which were the toys of the day. At any rate, “Toss Puppy Patch” eventually morphed into games of keep away and catch involving a Koosh Ball… Puppy Patch, it seems, was starting to get a little airsick. Still, we had a blast for several days, and “Uncle Murk” was binked on the Brainpan by a Koosh Ball on several occasions. Yet another reason I’m a bit addled, I suppose…

However, as with all good things, the visit came to an end. Brother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, nieces, and even Puppy Patch had to return to the Pacific Northwest. Tearful goodbyes were said, and we all went back to our daily grinds.

Then, came the phone call. Niece one has full blown Chicken Pox, and niece two is coming down with them fast. No worries. I’ve had it twice now. I’m invincible!

Not.

A week later I was running a fever that pushed over the 104 barrier. My back was killing me, and tiny red dots were appearing everywhere. And, I do mean everywhere. The bottoms of my feet, inside my nose, and all manner of other places we won’t talk about. The Pox had come to kill me for the third time. The doctor (Not Gina) told me that I was in possession of the absolute worst case of Chicken Pox he had ever seen during his entire practice. In fact, I came very close to ending up in the hospital. Fortunately, I didn’t…

I did, however, spend quite a bit of time delirious. One day when E K came home from work during lunch to check on me, she found me literally laying in the middle of the floor babbling to myself. What’s worse, I was so delirious that when I opened my eyes and saw the stilettos and gams in front of me, I was scared to death of her. Not because of her EKayishness as one would  normally surmise, but because I thought she was going to have me “put to sleep.” (We just a few days before had needed to euthanize one of our felines, so my overheated brain was making some very odd connections.)

And, once again, before you run off telling my niece(s) that I blame them for this, put a sock in it. They already know. In fact, I joke with niece one about it all the time.

And, besides, niece one is really what this blog is all about.

You see, all of this happened many moons ago. Better than two decades, in fact. The energetic little munchkins have grown up. They are both lovely and brilliant young ladies now. And, when I say brilliant,  I do mean brilliant…

So brilliant, in fact, that niece one is getting herself a hoodie today. Or, at least, that’s what I like to call it, just because I’m silly that way. In case you aren’t getting the joke, by hoodie I mean today is the ceremony for her Doctoral Hooding.

Yep… Niece One is now Doctor Niece One. Professor of American History.

Unfortunately, due to a prior engagement, I am unable to attend this fashion show. But, I’ve already been in touch with her to let her know how proud I am.

Still, I really wanted to be there so I could bink her in the head with a Koosh Ball during the ceremony. You know… Just for old time’s sake…

Congrats, kiddo… Or should I say, Doc?

More to come…

Murv

Please Note: Names have been purposely omitted because I certainly don’t want my nieces to have to deal with the stigma of having me as their uncle. 😉