Things were getting entirely too serious in my corner of the blogosphere, so today will be much more lighthearted. What to write about, I ask myself. Something universally amusing, no doubt. Can there possibly be such a subject?
And then - eureka! Bodily functions. I bet you smiled just reading those two little words.
I'm not quite sure when my children learned that flatulence is funny, but they giggle at anything that sounds remotely similar. Raspberries. Mufflers. Flip-flops in the rain. (Incidentally, in my house they are not "farts," but "pooters." Mostly because I can't say the word fart without snorting like a twelve-year-old boy.)
I believe that potty humor is genetically inherent to the human race. It's just funny. And kids don't need to be taught that universal truth.
I recall several children in my acquaintence attempting to explain this crazy phenomenon that is - ahem - pootering:
"I burped my butt!"
"My bum just did a 'excuse me.'"
One time at the temple a man with obvious intestinal discomfort was lettin' loose the whole time during the prayer. I was eternally grateful that I was not part of the circle, because if I had had to open my mouth, I most certainly would have lost it right then and there.
I have a loved one (don't worry, I won't mention that it was YOU, dear) who once pooped his pants in grade school. He didn't have the guts to tell the teacher, so he ducked behind the school building, stripped off his undies, and went around commando for the rest of the day.
A diehard marathon friend of mine was prairie-doggin at mile thirteen. She looked around both directions, took a side road, laid her pile in the middle of the road, wiped with some leaves and kept runnin'.
But my absolute best Bodily Functions story will embarrass only myself. The only people who know my shame are my mother, brother, and husband. And certain cat owners in Michigan.
The time - twelve years ago, when I was a fifteen year old nerd who never went anywhere without a book. The setting - a BOY/GIRL party taking place at a Certain Young Man's house who I very much liked. I felt the very height of cool for being invited. I'm pretty sure it took me an hour to get ready.
But in the midst of sitting around staring at each other and eating (because that's what you do at boy/girl parties that age), I had to poop. I don't really like relieving myself away from home, (anyone using the bathroom after you would KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING) but the urgency was such that it could not wait. I enclosed myself into a generic little guest bathroom and thus gave birth to the biggest log imaginable. Flushing again and again and again proved useless.
Just when my panic was reaching Everest heights, I could hear a knock on the door and the Certain Young Man's voice asking if I was almost done.
Well, of course I could not open the door and politely ask for a plunger. The shame. The absolute mortification of it - I would never live it down. Instead I gave some lame "be out in a minute" answer and frantically started opening drawers and cupboards looking for something to rescue me in my moment of peril.
All I found was a drawer full of plastic utensils and a kitty litter box in the corner. Which gave me an idea.
Thus I, Becky, That Girl in Brazil, fished out my doo-doo using plastic forks and buried it in the litter box. I also opened the window and washed my hands about 892174927424 times before leaving the restroom. I never went back to the house, never spoke to the Certain Young Man again, and now I MAKE SURE TO POOP before leaving the house.
And I have no doubt that they took the kitty into the vet that week.