At times I have plans of making this blog a home for thoughtful, compassionate, insightful posts with a lasting impact. This is apparently not one of those times. Right now, my brain is thinking poopie. Yes, number 2 is now number 1 in my mind. Needless to say, the Pulitzer Prize is not showing up in my mailbox anytime soon.
One of my earliest memories of this subject was when I was 1 or 2. Maybe even 3, as my memory is a bit fuzzy that far back. One of my aunts had my brother and I in the bathtub, giving us a bath. I was in front, and he was behind me. I remember looking down, and watching with some amazement as a brown log floated slowly between my legs and toward the front of the tub. I was thinking, “Hey, that’s pretty cool”, and I’m sure I could have watched it for hours, fascinated. Just like a leaf floating lazily down a peaceful river. I knew it was mine, so I assume I understood what part I had in delivering this fine work of art to an appreciative audience.
Or at least some of the audience was appreciative. Don’t remember my brother being very bothered by the whole thing. My aunt, well, that was a different story. Don’t think she got extremely upset, but I have a slight hunch that she doesn’t remember that incident with the same fondness as me. Which is not too surprising. I think it makes a big difference whether the poopie is yours or not. I have to admit, if I visit a port-a-potty and see what others leave behind, it’s gross out city. I want to leave the stall immediately and will only add to the community offering pile if there are absolutely no other options available.
On the other hand, if I’m on the john and stand up afterwards, sometimes I’m tempted to admire my handiwork. Like a wine connoisseur commenting on the bouquet and fragrance of the wine, I make mental notes on the color, size, shape and form of my artwork. Sometimes it’s all jumbled up, and sometimes you have a beautiful swirl like a soft serve ice cream cone. I’m almost tempted to pat myself on the back, until I remember I’ve got a tissue in hand.
Which brings me to another thought. Have you ever been in a toilet stall, wiped your windshield, then had the paper slip from your hand and float gently to the ground instead of to the bowl? Odds are high that if this does happen, there will be someone in the stall next to you. “Excuse me, can you pass the grey Poupon” is not part of the conversation. As you both see this thing settle on the floor, both of you are thinking the same thing……”Oh Shit!”……. They’re scrambling to move their feet away as quick as they can, and you’re trying to bend down with your pants around your ankles and butt still hovering over the bowl, as you hope to God you can reach the tissue without falling over. Most stall neighbors would consider it slightly unnerving to suddenly find a half naked human diving into their stall while screaming “shit……” Their only answer would be “I believe it is.”