MY SCATOLOGICAL BIRTHDAY. Last month I turned…older, and had a very nice birthday week, as often happens when the special day falls in the middle of the week. There’s the official day, the following weekend, the odd cards and gifts that come in the mail (some odder than others), and no, I did not get a star named after me (thank my lucky stars). I did get a wonderful night on the town in San Francisco and some beautiful jewelry. However, the gift, or should I say Gift Package, because it was truly a themed set, that wins the prize came from my twelve-year-old nephew who has recently discovered a chain store found in malls all over America that sells novelty items relegated to body functions, body parts, smells, noises and shapes. (I suspect you know which one I mean.) First a little background so you can fully appreciate both the giving and receiving.
Growing up with a very polite mother and father, my sister and I were instructed to refer to flatulence as “tooting,” while the rest of the world did otherwise. I, being both chronically polite and also a real kiss-ass, obeyed this rule while my sister, being the rebel (at least in the early years) refused and used the “f” (fart) word along with all of our farting cousins. Naturally they thought fart jokes were high-sterical, while I, after inserting “toot” where the much funnier “fart” would go, did not find them all that funny. So there was a humor split in the family. I simply wasn’t that into the “phhht” stuff; they would fall on the floor at the mere suggestion of it. (Remember the song “Bean, beans”? I would sing the “Beans, beans, the magical fruit” version. They would sing the “Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart” version. It was war.)
Fast forward thirty years. My sister’s oldest son, after twelve years of training with my sister and her “odorous” sense of humor, has come a’knocking at my door with my birthday present, which he has picked out himself and purchased with his own hard-earned allowance. He is beaming, nearly hopping from foot-to-foot with anticipation. He instructs me to “Open the card! Open the card!” first. So I do. On the front there are two flies, wearing clothes, one dressed as a doctor performing an exam on the other fly, dressed as a patient. The doctor fly gives his medical advice: “Cut out the crap.”
I laugh so hard. Yes, the card is funny. But I am also laughing because my nephew is laughing so hard, and he picked out this really funny card! For me! And he got it! Flies eat crap! And doctors advise unhealthy people to not eat crap! I am laughing because I am so happy he is getting old enough to laugh at a stupid card with me!! Even if it IS about poop!
So then he hands me the first present, about the size of a bottle of perfume, but who am I kidding. He’s about to pee his pants with excitement, and it’s not over Chanel. I unwrap the culprit – a stamp, the kind used in an office (like PAID or RECEIVED), but mine says: “APPROVED: For Me to Poop On.” As I am reading it out loud he is on the floor dying. I suggest since my husband is a plumber maybe he can use it after he installs new toilets. This nearly kills him.
Next comes the final gift, which he hands over as if it were made of gold (he’s so excited he won’t even let me take it out of the gift bag on my own). This one is about the size of, oh maybe a can of Pam cooking spray. Once opened I am speechless. It is a toilet paper roll holder that talks. I can record my own message and every time the roll is used my message will play. Suggested messages are things like “Peeuuuw!” and “Who Dropped the Stink Bomb?!” Well, naturally we try lots of messages to surprise my husband when he gets home from work and retires unsuspectingly to the “reading room.” Some of our tests include, “Hi, uncle Mike,” “Don’t forget to wipe,” and “What did YOU eat for lunch?” The kids are in stitches and I can’t believe how popular poop jokes are making me.
I consider the crazy schedules my husband and I are on lately and how little quality time we’ve had to catch up on the little things, so I think maybe I could leave messages like “Emma lost a tooth, Mikka used the potty twice, Kyle wrote his name, the mortgage is due, your sister had her baby, the sink is leaking, love you.”
The last few days have been especially stressful so I’ve changed the message. It is now a deep yoga-style exhale, a reminder to breathe, rest and breathe. Who would ever believe this novelty gift would serve a zen purpose.
ONE MORE THING ABOUT TOOTING. We’ve all been asked what we would grab from the house if there was a fire and we could save one thing. Photo box, guitar, grandma’s ring, etc. As a mom I’ve often wondered what I would grab on behalf of the kids as well. I hate to admit this, but if there was one single toy that has brought more joy and laughter to my children above all others I would have to say…The Fart Machine. Go ahead, I can hear you snickering and straightening your wooden educational puzzles and musical Waldorf fairy whatnots, but let me tell you something, I was not a believer until this stupid little thing came into our house a few years ago and I’ll say that I’d consider saving it in a fire now (or at least replacing it with some insurance money). If you don’t know what it is, let me tell you. It’s a remote control device that makes the sound, four actually, of varying tones…sounds…of, yes, farts. You can hide the sound-making part somewhere, say under your newborn in his car-seat, and then carry the remote control in your pocket. When a stranger or maybe your mother-in-law gets close enough to the baby you push the button. The first time they will probably just look away, but after a few more they will really put on a show for you. And if you have two or three kids they can spend all day amusing each other as well as strangers and friends with this. Dogs, too.
Here is a story about a local sporting goods store and why they will forevermore get my loyal business. I was buying some rain boots for my two-year-old when I happened to notice a very small remote control on the counter at the register. “I know what that is,” I said to the salesperson.
“You do?”
I nodded and smiled. She told me the story of a middle-aged woman who came to shop with her aging mother. She had her mom, who was probably in her 80’s rest on a bench in the store next to a mannequin while she browsed. Naturally the fart machine was hidden in the mannequin. The salesperson gave the machine a toot. Then another and another. The old woman looked around, confused, a few times before the salesperson good-naturedly approached her and explained what was going on.
“That’s not funny,” declared the woman.
“That’s where you’re wrong. It IS funny.” I’m with her, despite the fact that I still find most poop, fart and other scatological humor dull, and even though I love Mel Brooks, I can’t imagine what the hell Ann Bancroft must be doing with him all these years. Hiding the fart machine? (And the campfire scene in Blazing Saddles really isn’t the funniest scene in the movie. It just isn’t.)
Kim
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