I’m thinking the BabyGirl has a future doing dirty work for some well-connected Sicilian family. We were eating dinner the other night–a casserole with ground beef. During the conversation, I glanced over at her tray and all the beef was gone. I figured she loved it so much she had picked it all out and eaten it. Then I saw her spy one last piece of meat and she carefully pinched it and then slowly brought it up to her ear under her hair. When her hand came down, the meat was gone.
Now, I’m willing to accept that my kids may be a little weird sometimes, but I don’t think any of them have an extra mouth near their ear. I got up and lifted her hair. All of the ground beef from her dinner had been neatly collected in the hollow of her ear. It looked like a hearing aid made of meat. The best part was that she was totally matter-of-fact about it. Like she’s been putting meat in her ear at every meal–no biggie.
I started wondering if this could be a way for Sicilians to send a message. Sort of like the horse head in the bed or the fish wrapped in newspaper. “You’ll bake with the casseroles for this, Vinnie.”
I had to laugh imagining Mama’s chubby-baby in the toilet, splashing herself like she was trying on perfume at Macy’s. It also reminded me of a toilet-related story from my college days that until now I haven’t shared with anyone but family and the people involved. This little anecdote is a tale I affectionately call my “S**t Transfer story”, and it goes a little something like this:
When I was a freshman in college I lived in a two-bedroom apartment with three other girls since on-campus housing was limited. This meant that instead of a dorm super, we had to pay for any plumbing problems that arose out of our own pockets (or the pockets of our daddies.) One day after doing what people do when sitting on a toilet (i.e “dropping mud”) I went to flush and stared as the water rose ominously close to the edge of the bowl. Of course, being the member of Mensa that I am, instead of being smart enough to turn off the valve in the back of the toilet to stop the water from rising, I just sat and stared in horror as my little turdballs slowly made their escape from liquid captivity, gliding so gracefully from the depths of the crapper over the edge of the bowl and onto the bathroom floor. It was like watching little brown fish tumble down a waterfall. After it finally occurred to me to shut off the water I realized that I had a problem: I was standing in a puddle in the middle of my bathroom floor staring at drenched dookies, some that managed to stay in the toilet bowl, and some that managed to find freedom on the linoleum floor. Having never taken plumbing as a high school elective and left with no other recourse for action, I called the plumber. Porto-Potty Paul was on his way. But wait a minute: I couldn’t have some strange MAN eyeballing my wayward poo poos! That would be a lesson in humiliation that would require years of therapy to erase from my subconscious! So I did what any 18 year old blond female with poop anxiety would do: I hatched a plan to transfer the turdlettes from the overflowing toilet and floor into the secondary bathroom so it would never have to be seen by male eyeballs. The Poop Relocation Plan was in effect. Picking up the dookies from the floor was easy… Scoop it up with a paper towel (almost like cleaning up after a dog), walk it to the other bathroom, and toss it into the other commode. Simple enough. But the shit floating around like little Fat Alberts in a swimming pool inside the toilet would require a more innovative transfer technique. How was I going to scoop the poop from one toilet and walk it across the living room to the other bathroom? I didn’t want to use a ladle…we used those for food service. Forget a shovel … too big to fit through the toilet rim. Then I saw it out of the corner of my eye… The toilet brush! What a no-brainer! It was MEANT to touch poopies. I grabbed the brush and ever-so-gently slid it into the toilet, sneaking up behind the biggest turd like a covert poopie operative and scooping it up! Success! Mr. Dookiepoo was cradled in the toilet brush like a baby in a crib. I gingerly walked my little brown masterpiece over to the receiving toilet, much like a child carrying an egg in a spoon during the annual Easter Egg race. That’s when it dawned on me: There is one very significant difference between a spoon and a toilet brush, which I ruefully discovered just feet from a successful transfer. A toilet brush has a hole in it. Why this didn’t occur to me sooner, I don’t know. But before I even had a chance to process the kink in my masterful plan… PLOP! The poop slid through the hole in the brush and landed in a little brown pile on the beige carpet. SHIT!! Now there was a Dookie Trail throughout the house leading from one bathroom to the other! I tried to clean it up, I swear I did, but as I was on my hands and knees scrubbing all remaining evidence, the doorbell rang. It was the plumber. As he walked over the dark spot on the floor he glanced my way with an all knowing grin on his face. And I know what he was thinking: “Haha. Another embarrassed college girl and a failed attempt at the Great Shit Transfer.”
Hey, Queenie! You’re being too quiet over there. Do you have a bunch of guys who have finally learned to treat you like the princess you are? Are you busy with the stalking business? Or are you just hoping I don’t realize you have a six-pack and that you haven’t offered me one?
I made the mistake this morning of sleeping in a little. Thought BabyGirl was asleep with me until I heard something in the bathroom. Apparently, she woke up, climbed out of bed, and went to play. She must have stood in the toilet (thank Heavens the big kids remembered to flush for once!) because her socks and pants were drenched up to mid-calf. Of course, her sleeves were wet up to the elbow, too. She got a rubdown with the hand sanitizer as soon as I got her downstairs. Yummy.