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Old Faithful

Esteban is terribly sick today. Two nights ago, he woke me up to inform me that he was sorry that he kept getting in and out of bed, but he had horrible gut cramps and had to keep running to the bathroom. My response was a sympathetic ‘mssssrrrrthgm’ because I am not coherent until I’ve been vertical for at least five minutes.

Later, however, after his fifth or sixth return to bed, I said ‘How are you doing, Mr. Poop Fountain’ which is one of our inside jokes. You see, once many years ago, one of us had an intestinal virus so bad that the person in question attempted a tiny little thip of a fart and accidentally kind of pooped their pants, and then casually trotted to the bathroom where there was the furious wet sound of sorrowful exodus and then an emergency mid-afternoon shower. Ok, you probably didn’t need to know the entire story of that and could have guessed from the ‘poop fountain’ term, but that’s me, baby. I overshare.

So yes, where were we? That’s right, I was fighting an inner turmoil where I was concerned for his well-being and also half-pissed off because he kept waking me up and grumbled, ‘How are you doing, Mr. Poop Fountain?’

He groaned, and said ‘More like a poop geyser.’ His head hit the pillow, then he sighed, got back up and wandered back into the bathroom.

Naturally, I was wide-awake then, because for some reason the concept of a ‘poop geyser’ at 4 in the morning is a very funny thing indeed.

Actually, I can barely get through typing this for the laughter. You know you’re married for life when you just can’t stop laughing at their ass problems.


Also, I am feeling very stupid that this whole time the Black Eyed Peas were singing ‘Let’s Get Retarded’ and not my warm and friendly interpretation of ‘Let’s Get It Started’ What started, I don’t know, but it’s better than making light of brain disorders, that’s for sure.

Also, I am not all that fond of Fergie, mostly because she’s overcompensating for a childhood spent singing in Martika’s shadow. And also, I don’t want to look at her stomach anymore. It’s winter. Put that thing away. You’re going to get a chest cold.

And with that, the transformation into my grandmother is complete.


Last night was my last session of class, which makes me alternately sad and relieved because my GOD, it is not easy having a full time job and a part time freelance gig and a graduate class and also be the mother of a growing (34-year-old) boy. Anyway, I barely finished my term paper, mostly making the page requirement by changing to a better font (because of course professors have NEVER seen that trick, although technically, I wasn’t cheating because I did not change the default 12 point font, or mess with the margins, and maybe I really LIKE Garamond rather than Times New Roman, ok? OK?) because I spent most of my time taking apart my story, removing characters (who had their little tentacles all over that thing), changing some details, rewriting three pages, and then pasting it all back together again. Gah. The whole thing makes me feel like I’ve just been through surgery, only instead of a scalpel, I had a machete and instead of sutures, there was an old crusty tub of mucilage, and the blood was squirting everywhere, except by “blood” I mean subordinate clauses and prepositional phrases, which of course, aren’t nearly as dramatic.

It was a somewhat jovial class. We started extra late because there was a writer auditioning for a job, so instead of starting class, my professor redirected us to the reception where we attacked the crudit’s like wolverines. The funniest thing was seeing brie and Krispy Kreme doughnuts sharing a table, but my professor explained they were in honor of the writer, who is something of a Krispy Kreme junkie. I replied that I also enjoy Krispy Kremes, but I had given them up for’I was about to say Lent, but instead said ‘the millennia’ which he thought was clever and laughed just as Dr. Frank sent a withering glower in my direction. Later, as we were leaving, Dr. Frank was seen to be scavenging all of the oily hard cheese old maids and left over vegetables and dip to bring to his next class. Dr. Frank and botulism’ a winning combination.

In all, it was the perfect ending to a semester. Surreal girl said something surreal, I mumbled a quip about coffins having ‘an exhume-by date’ on the bottom, which was heard by the two clever boys in class who were sitting on either side of me and burst out laughing, and we spent the last half hour of class watching the beginning of Dracula.Later, the girl I think is so cool walked me back to the parking garage. And then, on the drive home, I saw no fewer than three shooting stars and had to keep reminding myself to watch the road and not the sky.

And then, when I got home, our house resonated with the victory cry ‘Titties!’ and its authoritative response ‘Poop Geyser!’ And you can’t ask for much more than that in life.

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