I know it was girl’s night on American Idol. But, it seemed kinda blah with a few exceptions. Ryan still tried to be smooth, Simon tried to portray put-offish, Ellen tried to be funny, Kara tried to look competent and Randy… well, and Randy is Randy. In not-my-usual-verbose style, I’ll give ya the scoop. Crystal is still the chick to beat. She sounded like a rock star singing a Tracy Chapman song. Siobhan and Lilly were solid, Lacy and Didi okay, Paige and Katie not okay. That leaves Katelyn who was totally boring but she represents so we gotta hope she stays around. Simon though Didi was grand. Not me. Simon thought Lilly wasn’t so grand. Not me. So, if Lilly goes does that mean Simon is smarter than me? Nope. That means he used his bully power to subliminally reach callers. Money is powerful, people.
The REAL story of the night regarding entertainment is not available to record for later viewing. That, of course, is my granddaughter’s fascination/obsession with caca. The Spanish word just sounds more pleasant. You know, poop. Tonight’s adventure started with the usual question.
“Poop in dare, poo-poo in dare?” she appears to honestly be unaware of the wretched sour smell leaking out of her diaper.
“Yup, poop in there. We should sit on the potty like Elmo does, huh?” as I hold back on the gag reflex.
“No kank Q, Gaga,” she gave as a nonchalant reply.
And who can argue with that? But it did remind Gaga of last week’s poop in dare episodes . . . now we’re talking entertainment.
She bounced in bubbly as usual with Papa closely following. Looking around for a cat to chase, Papa mentioned he thought he smelled “something” in the car.
“Anna, do we need to change your pants?” as he reaches under her arms to lift her up.
“No kank Q, Papa. Anna tooted.”
Then I noticed Papa Mark’s face turn pale and his eyes glazed over a bit. He held her in the air like she was a leper with fresh sores. “Gaga, what is that? OMG is that a turd? “
I wanted to say something like, Duh, Einstein don’t you know crap when you see it? but I could see he was on the verge of trauma so I went for the more sensitive response of, “No, not a turd. It’s too soft and runny. It’s more like a pile of steamy fresh poop.”
By then Anna was protesting with , “No poo-poo, Anna tooted. No poo-poo in dare!” And, Mark still looked stunned just standing there like some act of God would come to his rescue or Barbara Eden would rush in and twitch her nose . . . I don’t know what he expected.
Attempting to stay composed and help the tooting girl stay calm, I suggest, “Well, let’s change her.”
Too late, Ethel. Mark’s drama made the no poo-poo girl flail around a bit as he stood her on the carpet.
As soon as those cute brown suede boots touched the floor, more Papa drama happened. “Is that . . . there’s sh** on her shoe . . . OMG look on her pants . . .”
Uh, oh. He just said the ‘s’ word. He was so over-the-top drama queen, slap-me-across-the-face-to-regain –my-senses that I opted for the cold stone gaze and sternly barked, “Take her in on the bed and we will change her.” Again, not my first choice of words. But, we try to be pleasant and not curse or yell in front of the grandchild.
I ran (okay hobbled fast) into the bathroom grabbing a large towel, and threw it on top the bed. Mark reverted to the dumb act just holding her away from his body uttering a few syllables, “but . . . wh . . . bu”
I took the child and pulled off her pants. Mark stared at me, at the child, at the bed, at the poop. He was either in a trance or paralyzed by poop. I mentioned that he might want to consider helping me as one poop-lined pant leg rolled off. When I hissed, “Papa Mark please hand me the wipes,” he seemed to snap back to present time but he went straight to near hysteria with, “We’re out of wipes, we don’t have wipes . . .”
Shifting to a more realistic goal, I soothed Anna with, “It’s okay. Gaga will get you all cleaned up.” I pointed at the bed and told Mark to stay. As I waited for warm water I glanced through the bathroom door wondering which person looked more helpless. As I wiped and rinsed, wiped and rinsed and repeated as needed, I explained that packaged diaper wipes weren’t around back in the old days and wash clothes were commonly used for poopy butts. “Do you throw it away, then?”
Shoot. One explosive diarrhea-combined-with-pasty-black-stool episode caused a college-educated man to lose touch with reality.
With a happy Anna (no poo-poo in dare now) I instructed the usually wise Papa to finish dressing her. Then I spread the towel on the bed picked up poop pants, a more brown than pink sock, a wettish undershirt, a soiled sweatshirt, a little brown boot with chocolate-colored smudges on white fur lining from floor. I rolled it all into a big towel mass, stomped through the living room, opened the back door and promptly tossed the ball of poop clothes into the garage.
A king-sized comforter and a few other suspect items required removal. But, after a couple bottles of air freshener, a can of carpet cleaner, a change of clothes, and fresh bedding, the damage seemed minimal—until the next Anna tooted event.
In the meantime, I hope Mark watches Forest Gump and works on his poop phobia.
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