Last Wednesday or something, I was out to dinner with my dad, and the conversation was a little slow. We were both silently contemplating the tabletop, when all of a sudden, a glorious topic occurred to my father.
"You would not believe the BM I had today. It was huge. Man it felt good." What in the five hells? I was aghast.
Some of you may not be aware of the significance of the initials B.M. Well, it's not the lovechild named Bernice of a starcrossed union between two folks surnamed Matthews, I can tell you that. No...BM stands for bowel movement. Another singular-syllabic word for that is 'crap'. Or 'shit'. Depends on your choice of profanity. Some prefer poop. I like the short-voweled (hey that rhymes with bowel!) sound of the word 'crap'. It sounds even funnier when you add a South Dakota or Minnesota accent. CRAP. See what I mean?
"DAD! Whoa...I do NOT want to hear about your BMs! Helloooo, we're at the dinner table! In public, no less!" This is about as bad as Niece exclaiming, "hey everyone look at my boobies!!" and then lifting up her shirt at Village Inn.
"Oh, sorry about that."
"It's ok, Dad."
And my dad's voice carries, let me tell you. Anyway, I tried to change the subject.
"What do you think of the Israeli - Lebanese war?"
"Oh well, Lebanon shoulda cleaned up Hezbollah and not let them run the south."
Silence drops again and there's no food to concentrate on. I'm thinking about topics again, when my Dad decides to come up with his own.
"Did I tell you about the tremendous BM I had today? I was in the bathroom for a long time!"
Oh dear. The wages of a stroke...Dad has forgotten our previous dialogue about his waste products.
"DAD! Stop with the bowel movements already!!!" I'm not shouting this at my forgetful father, mind you. I think at that point, my voice was filled with a feeling of horror mixed with laughter. So I was probably doing something more like a hiss/chuckle.
Wash and repeat. "Oh, sorry about that. I forgot."
"No problem Dad." I was laughing when I said it. I didn't want to make him feel ashamed, I just thought it was funny. He was kinda chuckling too.
I found it pretty surreal that I was sitting with my dad listening to him talk about his bowel movements. I mean, that is such a cliche, isn't it? You know...the cliche about elderly people being obsessed with their poop? Yeah, that one. I felt like I was in a TV show.
2 comments:
I am laughing my ass off right now. I come from a comfortably uptight, lily-white northern European family. Acceptable dinner conversations include the dinner itself, yard work and chores, happenings at church and school, and that's it. Dinners were calm, boring, and delicious.
Then I got married to a bunch of loud, funny, outspoken Italians. They talk about everything! BMs are just a starting point, they talk about laxatives, medical procedures, menstrual cycles, scabs, sores, lesions, and any disgusting medical condition available.
If a member of the family misses Sunday lunch, their whole life is fair game. Are they gaining or losing too much weight, should they change jobs, do they dress properly, are they letting their kids dress like whores (YES), and what's the nature of their belief in God. (Last week we spent 2 hours analyzing his faith, or lack thereof, when he wasn't even in the room.)
When I go to dinner now, I just give up and join in the conversation...
So, how was your poop today?
I can't really comment on the state of my poop today. It's not pretty.
My dad didn't use to talk about his waste products at the table. He was an iron-fisted table-talk dictator, and 'the table' was sacred. It was referred to as The Table.
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