I Am So Popular: When Life Hands You a Box of Turds...
When the box arrived, I set it, unopened, on the kitchen table. That night at dinner, Warren asked, faux innocently, “What’s this?” I encouraged him to open it. I knew a friend in Houston had ordered me a belated birthday gift—a do-it-yourself-cheese-making-kit— and that Warren and I would both get a kick out of it, so I wanted him to do the honors and open it.
“No, you open it,” he said. So I did. It was not what I expected. Instead, I found dog shit. Lots and lots of dog shit. Okay, so it was fake dog shit. But still, I was thrilled. First of all, I love fake dog shit. Second of all, I realized Warren had been paying more attention than I realized, and had heard me weeks before when I extolled the virtues of this particular item. This box of shit, I realized, was a gift from him in response to that conversation. So sweet!
Now, I realize some people—let me be sexist here and say some women—might not appreciate a box of shit to commemorate a 45th birthday, or any birthday for that matter. Maybe they’d prefer a day at the spa, a nice piece of jewelry, a thoughtfully chosen article of clothing. Not me. For my love of fake poop—and, in the bigger picture, gag gifts—goes way back.
I can’t remember exactly when Henry and I got our first faux crap, but it had to be at least a decade ago. I’m thinking a neighbor gave it to my son and that I, both thrilled and jealous, quickly appropriated it. I loved to put it in different surprising places around the house, and giggled every single time I came across it.
One night, I had a friend over to dinner. She brought her three year-old. I recall how, upon entering my house, which I had spent two hours cleaning in honor of her visit, she looked around and remarked, “I think it’s so cool that you can live in such a mess and be fine with it.”
Then, as we were eating, she spotted it. I’d placed the poop on the kitchen floor, near the birdcage. At first I didn’t notice that she’d noticed it, but then she cleared her throat and said, nervously and softly, trying to control her alarm, “Uh, um….” Pause. “I, uh, think my son had an accident.” She gestured toward the poo.
Part of me was highly amused. Did she really think that somehow, as we were sitting right there, her child had come in, dropped his drawers, squeezed out a shit, pulled his pants up, and toddled off without us noticing? Then I felt bad. My little prank had made her upset, and that was never my goal. I retrieved it from the floor, held it up lovingly for her to inspect. “Fake,” I said. I’m not sure this brought her any relief.
At some point, perhaps fittingly, one of my dogs got a hold of this prized possession of mine and chewed it up. I made a mental note to get some more some day, but - hard to believe, I know—that goal stayed at the bottom of my perpetual To-Do list. Which is why I felt an extra jolt of thrill when I discovered the true contents of the mystery box at dinner. Warren had really listened when I told him the tale of the stressed out toddler mom. He’d picked up on the wistfulness in my voice. He’d used his powerful online shopping skills to track me down not just one replacement poop, but a whole boxful.
For weeks, save for that one on my bedside table, I let the box sit, brimming with excrement, waiting for just the right inspiration. And then, last week, it came to me. I was dog sitting for friends, who left me a note with instructions as well as thanks for being the thing that was coming between their dog’s bowel evacuation and their new carpet.
Light bulb moment!
I concocted a scheme in which I would carefully place the poop all around their house. At first I was delighted with my own brilliance. But then, as I so often do in many areas of my life, I began over thinking things. For example, though my friends are not dog beaters, what if, after a long drive home with a little baby in the car, they stepped into the house, road weary, and spotted all that shit? Would they freak out on the dog before realizing it was a joke? That wouldn’t be very funny, now, would it?
Warren and I conferred. “Put it someplace really silly,” he suggested. “In the refrigerator. Or the dishwasher.” He paused, thought some more, and said, “No, wait, I know. Put it on top of the lid of the toilet.”
While I loved the idea of toilet top placement, with the attendant suggestion that the dog knew to shit in the bathroom but, due to a glaring lack of opposable thumbs, could not lift the seat, again I over thought things. What if my friends fell for the absurd notion that the dog crapped on the toilet, and in their haste, used so much balled up toilet paper to scoop it up, they couldn’t feel that it was actually plastic? What if they then tossed it into the toilet and flushed? How many thousands would they then spend on a plumber?
In the end, I returned to another idea that had come to me. Just inside the front door is a mat upon which guests can wipe their feet. I placed the mat next to the dog’s bed and artistically spelled out “Hi” with the fake crap. Now that was funny, wasn’t it? The idea that a dog might be so concerned with the carpeting that he’d meticulously drag a mat over and then spell out a cheerful greeting.
Pleased—nay, giddy—with this idea, I drove away from the house, almost crashing the car as I took my hands off the wheel to give myself a big congratulatory hug.
And then, again, the worry kicked in. What if the dog sees the fake shit, tries to eat it, and either chokes to death or dies from some toxic substance used to create it?
All this worrying over what was supposed to be a simple prank brought a couple of thoughts to the surface. First of all, as if I needed any further proof, I would have to guess that no amount of meditation or therapy is ever going to get me to a place where I stop worrying. About everything. Second, I recalled one of my favorite movie scenes of all time.
There’s an old Batman movie from the sixties. It is super camp, an utter delight. In one scene, the Caped Crusader and his Boy Wonder run along a seaside promenade, trying to dispose of a very large, very cartoonish bomb that is about to explode. They decide to throw it in one direction, only to spot a flock of oncoming nuns. So they change plans, and conclude that hurling it in the water is a better idea. Only no, wait, here comes a bunch of baby ducklings.
Frustrated, Batman sighs, “Some days, you just can’t get rid of a bomb.”
No, some days you can’t. Which got me thinking one other thing. You know, it’s not like I’m anywhere near the first person to point this out, but things are awfully shitty right now. 600,000 more people joined the ranks of the unemployed in February. The travesty that was the Bush administration left such devastation in its path, such a huge fucking bomb of an economy, that the new administration is having a hard time defusing it. Everyone, it seems, is broke, present company included.
But we must still, sometimes, have a little fun. Maybe vacations are out. Maybe purchasing expensive tequila is a thing of the past. But I think most of us can still afford at least one or two fake dog turds, and can benefit from the proper prankish placement of such. I, for one, am ready to start lightening up. Enough with all the real shit, already. Bring on the fake stuff. Spread it around.
Spike Gillespie is ready for her friends to return her box of shit. She blogs at www.spikeg.com. And she is Head Mistress for the Dick Monologues. Next show March 11th. Email spike@spikeg.com to reserve seats.
