Saturday was Greg's birthday. He had a social get-together at Zeitgeist, a filthy cess-pool of a bar on the corner of Valencia and Duboce. Good times!
That's Greg on the left. To view a gallery of birthday pics, give him a click in the face.
Since the beginning of my relationship with Jay, we have said that “Poop” means “I love you.” To be honest, I don’t remember how it came to pass that poop means “I love you,” although once, when my mom asked me why, I made up a rather gross story (just to be ornery) that I won’t repeat here. Suffice it to say, for six years now we have called one another on the phone, or sent each other instant messages and emails, beginning with the greeting, “Poop!” and what we actually mean, in our own special MattJaySpeak, is “I love you, my darling.”
But the Poop/I love you connection has taken on a deeper meaning for me since my recent discovery of a truly delightful blog
written by a devoted mother of an 18-month old girl in Salt Lake City, Utah. Her blog has an entire Poop Category
, and after wiping (the tears of laughter from) my cheeks, it really made me think.
Did my mom ever have to pry poop out of my butt? Or was I more inclined to poop explosions? Regardless, there was a time (impossibly long ago for me, but certainly only yesterday for her) that she was cleaning up my poop on a daily basis. And you know, anyone who will clean up your poop every day for years and still invites you over for dinner, knowing you’re going to bring a load of dirty laundry for them to do, must really
Apparently, I liked to hide when it was my time. I vaguely remember this, though it could be just imprinted in my brain from the far too many times
the story has been told to everyone who has ever gotten to know me well enough to meet my mother.
Suddenly, I was nowhere to be found and that meant I was somewhere pooping. They would begin searching the entire house (my mom and dad, and grandparents too, if they were over) in organized search-party fashion, spread out and sweeping the entire area, closing in from the perimeter, in a race against time, trying to find me before the ticking bomb went off in my pants. There I’d be, squatting behind a chair, my eyes all teary from the impending poop. (They thought I was trying to save it, but I honestly think I was doing my best to stave off the inevitable.)
As a gay man, I may never experience the depth of love that poop can bring to a parent/child relationship. The best I can do is: I have three cats. You wouldn’t believe how quickly their litter box fills up. OK, I know, that’s no comparison. But occasionally, a turd misses the litter and I have to pick it up off the floor. No? Not enough?
Well, sometimes, one of those sweet little fluffballs leaves the litterbox, unaware that a turd still hangs from his butt. Now, if you don’t have a cat of your own, you may not understand this, but there’s something preciously heart-breaking about a kitty – your
kitty – who prides himself on cleanliness and normally carries himself in such a dignified fashion, looking at you completely oblivious to the turd hanging from his butt. And although it makes me giggle uncontrollably, my heart goes out to him at the same time. When this happens, I retrieve a paper towel, and I gently pull the turd from his butt. Thinking I just violated him, he emits a startled “meow,” which translated means, “What the fuck?
” and will never know that I was actually helping him out. But I do it anyway, because I love him – and also because I don’t want a cat running around my house with a turd hanging off his butt.
So, though I haven’t had to deal with poop explosions, or poop floods, or poop tsunamis – yet
(if Jay’s nighttime farts are any indication, my day may be coming) I do know that poop means “I love you!” and poop = love.
And with that, I hope you can understand the true intention of my wishes for you: May all your days, and all your relationships, be filled with poop!