Embarrassing Moments -- Explosive Diarrhea

My sister, Candace, called me to tell me she had a new poop story and immediately thought of me. My reputation is secure.

Candace was going to pick up her daughter, Alexa, from her school (Shipley, which is private) and took my new baby nephew, Chase, with her. It's his feeding time, but no problem. His diaper should be changed, too. Candace climbs into the back seat of their brand-new white SUV where his car seat is. After feeding him, she unbuckles the myriad of S&M-like straps binding him to his car seat. She gently extracts his fragile body from the rigid transport and lays him on the seat. Candace peels the old diaper from his damp bottom. His delicate undercarriage is exposed to the elements for a few short, meaningful seconds. The car's warm interior works its wonders on his wee manhood.

And wee he does, in spectacular fashion, quite literally hosing my sister -- along with the inside of her sparkling clean vehicle. Fresh pee trickles down her face as she quickly reaches for a new diaper, but not quickly enough.

The gods of chaos stomped with full force on the toothpaste tube of his now liquefied intestinal tract. A geyser of dark brown hideousness roared forth from his tender sphincter with the full force of water spewing from a firefighting hose. Chase let fly with the abandon of a innocent newborn, giving my sister an instant DIY facial with explosive diarrhea.

Suddenly awash in pee and poop she has to get out to get a breath of fresh air. Her pristine SUV has been drenched in baby goodness. Said baby is now screaming. The temperature inside the car is rising along with steam from the rain forest of excrement. She reaches for the car door handle. The door won't open.

The child-safety lock is on. She's trapped.

She thinks briefly of yelling for help, but this is Shipley, after all. Such things simply don't happen here. Parents don't wear sweat suits to pick up their spawn. Parents are not usually smeared with excrement, either. She rules out screaming for help.

Candace also now develops a mysterious condition she calls "boob sweat," which mixes beautifully with the dripping pee and molten poop.

She has to get to the front seat to get out of the car, but she can't get squeeze through the space in the middle of the seats because that's where his car seat is.

Candace wiggles over the headrest, which offers four or five inches of room between it and the roof of the car. She shuts off the child-safety lock and staggers out of car. She rescues Chase from the rapidly overheating car. He is a complete mess and can't be cleaned with handy wipes. There's nothing else she can do for Chase right now and she can't leave him in the car. She wraps him in a blanket and carries him to find Alexa.

Naturally, Candace meets a former classmate in the parking lot who, unfortunately, comes over to say hello. He is an old friend of hers. Smiling outwardly as he approaches, she says to herself, I know I have poop in my hair. I look like poop. I smell like poop. I'm dripping with poop. My hands are smeared with poop. I can try to explain what happened and move on.

Or I shake hands with him using my poop hands.

She can't possibly explain herself without looking even crazier than she already does. She exclaims how glad she is to see him and shakes hands with him using her poop hand. She says she's picking up her daughter and can't stop to chat. She slips away quickly.

Candace glances at herself in a mirror later that day and notices a tiny fragment of something horribly familiar clinging to her tresses.

What the hell is that?

Oh my god, I still have poop in my hair.

Blood relatives who increased my blood pressure

For decades, we would spend Christmas in the Pink Funeral Parlor -- the room that never changed. When you sat down, gingerly, in a chair or on the couch, a dust plume would arise like a mushroom cloud. Dust bunnies would scatter like beetles brought to light.

Mom would refuse any help in the kitchen, even as she neared and passed 70, so dinners would get later and later. One evening, the meal -- penance -- was served at about 9 or 10 PM. We finally emerged, grateful to be released, by about midnight. Mom saw nothing wrong with this, even though some us had to go to work the next day, like in about six hours.

Everyone was near dead by that point, but we complained not. That would have brought down a firestorm of criticism from my mom, who thought the mere fact we were all together as a family would make everything right. HA! She would also moan about being "a woman alone" since my dad died in 1993. A little extra helping of GUILT, anyone, served piping hot?

The other thing that drove me crazy for years was that I had to act as driver for my kind-hearted but deluded Aunt Virge (my dad's older half-sister) who lived in Philadelphia with her son. Her son is a good 10 years older than me, doesn't drive, and never held a real job in his life. I went schlepping into Philadelphia at mom's command to pick up two people I barely knew and never cared to. They talked gibberish the entire trip to help make the time pass much more S - L - O - W - L - Y.

My crazy old aunt labored under the mistaken impression that her son was a genius -- instead of a compete and utter ass. I said as much when I was a kid and was chastised for being insensitive. Now, my brother, too, thinks Chuck is an ass. So, miraculously, does my mom. My aunt has since died. We don't see Chuck anymore.

Perhaps time does heal a few wounds.

Every Day Job Blues

The cloudless blue sky hurt to look at that morning. He glanced down at the ground, blinking rapidly. His eyes stung at bit, like your hands do when they grasp etched crystal goblets a bit too hard. It had been a beautiful day, too beautiful to be spent -- well, thinking about his job. The thought almost him sad, like when a favorite pair of faded jeans finally becomes ripped beyond repair.

The moon, which earlier that evening looked like a full and proper moon, seemed to have lost its will now, somehow dissolving into a Robin’s Egg in shape. The British would have said it had gone pear-shaped, meaning a screw-up. He wondered briefly and fancifully if that had contributed to his change in mood. He pursed his lips as he drove by the ocean, going through the blueprints of the day he had laid out in his mind.

He drove through the center of the small seaside village, outside of which his contact lived. The Moody Blues played on the radio to keep him company. Earlier that day, the flowers had bloomed, the bluebirds sung in cheerful fashion, and blueberries had beckoned juicily from a vendor’s cart. Now the town’s sidewalks had been rolled up. Everyone had gone home.

No, it wasn’t been the moon. He had a job to do. It was always the job that gave him the blues. He couldn’t honestly say he liked it. Much like the rest of us, he had simply started as a young man and become good at it -- very good. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was an expert. He was one of the best in the country. He actually was the best, but his boss wouldn’t admit it. Then his boss would have to give him a raise.

He reached his destination, but pulled up two blocks away, around the corner. It wouldn’t do for a neighbor to catch a glimpse. He exited the nondescript car and strolled to the correct address. He walked briskly, but not quickly enough to attract attention. He slipped around the back, where he quickly and silently broke in. The meeting was brief. They usually are. He brought his business to its inevitable and professional conclusion. The man who had cheated his employer's company lay dead. He paused long enough to make sure his target's pulse had stopped, then he left as swiftly and silently as he had entered.