A Resume of Distinction

Do you remember grosser than gross jokes?

I used to really get a kick out of bantering back and forth with my stepdad to see who, indeed, could be grosser. I have to tell you, it was often a draw. My youth and lack of an age appropriate amount of acquired class were about as equal as his years of experience in grossology. I never had the forethought to realize who and what I was really dealing with. As a teenager, I never gave true credit to the fact that he had lived so many years with brothers, sisters, a spouse (and we all know how gross they can be), and kids. In retrospect, he must have really held back, because now, as an adult with lots of kids, I can honestly say, no one can outgross someone who has conceived a child.

Here is the grosser than gross joke which stands out the most. (Warning: this is not for the faint at heart or the truly conservative Christian. If you read this, do not pretend to be appalled.)

Stepdad: What's grosser than gross?
Me: I don't know, what?
Stepdad: When you kick off your underwear and it sticks to the ceiling. What's grosser than that?
Me: I give, what?
Stepdad: When it crawls down. What's grosser than that?
Me: (Shrugging shoulders and probably rolling my eyes at this point.)
Stepdad: When it crawls back up and you leave it there so you can find it again tomorrow.

Yep. I know. Brilliant. Many dads and daughters bond with butterfly kisses and daddy/daughter dances. Not us. We found common ground not over teen crushes and learning to drive as much as we did with those silly little jokes. It was priceless.

Almost twenty years later, I have to admit that I was never even a match for the gross-off.
Why? Life experience opens you up to a whole world of gross that you could never ever imagine.
I now feel ready for a rematch. A new chance at outgrossing the king of grosser than gross and long, drawn-out, yet somewhat endearing jokes.

I am ready. Gloves are on. I'm standing in my corner of the ring. I actually even think I am at my fighting weight, so let's go.

Here is my resume:

I have "romantic gross" experience. (We all know what that is...no explanation necessary.)

I have "child bearing gross" experience. (Again, you know. You watch baby story, don't you?)

I have "worked in the medical field gross" experience.
* I have handled (with gloves) nearly every bodily fluid or excretion...including sputum. Do you know what that is? I have taken the embarrassing phone calls in the medical office. I have had total strangers grab my hand and make me "feel" their stitches protruding through their skin as they fill me in on the wonders of gall bladder surgery. The medical stories could go on for days.

I have "church nursery gross" experience. (Nothing like watching the little 3 year old girl standing under the play structure as the boy above peed on her. You guessed it, I called her parents.)

I have "I ate what the dog spit out gross" experience. Here is how that played out:
Me: "Son, why did you not eat your garlic bread? I would have eaten that. (And I did.)
Son: "Because the dog got it." (Me picturing said dog whose tongue did the grooming.)

I have "physical discovery gross" experience. This is where you have the distinct pleasure over the years of seeing quirky little medical things happen to your trusty old body. Probably the least offensive thing I could mention is the strange places where acne pops up. Say no more.

And lastly, the grand-daddy of all gross experience....the one for which we should at the very least receive a girl scout badge is..."child rearing gross."

I'm not talking about normal bodily functions that mom's often have to clean up. The prizes of stomach flu, the perpetual snotty nose, the skinned up knee which develops a pus-filled scab, and even the misplaced sneeze....these are all delicate infractions compared to the intentional grossness of children. By intentional I mean that booger that was wiped on the wall...or the...well, read on.

My prize winning story is one that I feel needs a little background.

First of all, you should know that I am somewhat of a germiphobe. I carry hand sanitizer and Charmin to Go toilet seat covers in my purse. (Keep your smarty comments to yourself. You do it too.) I don't like to spend more time than necessary in a public restroom. I hate public restrooms. I hate even using the sinks in such places. Often I will make quick work of the sink and run out the door only to use half a tube of hand sanitizer. I also get grossed out by the things my children sometimes lick off their faces. I make my kids wash their faces sometimes before they are allowed to kiss me. (You feel me?) In my defense, however, I change a mean diaper and can clean up vomit if I have to.

That being said, know that when I attack bathroom cleaning, especially for company, I do a run through with clorox wipes, disposable toilet wands, and rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle to kill anything that should be killed and leave it sparkly clean. On one such occasion, I was getting ready for company and did a very last minute "touch up" of the guest bathroom. I was standing there with my paper towels in one arm and the alcohol spray in the other and noticed that the bathroom rug was crumpled up beneath my feet a little. I was trying to make it quick, so I just kind of tried to straighten it out with my bare feet. I wiped the vanity down (door bell rings) and shut the bathroom door so I could finish the job discreetly.

I began double checking the toilet and spraying and wiping quickly, put the lid down and turned around. I thought it a little odd that although I had straightened the rug with my feet, it was still lumpy. I then began to wonder why leading to that lump under the rug was what appeared to be a skid mark. Puzzling. So, I began to alcohol the floor and finish my touch up of the bathroom. After all, my company was here. They had been let in by my husband and I could hear their muffled chatter in the other room.

I don't know what possessed me to peel back the lumpy rug, but let's just say that nothing, I mean NOTHING, could have prepared me for...........(Psycho shower scene music playing).....a large, somewhat fresh POOP under the rug. Some precious soul had decided that rather than yell for mommy to come to their aid, or heaven forbid grab some toilet paper and "PICK UP AND FLUSH THE TURD," that they would scoot it under the rug where it would hopefully go unnoticed and not be traced back to the turdee.

While I am not quite sure what this dear, sweet, fruit of my loins was thinking, I am quite certain that this child somehow had to have touched this rather large nugget in order to camouflage it under the bathroom rug. (EEEEEWWW.) The other thing I am not sure of, is how this poop actually ended up on the floor in the first place. How do you miss the toilet by that much?

Needless to say, I scooped up the rug, scrubbed the floor and the grout and disposed of the evidence before my company got wind (literally) of it. Can you imagine what could have happened if I had not done the appropriate bathroom check? I shot up a quick prayer of thanksgiving and wished only momentarily that I was Catholic so I could have grabbed the Rosary, said 20 hail Mary's, and lit a candle of appreciation. (I do remember that a candle was involved, however!)

So, how about it? How about the big boxing match, dad? How about our final face off? Ready:

Me: "What's grosser than gross?"
Stepdad: "What?"
Me: "When you're cleaning the bathroom and you stomp a turd under the rug."
(How proud he must be.)

Ding! We have a winner!