Did Someone Say Poo Holes?

I laugh every time I hear the name of Cardinal's player Albert Pujols. I mean, each and every time.

Pu-jols.

I'm laughing right now.  At nearly 38-years-old, you'd think that I'd be able to say his name without getting that giddy feeling right at the end of Pu and just before jols. It's one of the things I really enjoy about going to Cardinals games. I don't care much about hits or runs and all of that running around on the field business. And, to tell you the truth, I get a little spooked by all of that mechanical monkey behavior crowds do when given the slightest musical prompt. You know, the organ busts out a few notes of the mexican hat dance, and everyone drops their i-phones, beer, and scoring cards to get ready for the double clap. You know what I mean. You've done it before.

I don't like those big-ass pretzels that leave my tongue like a salted piece of beef jerky. $5 for cotton candy makes me angry, and I don't understand the concept of ice cream that's made out of what looks like colored styrofoam beads. It's always hot as shit and my legs sweat and stick to the metal chairs, which makes me feel like I've peed myself. (*See last post to calculate possibilities of this happening.) Invariably I see someone with a Brockabrella, and I become pissed that I threw mine out in 1985. But the price of admission is well-spent when I hear echoing over those speakers: "Alllllbert Puuuuuujols!" I clap just as enthusiastically as a real Pujols fan; one who knows about his stats ("stats," right?) and whatnot. But I'm clapping for the poo. And the holes.

When I found out there was a country called Djibouti (roughly pronounced "juh-booty"), I was delighted. When further research indicated the capital of Djibouti is also called Djibouti, I wanted to call Sir Mix-A-Lot and celebrate the good news. The good people of Djibouti don't know how good they have it. My students, on the other hand, did not have the benefit of having a teacher who was able to make it through a reading of a chapter which mentioned Djibouti, without giggling so hard is was difficult to regain her composure. "Yeah...we get it, Mrs. Maret. Could you keep going, please?"

Colon and semi-colon lessons are equally as challenging. "Today I'm going to explain how to use the colon! And I don't mean the poop-chute!" It doesn't occur to me that no one else in the class had actually thought of those two little dots as sharing the same name as our Pujols.

Somewhere deep inside of me is a mature woman who rolls her eyes every time I swat someone on the arm and say "Haha. He said Pujols! Pu-hols. Oh, man...." This is the woman who generally shows up when conducting parent teacher conferences, or when giving a presentation to a group of professionals. She sees nothing funny in anything having to do with bodily functions or body parts. She's even forgot she has them.

Then there's the kid in me. The one whose mouth is grinning and collecting little spit bubbles in the corners. Her stomach, in attempts to hold back explosive laughter, is doing what can best be described as a sort of backwards sneeze. Her eyes are bright and wet with tears from the last mention of anything poop-related and she can't wait for someone to say something. Just say it.

Today, I asked my niece about the name of her new teacher. "Mrs. Butz." She wasn't even looking at me for a reaction. I wanted to be the bigger person. I wanted have normal follow up questions like, "Do you know anything about her? Is she nice? Are any of your friends in that class with you?" I wanted to say things such as, "Oh! I know her husband! I just had a writing class with him. He's a very nice person." (All true.) Instead, I did what amounted to a perfect spit-take. "Butz.......ohhhhhhhh, man! Butz! That's awesome! I guess is better than getting Mr. Boobs."

Mr. Boobs.

What in God's name was I thinking?

My niece gets to witness me with no guards up. No professional teacher action. No I'm a polite house guest. No scornful "Well, maybe that's funny at your age, young missy, but when you're my age, you won't be laughing like that." I like to think that I'm reminding her that life is still funny, no matter what your age. Or perhaps I'm providing her with a visual aid of what not to be when she's in her late 30s. It's hard to say.

In the meantime, ball, anyone?

p.s. I said "ball."