The Legend of Surefoot

Or "A Tale of Poops and Poo."

But feerst, an update on the Bo since so many of you have asked, and thank you for asking!

She’s just fine, thanks. Bruised still, and sore from time to time, but just fine. Her nose bruise is a lovely shade of medium green. On the yellow side, but I wouldn't call it chartreuse just yet. Perhaps by naptime. No worse for the wear, apparently. And in the middle of a growth spurt because she’s eating like a lumberjack these days! I swear she’s grown three inches in a month.

And now, in the continuing story of “Ask Poops, Please,” my beloved PennyKarma of Behold My Brilliance fame (and if you haven’t beheld yet, please go do so. Right now. I’ll wait while you behold…)

Oh good, you’re back. Isn’t she a hoot? Poops would never steer you wrong.

Anyway, PennyKarma wants to know “How’d ya come to go by the name Poops? I mean, it suits you, don’t get me wrong, I’ve just always wondered. Does your husband call you Poops? Or if that’s not an interesting enough story, tell us about your most embarrassing moment. Please. I’m sure it’d be good.”

For starters, Poops is indeed my real nickname, not one invented for this blog or as my Knittyboard handle. People really call me Poops. Family, mostly, though not my husband, so much. He usually prefers a more affectionate moniker for me…sweetie, or honey, or something like that and sometimes just Da Wife. My sister and her hub call me Poops the most. Probably because I got the name in college and she was there as a part of it all, so she brought it back here.

So the name came about originally from one of my roommates. My real name is Jennifer. Just like 67% of girls my age. But I’m not a Jenny. My parents apparently had an eye toward saddling me with that from a young age, as most of my baby pictures are labeled “Jennie, 3 mo.” and such. Until I learn to walk. Then Jennie turns to Jen, and that’s what I’ve been ever since. My grandparents insist on calling me Jennie still, and I’ve had a teacher or two decide that’s what I should be called, but most people I let know right off the bat that I’m Jen or Jennifer, or Poops if you prefer. But not Jenny, thanks so much.

AAAAANYWAY, back in college my sister, roommate Karleen and yours truly were noticing the Campus Sex Kittens one day. You know the type: I always think of sorority sisters as Sex Kittens. They dress provocatively, but not right out slutty, they flirt and toss their hair and wear strawberry lip gloss and Hello Kitty backpacks. And they have names that end in a “Y” that they purposely change to an “I” so that they can dot it with a heart or a smiley face. They get Bonus Sex Kitten Points for actually being named Barbi, Candi, Bambi, or Tammi. In a fit of giggles, we decided we needed our own Official Sex Kitten names. My sister became Bobbi, I think Karleen (which is a hard one, by the way) became Karli, and mine—easiest of all—became Jeni with one “N” and an “I” with a heart on it.

Sadly, Jeni kind of stuck. And not just in Sex Kitten moments, either. All the time.

Karleen’s brother Kevin lived in Newport too and we’d stop by and see him from time to time. He is much older than her, by at least 10 years I’d guess. He thought our nicknames were funny, as was our snarky mockery of Sex Kittens. He started calling me Jeni-Poops out of nowhere one day. It sounded good to him, I suppose. I told him that no real Sex Kitten would stand for having “poop” as part of her name anywhere, since it is well known that Sex Kittens don’t poop—ever. Which made it even funnier, and eventually the Jeni, which never really fit me in the first place, was dropped, and the poops—which apparently did fit me—stayed. And I’ve been Poops ever since.

Was that interesting enough? No? You wanna hear my most embarrassing moment? Of course you do, you people are shameless.

I should warn you that my M.E.M. involves poop. But if you like a good shit story, hang around. (See, PK? This is clearly why I’m so entertained by your own poo-filled life. I feel a kinship—sort of a “Sisterhood of the Poop.” But you’ll have to be Penni with an “I” and you can dot it with a steamy pile if you like. It’s your call.)

I was in Jr. High, I think. I know I wasn’t in high school, yet I was embarrassed so I clearly wasn’t a small kid. And since Jr. High kids are always embarrassed about everything, I’m guessing that’s about how old I was.

My aunt used to have a travel trailer. You know, one of those small campers that you hook on the car and park at a campground somewhere? She used to keep it on a small piece of land that was owned by her Aunt Pudgie. There had been a camp there at one time, on the shore of a small, serene pond. A hurricane (or tornado, I forget, but it was one of those freaky occurrences that almost never come to my neck of the woods) blew it into the pond, and the land stood there for anyone who wanted to park a camper there. So Auntie did.

My sister and aunt and I went down to do some swimming, have a campfire, and sleep out in the camper. Despite the bathroom that was built into said camper, Aunt E insisted that we do our business outside in the bushes.

I don't know if I've mentioned it or not, but I’m not a fan of public restrooms. Suffice it to say I’m even less wacky about dropping trou in the bushes. And I had to poop.

She told me if I had to “use the bathroom” I should go out behind the trailer. Well, there was a small stand of trees and bushes behind the trailer, but the beyond that was the road. I didn’t want to be squatting up by where a passing car might see me, and in retrospect I suppose I should have grabbed a flashlight and gone down toward the pond. But I was prairie doggin', and time and poop wait for no man. So I went out behind the camper. Right behind the camper. I cleaned my bum and went back in.

Lights out, and we all lay there. I don’t know if Sister smelled it first—probably, since she’s sensitive to such things—but before long, much gagging ensued. I might as well have shat in the tiny camper sink.

Aunt E, none too delicately, asked where I pooed. I told her out behind the trailer. She told me to get a trash bag and “relocate” it away from base camp.

I tried. I really did. But it was dark and cramped back there and as I’m feeling my way towards my steamy pile, I stepped in it.

That’s all I remember. I stepped in my own crap, still had to collect it, relocate it, and limp to the water to rinse my foot off. All in the dark. Why did we not have a flashlight? And if we did, why did I not have it with me?

Upon returning to the camper, which still smelled of human excrement, Aunt E christened me “Surefoot” and looooooooved to tell the story to all her teacher friends. Like making me shit outside wasn’t funny enough, but I stepped in it! Hy-fucking-larious. And she never really got that I was hugely embarrassed by it and wished she’d just not talk about it, but she seemed to find my painful discomfort at the mention of “surefoot” immensely entertaining. She had a sick sense of humor, and a bit of a sadistic streak. But then she was a sixth grade teacher. What can you expect?

There it is, folks. The tale of Jeni Poops the Sex Kitten, formerly known as Surefoot.

But truly, doesn’t “Ask Poops, Please” have a better ring than “Ask Surefoot, Please”? You know it does!