#48: What's the Poop?
HUMOR/SENTIMENTAL
Yoohoo!
Many of you have read my tales of Mamaw, my favorite person and paternal grandmother. She’s the best, and if you don’t think so, you’re wrong. She’s the matriarch of our family and the glue that keeps us all close. She’s known for hosting doodahs (get-togethers) at her house, often out by the pool and her garden. And every 18 months or so, she leaves the Southside of Indy to meet up with her best friends, The Poop Sisters, so they can have a doodah of their own.
The Poop Sisters met in high school, at the latest. (Mamaw and Pam have been friends since third grade!) They’ve all been friends for more than 55 years. (I can’t tell if I’m going to get shit for dating them like that or not. Sorry, Poops! Love you!) One of the Poops, Andie, wrote a column in the high school newspaper called, “What’s the Poop?,” an homage to the girls’ favorite saying, a variant on what’s the scoop? or perhaps shooting the shit, I’m not totally sure. Their namesake came from there. Even then, they got into hijinx, pouring bubble bath in the Monument Circle Fountains and hanging a pair of bra and panties from their high school flag pole. They’re a fun and relatively rowdy bunch.
They started planning these trips after they were politely asked to stop having so much fun at their 15th high school reunion. They wore googly-eye glasses and fake buck teeth and were reprimanded for…enjoying themselves too much? Sounds like their fellow graduates got boring, and they didn’t want The Poops rubbing it in. So they said good riddance and politely bid them adieu and started planning their own reunions where googly-eyes were never discouraged.
For their most recent trip, they all met up in Palm Springs over the week of Mamaw’s birthday. After a group discussion and official vote, I was graciously allowed to crash their party for the day and celebrate with them. There was euchre playing and trash-talking. (Mamaw got her famous Euchre Slut nickname on a trip years ago when she had been partnering with Pam, but when Pam got up to go to the bathroom between games, Mamaw had a new partner by the time Pam came back. And thus, the Euchre Slut was born! I mean, she’ll really play with anybody.) They made sure to go to Ralph’s grocery because they have the thickest plastic bags — perfect to lay down on the AirBnB’s fancy upholstered seating, so you don’t ruin the fabric when you inevitably laugh so hard you tinkle. They know all the tricks of the trade. They’ve been doing this for years.
These women are incredible. They’ve built families and careers and lifelong friendships. They’ve been teachers and flight attendants and business owners and art curators and executives. They’ve been mothers and wives and grandmothers. They’ve traveled around the world and built homes and communities. And they’ve grown up together while maintaining their youthful spirit. I don’t know if their essence is shining through this picture. But these are not old ladies. At least, they certainly don’t act like it.
Suffice it to say, I was welcomed with open arms and regaled with stories of womanhood, friendship, careers, lives, pranks, and parties. Mamaw’s birthday was a hit.
After her birthday dinner of Italian White Bean Soup (which obviously she made herself for all of us to enjoy), we surprised Mamaw with a carrot cake, her favorite, from a local bakery. I called Sherman’s the week before to order it. A sweet older lady took my order, and it was all going smoothly until she asked what I’d like the cake to say. I hesitated, and said, “This might sound a little weird, but I promise it’s not mean. Could you have it say, ‘Happy Birthday Euchre Slut’?”
She paused. She needed to ask someone. I was put on a brief hold, soundtracked with the karaoke version of 2000s pop hits. A few minutes passed and then she was back.
“Could you tell me the first and last name for the happy birthday?”
“Sure,” I said. “First name is Euchre. E, U, C, H, R, E. Last name Slut. S, L, U, T.”
Her voice was unsteady, “Could you spell it again slower?”
I don’t know the whole t as in tango morse code alphabet, but I did my best. “E as in egg. U as in umbrella. C as in cat.”
She stopped me, “B as in bat?”
“No, sorry! C as in cat. C as in caterpillar.”
“Caterpillar?”
“Yes…um c as in…”
“Cookie?”
“Yes! C as in cookie, perfect.” At this point, even I was confused and I had to Google Euchre to make sure I was still spelling it correctly.
“H as in happy. E as in egg.”
“Oh Euchre! What an interesting name.”
“Mhmm.” Our communication was breaking down so much already that I didn’t think it was worth explaining that euchre wasn’t a name at all but a card game.
“And the last name?”
“Sure, it’s S as in sailboat. L as in lumber. U as in umbrella. And T as in tango.”
I could feel her holding her breath on the other line. “S, L, U, and what was the last letter?”
“T as in Tango".”
“M as in mango?”
“No, T as in…” The only unique T word in my brain at this point was testicle and I wasn’t trying to scandalize this woman any further so I paused. “T as in toy.”
“C as in coy?”
“No, t as in terrific.”
“I’m sorry, could you try another word?”
I must emphasize here, she was the absolute sweetest. She just couldn’t believe I wanted to order a cake with the word slut. There was no frustration in our miscommunication. We were having a grand old time.
“Sure, T as in teddybear!”
“Oh! Okay, let me find someone to ask.”
She set the phone down, not bothering to put me on hold this time. In a moment, a much younger woman picked up.
“Hi, so it’s Slut, right?”
“Yes!”
She chuckled. “Okay, great. Is it a cake for your friend?”
“My grandma, actually.”
“You’re kidding!”
I could hear the older woman cackling in the background. I’d been on the phone with Sherman’s Bakery for 11 minutes. But they got the order perfectly right! And Euchre Slut got her favorite carrot cake after all. (It was delish. 10/10 recommend if you’re ever in Palm Springs.)
To be corny, friendship makes the world go round. Seeing the love and laughter these women share after so many years was incredible. They are truly known and seen by one another. They joke that they couldn’t get rid of each other even if they wanted to. They simply know too much.
May all our friendships last this long and be this pure (and hysterical). If you and your friends aren’t shooting the shit or scooping the poop, then what are you even doing?
Here is a little limerick about the Poop Sisterhood written by the Birthday Poop herself. Clearly, I inherited the writer genes!
There once was a group called “The Poops”.
Asked inquisitive girls, “What’s the scoop?”
Through the years with much flair,
And devotion quite rare,
They managed to stay in the loop.
They meet every three years or two.
Never queried is, “What shall we do?”
Ensue exploits galore,
Laughs and lots more,
And the usual youth in review.
Food, memories, and interests are shared.
Opinions and problems are bared.
I’ll take yours. You take mine,
Everything will be fine.
We all hurt sometimes - no one is spared.
No, none of us is from Nantucket.
We all hail from hither and yon.
One thing remains clear,
Our friendship is dear,
And the bonds formed will never be gone.
I hope this post inspires you to reconnect with old friends this weekend! Give someone you love but haven’t seen in a while a call. (My dad still considers a man he hasn’t talked to in 10 YEARS to be his best friend. DAD, CALL BEN. NOW. PLEASE.) And no, liking their Instagram story doesn’t count. (That part is for all of you, not my dad. Chad doesn’t know how to use Instagram.) If the person you love is me, however, likes and comments on this newsletter DO count, so please do that now.
In the words of the Poops, Love you. Mean it!
Ariana
Very sweet story. Reminds me of the YaYa Sisterhood.
I have two friends I’ve known since I was in kindergarten and we’ve started having reunion trips.
Such cherished friendships !