Two weeks ago, while on the phone with one my best friends, “CZ” (not short for “cubic zirconia” … and besides, really, do you think I’d associate with Cubic Zirconia? It’s Diamelle or nothing for me, chums), CZ paused mid-sentence, as she often does during our calls, to address one of her three young sons. Ordinarily she interrupts our conversations for such admonitions as “Electrical outlets are not for little boys” and “Please don’t wrap that around your neck”, but this time she interrupted it to praise the 3-1/2-year-old, her youngest. She and I were in the middle of a life-altering philosophical quandary when she burst into whoops of congratulations directed to “K”.
The last time I heard CZ so excited was in July, 1995, when she was five months pregnant with her first son and we attended a Dogstar concert just to get a gander at our then-future husband, Keanu Reeves. The excitement in her voice during this call was as intense as it was later that July night, when I told her that after she and I parted ways, I found myself in a hotel lobby at arm’s-length from Keanu. (Both Keanu’s and my lawyers have advised us to keep the details of that encounter strictly private, so don’t ask. I can’t tell you. I really can’t.)
Apparently K (and no, it doesn’t stand for “Keanu”), after an interminable period of potty training, had finally completed the course and was now able to part with his fecal matter without incident. Never one to belittle the accomplishments of others, I congratulated both mother and son on the fecal feat.
“He finally did it for the first time on Saturday!” my friend said.
“Wow!” I said, popping open a can of Tab and pouring it over my own head in jubilation.
She told me they had a party to celebrate the “poop”, which led me, naturally, to comment that perhaps it was time to remove the negative stance of the term “party pooper” and redefine it to embody joy and celebration. Because I am nothing if not ambitious and prone to an unstoppable “can do!” attitude, that same afternoon I submitted this suggestion to the editors of every lexicon in all the land. After all, someone’s gotta keep track of this sort of crap, right?
Indeed.
P.S.  Kudos, K! You’re the shit!