On the surface, the phrase “Your poop stinks,” does not seem like advice. You probably think it means something as simple as, “You’re not popping out roses when you sit on the throne” or “Your bathroom smells, so break out the Pine Sol.” But when Uncle Gino says any variation of the phrase, he’s offering you important and pointed counsel. In essence, he’s saying to humble up.

Uncle Gino usually says it to me with an air of sarcasm and in response to one of my wise-cracking remarks. He wants me to get my nose out of the sky and realize that I’m no better than anyone else. It’s a lesson I need repetitively – at least when I’m with my family.

With colleagues at work, I am a worker bee. I do as I’m told, fear authority, and almost never step out of line – certainly not on purpose. My friends probably mistake me for an angel. The reality is that I don’t feel comfortable enough to talk back to them or question their values and life. Live and let live is my philosophy with friends. In my heart, that’s what I believe is right. It has served me well. But I’m too close to my family. Too close indeed.

Every so often, that closeness makes me feel as though I can say whatever is on my mind. I might bully my mother into throwing away the things about which she is sentimental – an old magazine featuring a recipe she’d love to someday try for my father, an old rag that was once a dress I wore as a child, a bit of fabric that she bought in 1982 and plans to use for curtains in the bathroom. Perhaps, I’ll scream at my brother John for coming to visit from Florida and leaving the living room in shambles after having all of his friends over for dinner. Don’t even ask my father about the rage that one of his dirty socks on the floor can ignite in me. Or I’ll explode with my boyfriend Antonio when he says something harmless about the differences between his native Italy and my America. “I always knew you hated the United States!” I might shout.

I know. I know. I sound like a nightmare. The worst part is that I behave nicely with strangers and treat my family badly. I think it’s the intimacy that makes me feel too comfortable, secure enough to blow my stack. I expect the ones I love to accept me no matter what I do. I’m wrong – and Uncle Gino isn’t afraid to say so. Whenever I get out of control, I just have to remember, “My poop sure does stink!” And so does yours!