By: Ann Brown
Well, here’s something you can’t say every day: I’m going out to the driveway to take a dump.
The reason I can say that is that there is a port-a-potty in my driveway. The reason there is a port-a-potty there is that we are remodeling the bathroom. My first thought – negative, of course – when they delivered the thing was that anyone passing by my house could walk in there and use it. And the thought of stranger pee – albeit neighbor pee – so close to my bedroom window makes me gag just typing the words.
However, upon further consideration, I have decided that it totally rocks to have my own driveway outhouse. Because now, no one ever needs to poop in the toilet in my house ever again.
A toilet in my house that will never be used. A germophobe’s wet dream. I feel all warm and fuzzy and happy just typing those words.
I know I come off all tough and shit, but deep down I am a delicate flower. I have this canine olfactory system that renders me helpless to smells. You could put me in the circus. And at the first whiff of old corn dog oil, I would barf. And then you could take me home and put me to bed with a cold compress on my forehead.
Poor Robin. On the evenings that we have people over to the house, I don’t let him poop after 5PM because, frankly, that Febreeze candle in the upstairs bathroom isn’t fooling anyone even two hours later. Good thing he grew up with only brothers and didn’t have a lot of girlfriends before me because he really has no idea how much more work I am than your average woman.
I am thinking that the cost of having a port-a-potty in my driveway for the rest of my life can’t be all that much. I can give up Starbucks, I suppose, and that will save me, oh, roughly, four bajillion dollars a month. It might be worth it to keep the new toilet in my house completely unused. With a velvet rope around it.
Robin could have the port-a-potty as his very own bathroom forever. Pad down to the driveway in the morning, sit on the toilet and enjoy the sounds of life going by our street. I bet the Oregonian could even deliver the morning paper directly to the outhouse door. Knock, knock. You can reach the door without even getting off the toilet.
I’m pretty sure I can sell this to him. Especially if I set the coffee maker up in there.
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Originally published on The Seattle Lesbian
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