Monthly Archives: July 2014

Why Is There a Port-A-Potty in My Backyard?

That was the question, and a very good one at that, I had rattlin’ round my brain the morning my husband looked over the back fence and then came back to announce said ‘loo was placed right at the entrance to our back forty.

It’s not really a back forty, it’s only a back quarter.  But, back forty sounds so much more farm-y.

Actually, I don’t live anywhere near a farm, and the land behind my house is really two lots we bought a long time ago and they measure a quarter acre.

I digress.

The land is constantly being used for construction crews to drive across to get to other lots they’re building on, or to stack materials for the same reason.

The port-a-potty was a first, but it was just after the dead body in the yard and it was a holiday weekend, and it was elebenty hunnert degrees at 9:00 a.m. so to say I was not happy is an understatement.

First thing I did was go out back and get the name of the company, their phone number, and the unit’s identifying number so I could call and tell them to get their shitter off my property.

I called before realizing it was July 4th, and got the answering service.

Yes, shitter-rentals has an answering service.

My own doctor doesn’t even have an answering service.

Apparently shitter renting is lucrative.

The lady I spoke to was suitably apologetic and understandably perplexed.  She said she’d relay the information to the appropriate people and they’d get back to me on Monday.

I got off the phone just in time to hear a truck out back stopping on my lot.

I ran outside to confront the driver as I could see he had one of the rental company’s logos on the side of his truck.

He spoke no English.

Not. A. Word.

But, he understood my violent hand gestures indicating I wanted the shitter off my property to mean he should get the hell off my property immediately.

He skee-daddled…leaving the shitter behind.

Sigh….great, now all I’d done was scare the shit out of some poor immigrant and he had no place to ‘go’.

Monday rolled around, and (gasp!) no call from the rental company.  Not only that, but we’d had a storm and the shitter was lying on its side covering my back driveway and bleeding blue chemicals.  It looked mortally wounded.

I called them.

The lady I spoke to was very nice up to the point where I said, “…and I need this thing off my property right, immediately. It got knocked over in the storm and now it’s leaking.”

“Did you request the rental?”

“No, no I didn’t.”

“Oh..well, ma’am we can only move the port-a-potty at the request of the person who rented it.”

“Wait, so you’re saying you come drop a shitter wherever you’re asked to and then when you’re called to point out a mistake in location you refuse to move it.”

“Ma’am, we can’t move it unless you ordered it.”

Right about here is where I lost it.

“Fine.” I fumed, gritting my teeth. “then I’m shoving your shitter into the street and the police will be giving you a call.”


I hung up the phone, furious.

Hubby was standing right there.

“Of course, I didn’t mean we were going to shove it into the street.” I said, noting his alarmed expression. “I don’t want some unsuspecting driver to come along and hit it.  Someone could get hurt.”

“That would be…..shitty.” Hubby said, and we both collapsed in laughter.

I went back into the house, leaving him still trying to catch his breath.

A few minutes later hubby came inside, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“Took care of it.” He announced.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I moved it to the property next door.”

I went outside and sure enough through a combination of pushes and rolls, hubby had managed to get it from our yard to the property it probably belonged to.

“Was it heavy?” I asked when I came back in.

“Nope, but you have no idea how badly I wanted someone to drive by just so I could yell, ‘Shitter was full!’ at them as I shoved it over on its side.”






Giggle Fits

This…so much this…

And since there’s nothing but a blank white box there, and I wasn’t really struck by the profoundity (it’s a word) of blank white boxes…just go over to The Argyle Sweater’s page and look at the panel for today’s date.

Giggle. Fits.

Now go visit The Argyle Sweater for some more giggle-fits.



Sometimes I have stuff happen in my life and I write about it, and sometimes I don’t.  That doesn’t mean I don’t still need to write about it.

I’m a writer, and writers write.

I also am not  a big fan of cliches.

It’s just that after not writing for any length of time I get brain-stipated.   It’s like I can’t function properly because there’s too much going on.

And at the same time, I sit at my computer and my hands hover over the keyboard.  I can’t write.

I’m brain-stipated, and no amount of fiber is going to help.

I have to force myself to sit down and write something, anything, and fast.

I’m afraid of what will happen if I don’t. I’m afraid my brain will shut down, and I’ll lose all sense of self.  In effect, ceasing to exist.

It’s really that dramatic, and it’s really not.

Brain-stipated, see?

How do people who don’t feel compelled to write see the world differently than me?  Are they simply voyeurs?  Watching the world go by with no dialogue streaming in their heads?  No need to put into words all that they experience?

How does that work?  I’d really like to know, because there are plenty of times when I wish I could just turn it all off for a while and instead of getting brain-stipated I’d just be calm and at peace.

Maybe, if I could figure out how to drug the endless procession of characters that bang on the inner doors of my head trying to get out I could relax.

Until then, though, you’ll just have to put up with the inane ramblings of the brain-stipated mind.


It’s Awesomesauce Time!

Time for some awesome, with a big dollop of sauce.

And I used to be able to create hyperlinks, but my computer got “upgraded” and that function is gone now…so just click on the mess above.

What? Doesn’t Everyone Have to Deal With a Body Buried in Their Front Yard From Time to Time?

You know, as I was driving home that day I was thinking to myself…

Self, it’s been ages since you’ve had raw sewage back up into your house and overflow all over your floors. I think you’ve missed that.

Fortunately, the gods of all that is sewer-ish smiled upon me and suddenly shit (literally) got real.

The fastest plumber in the west (Swifty) came to the house, placed a camera in something he called the “main line”, and my brain heard as “stupidly expensive to fix”, and proceeded to show us some rather impressive images of a tree that had taken up residence in the aforementioned piping.

He said it would have to be dug up, and a large section of the main line would have to be replaced.

“How much will that be?” I asked.

He quoted an amount that I’m pretty sure was more than the GDP of Honduras last year..”..and, I can come do it tomorrow…” he finished, smiling.

Of course you can, I thought, and then you can take a cruise to Belize after you cash my check.

“Okay.” I sighed, knowing there was no alternative.

The next day, hubby was home while the plumber and his helper worked.

When I got home, I was rather alarmed to see a mound of dirt in the yard that looked exactly like the shallow graves we all see in movies and television shows.

Exactly. Like. That.

“What is that?” I asked hubby.

“A grave.” He said, offering no other explanation.

“A wha….???”

“Well, that’s what Swifty said it was and since he came with a helper and left alone…I didn’t ask questions.”

“Perfect,” I said, too tired from working all day to really care. “I guess the least we can do is get some kind of headstone.”

“And attract the attention of the police? Are you crazy?”

I just looked at him, and realized we were arguing about whether or not to mark the grave in my front yard with a headstone.

We weren’t discussing who was in it, why it was there, and how the hell this all happened.

No, we were contemplating the propriety of memorials in front yards.

It was as if we were discussing whether to have pancakes or waffles for breakfast. (There are definitely two camps on this issue, just like headstone or no headstone. I don’t like either, and hubby prefers pancakes…so maybe there are actually three camps)

Hubby smiled at me, “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

“Do I?” I asked, figuring that if it came up later I could always claim ignorance and not be lying.

“I came outside and saw Swifty mounding this dirt. I didn’t see Swifty’s helper so I jokingly said to him that if that’s a body there, I’m giving the police your name and number.”


“Swifty said, ‘Oh yeah, there’s a body buried in there. Also, I had to mound the dirt over the pipe to prevent crushing it. Over time, it will settle around the pipe and the ground will be more or less level.’ And he walked away…but just before he got in his truck he said, ‘Bird’ Now, I don’t know if he meant it was a bird or someone named Bird is buried there.”

“And you didn’t ask.” I said.

Hubby shook his head.

“Well, at least now we know what name to put on the headstone.” I said, and walked into the house.