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.
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 now..today, 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.”