Yesterday, we drove up to Graves’ Mountain for the Apple Harvest Festival with friends. It was a beautiful day. We packed up a lunch, a couple of blankets and folding chairs. When we got there, we found one available picnic table by the stream and quickly claimed our spot.
Soon after we arrived, all the ladies had to pee. So we bravely headed off to the porta-potties, or as H prefers, “visited the blue houses.” My friend and her daughter grabbed the first two available, and I waited a few seconds before a young man and his son exited. When I got inside, I realized my mistake. There was a small puddle of mysterious liquid on the floor and all over the toilet. Foolishly, instead of exiting and finding another blue house, I decided I could handle it. This would prove foolhardy.
I considered my options and possible techniques. I could try to wipe the seat with toilet paper, but yuck! And even still, I would not like to sit on it. So I turned my back to the seat, spread my legs so as to avoid the urine, lowered my pants, which had the undesirable consequence of dropping both pant legs onto the floor. I watched in horror as they bunched like an accordion on the floor and spread out until they began to suck up the fetid mixture like a thirsty sponge. How did I not know this would be the case? The deed was done. By this point, I was committed to my plan. I hanged my butt over the offending seat (without touching), grabbing the waistband of my pants, I pulled them away from the seat so they would not touch it, and I let loose my stream, never, ever touching the seat as I accomplished all this. But…
When I was almost finished but not completely, I realized my knees were giving way, and I had to do something fast. I ceased my stream and began to rise when my knees suddenly and completely turned to rubber. In what seemed like slow motion, I began to tilt, tilt, tilt backwards. Panicking that I was going to end up on the offending seat, or worse, in the hole, I made a snap decision to throw my considerable weight to the left. I did.
And that’s when I slammed my cheek against the wall of the port-a-potti. And I remained plastered there, pants down, around my thighs, butt hanging in the air, and quivering legs trying to decide if they were going to hold me upright or let me slam onto the toilet seat. Would they, would they not? It was a horrifying few seconds. My face remained plastered to the wall. All of my weight was concentrated on that left cheek.
While balancing there, I began to inch my pants back up toward my waist, and I swear, I had almost completed the job successfully when the door to the blue house flew open, allowing bright light to pour in as a cast of thousands gasped, their lips formed into round ooohs. The young woman stuttered and stammered, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Oh, I’m sorry.” But she did not close the door. (I know I locked that danged thing when I went in.)
I quickly finished, stepped out, found my friend’s horrified face in the crowd and said, “It’s okay. It’s okay. I was finished. Nothing was exposed. Right?” She astutely concluded this was the way I was going to play it and loyally agreed, “You’re fine. You’re fine.”
I practically bathed in hand sanitizer. I went into a compulsive phase, periodically pulling the bottle out of my pocket and squirting a bit into my hands the rest of the day. There was nothing to do about the bottom of my pant legs. I didn’t drink another thing the entire day. Dehydration was preferable to visiting another blue house. You couldn’t have gotten me there again if you’d handcuffed me and dragged me with a team of Clydesdales. Blue houses stink.
When I got home, I got out of the car, went straight to the washing machine, stripped my clothes off, tossed them in and started the machine with an extra dose of detergent. Then I went straight to the shower and scrubbed from top to bottom. If you’re worried about bodily fluids, I would suggest avoiding blue houses.