November 5, 2007

I'm Goin' Up the Country, Baby, Don't You Wanna Go?

Autumn, the finicky bitch that she is, has been late coming to Arkansas this year. But she finally decided to make her arrival and the trees are finally starting to change. So, Sunday morning, Thomas and I decided to go for a relaxing drive out in the country to look at the trees. And I mean out in the country. Out. Really out. We drove way past Bum Fuck. Then we drove some more. Then we ended up in the middle of nowhere, but I think the proper geographical name is, "Where's That Banjo Music Coming From?" So, we're driving and stopping once in awhile to take pictures of the trees. See for yourself, I'm not making this up.

Pretty trees, huh? And we saw lots of them. I tried counting them, but I lost track at around number four. I have poor concentration skills. So we're driving along in the middle of Where's That Banjo Music Coming From?, and I decided I needed to pee. Now, peeing in the woods was out of the question because I was wearing a brown sweater and brown and white knit hat.

I'll bet you're wondering why I can't pee in the woods wearing such an ensemble, aren't you? Well, it's a long story so I'll have to save it for another time. No. I kid. It's really because it just so happens that it's deer hunting season here in the grand old state of Arkansas and I had no desire to go into the woods when I was dressed exactly like a deer. Well, not quite exactly. I had opted to not wear my antlers because they so did not match my shoes.

To make a long story even longer, we finally came across a "town" with the name of Fallsville. Fallsville. What an adorable name for a town. Doesn't that conjure up images of a place that still has the original General Store with worn wooden floors? And oh lookie, that sure is one swell looking soda fountain across the street, and I'll be darned if every house doesn't have a white picket fence and a tire swing in the front yard. Hey, whatta ya know? There goes Doc in his '49 Ford making a house call to the Brunner house, because Bertha Brunner is on the verge of popping out her 12th kid. Golly gee, I sure hope this one's a girl because 11 boys are enough. Hiya, Doc! Good luck on catchin' that baby.

Doesn't Fallsville sound like it should be quaint and oh so picturesque?

Well, it's not.

Fallsville seemed to be comprised of one establishment. A gas station. A gas station with some totally bitchin' circa 1973 gas pumps. And this place didn't have the usual array of junk food on the shelves. No it was kind of a gas station/flea market blend. A magical puree of junk and junk food, if you will. You could purchase a package of outdated cheese and crackers that was mere inches away from a gigantic, wooden, outdated chicken.

Anyway, Thomas asked if there was a restroom, and the woman behind the counter said, "You can use the mmmpph", and pointed towards the door. At first I could have sworn she said "outhouse" and I was all like no fuckin' way. She just didn't say outhouse, because it's 2007 and I know we're in Arkansas and everything, but outhouse?

But then Thomas looked at me and said, "She said you could use the outhouse. It's outside." So then I was thinking that by "outhouse" she meant port-a-potty or just one of those bathrooms that was on the outside of the gas station where you have to ask for the key, and the key is always attached to a four-foot long piece of wood. Because we don't want you to steal our key, and the huge hunk of timber makes for a good weapon should you find yourself being attacked in the restroom.

So I walked outside and I didn't see an outhouse. I did see a red metal building, though, and I thought to myself, "Hey Self, there's the bathroom". But then Thomas said, "See it? It's over there." And I'll be damned if he wasn't pointing right at this thing.

So for the first, and probably last time in my life, I peed in an outhouse. And you can bet your sweet ass that I hovered like nobody's business. In fact, I was tempted to just climb up on the bench and straddle the hole, but then I had images of me losing my balance and knocking over the outhouse and well, that probably would have made the front page of the Fallsville paper or something. And that's just not the 15 minutes of fame I so desire.

I do think it's lovely that they have flowers planted next to it, though. I may have to retract what I said about Fallsville, because I really can't imagine anything being more picturesque than flowers planted next to an outhouse.

I peed in an outhouse. Who the heck would have ever thought that would happen?

Take Care,

Babs - who may not have mentioned it but she peed in an outhouse this weekend. An honest-to-goodness outhouse.


  1. Did they have an old Sears-Roebuck catalogue for you to use when you were done?

    Next time, f'cryinoutloud, don't dress like a deer when it's deer season. Even deer know that! Wear your duck outfit.

  2. a little farther up the road and you would have been in my neck of the woods. we are located just past autum and closer to winter...

    my father-in-law smiles when you mension out houses and askes where the corn cobs are....

  3. Oh, that is absolutely excellent!! Sadly, I've peed in many an outhouse, but I wouldn't pee in the woods ever, even if I weren't wearing deer colors, because that's my one unbreakable rule. The Pope may and bears do, but I do NOT pee (nor shit) in the woods.

    I think blogger has lost its mind with qzjwwvdi

  4. Ex - But my duck outfit makes me waddle.

    Roger - Tell your father-in-law that while I didn't thoroughly inspect the outhouse, I didn't notice any corncobs.

    Kat - I'd much rather pee in the woods than in an outhouse. It was pretty nasty.

  5. The thought of an outhouse brought back so many fond memories of Great Aunt Serepty (no I'm not kidding that was her name) Two things I recall about her, she loved to eat the cooked tail from a turkey and she had an outhouse. She lived alone until she died in her 90's. She was blind too, so I can only think it was the stench of the outhouse that led her there, even in the middle of the night....what did it matter she was blind.

  6. Anonymous12:28 AM

    Gulp. I found myself holding my breath reading this the other day heh! Then my net went up and down and so here I am again to tell you that I could almost smell what you were going through!

  7. Sarge7:14 AM

    Jeez, Kathleen, the POPE doesn't piss or shit in the woods; he has wears a funny hat and rides in a funny car. It used to part of the by-word to refer thusly: "Is the pope Italian?" For centuries this held true, now, alas, we live in a drgraded time where even this certainty is lacking. Sigh.

    Even here in central Pencil Yuckey the "shittery" is alive and well in some places.

    Back in the early 1950's some relatives upgraded the farm they lived on, they installed indoor plumbing. My uncle's father refused to use it. He said it took up too much space and it was a filthy thing to do in your own house. Don't tell him about traps, pipes and septic fields, it was much more hygenic and proper to retire to the shittery to "swing on the hummazoodle".

    Two features about the back-house: in the summer it's always twenty feet too close, in winter it's twenty feet too far.

  8. Carla - Oh sweet Jesus, that's one of the funniest things I've ever read. I keep reading it just so I can have a good laugh.

    Claudia - The aroma of an outhouse is quite unique. To put it mildly. Very mildly.

    Sarge - That's too funny about your uncle. For some crazy reason when I think of hygenic places to do my stuff, outhouses are way, way down on the list.

  9. This is why you need your very own WhizBiz!

  10. Sarge6:05 PM

    I remember a song from the mid '60s called The Little Brown Shack Out Back.

    I can remember some of it,
    They passed an ordinance in the town,
    They said we'd have to tear it down,
    It was in that quiet spot
    Daily cares could be forgot,
    It gave relief, alike,
    To rich and poor.

    That's all I can remember of the song, it was a staple in the juke boxes of the places I haunted. Yes, I confess myself to have a somewhat rosey-hued neck.