Shitter

“First things first. Where’s your shitter?...” –Fat Bastard. 

Indeed. Where is my shitter? As I sit on my flight to Seattle, I contemplate the weekend, and my morning. I notice the people sitting around me. It is likely they know where their shitter is. The woman in front of me has what I will call a “poodle over”. This fine doo consists of all straight hair combed up toward the top of the head culminating in a frisky yet frozen wad of curly poodlized coif. This is punctuated with a part down the back of the head in what can only be described as the poodle’s ass. I bet even she knows where her shitter is.

We took Flame the Airstream trailer to John Martin Reservoir State Park for Father’s Day weekend. Before we left, we once again dealt with the stench of outhouse permeating our shiny silver dwelling. So, I went about emptying the shit tank, which is a process that rivals a root canal in its inevitable joviality. It inspires things like giggles and smiles and words like “wow, shucks and golly.” Everyone, meaning me and Kristen, was instructed not to use it. Instead, we would use the portable outhouse we had delivered for just such an occasion. Alas, this was not to be. Kristen, not wanting to suffer the embarrassment of adjourning to the comfort of said port-o-shitter in front of the crew of workers milling about our scorched yet greening property, decided that one little poo couldn’t hurt (who could blame her?) That is until we arrived at John Martin with a pack of overeager flies trailing behind us following what must have been a very promising stench. So, we emptied the tank once again and were not allowed to use it at all for the remainder of our time in the park. We had a pretty relaxing weekend boating and fishing with Chris, Dusty and the girls then turned much too soon to return “home”.

I guess we hadn’t relaxed quite enough because Kristen and I had a scorching brawl in the “car” in the final leg of the ride “home”. It is truly amazing how small a Ford Excursion can become when the occupants are not speaking. Golly. I seem to have a case of periodic temporary amnesia or some such thing. It is amazing how quickly I can forget that I am responsible for my own experience, opinions and how the world looks to me, especially when Kristen is just plain WRONG! Such is relationship. Suffice it to say, we made it “home.”

Any time I use the term “home” now I must quote it. That is because, “home” is this trailer, which can be taken with us, which is nice, but is that a home? And, “home” is this land that remains after all else was torched and destroyed. And, ultimately, doesn’t a home have a shitter? So, when we returned, “home” to our property, we set the trailer back up on her little spot and lit a candle, some incense, an essential oil diffuser and danced a jig around the trailer praying all the while to the gods of stink to relieve us of our burden. 

Then, I wanted to see how bad the little crack was in the drain line from the sink. I had noticed it about a week ago but thought that if I ignored it that the vintage ’67 PVC would simply heal itself. Not so much, really. Well, it’s bad. I had Kristen run the water in the sink while I observed through a port in the outside of Flame. The sudden gush of tea colored water and coffee grinds spewing from the crack in the line caught me by surprise. I couldn’t contain my glee and began exclaiming, “wow, shucks and golly” once again. This is so much fun. So, we are washing dishes in the “bath tub”/bird bath. Shucks! Washing dishes and breathing in the faint aroma of evening outhouse while sun sets behind the pastels caused by more fiery destruction in Fort Collins. Golly! More hapless unfortunates who have lost their shitters.

We finally settled down to watch our new addiction, The United States of Tara. Tara, in response to some unknown trauma in her childhood, has a “fragmented” set of personalities that tend to show up at the most inopportune times in an attempt to protect her from herself. Sounds reasonable… and enviable. Gangaji, our current source of spiritual teachings, would say, “welcome the experience and go deeply into it. It is there that you will discover that nothing but pure awareness is true. Everything else is a story.” Awesome. But all I really want to know is, where’s the fucking shitter?