You want me to put my ass WHERE?

My Uncle's funeral was yesterday. We filled up the van, bundled up against the snow (yes, snow on May 12) and headed out for the 1 hour drive to the farm. On the way we stopped at Tim Horton's for a fuel up, to make the trip bearable. 

Because of my proclivity to car sickness I got the front seat. With my knees snuggled up against the dashboard (to give NGB's legs some room behind me) we drove out telling stories, sharing ideas, inerrupting each other. We got to the church at the farm in good time and I hopped out and started to make my way through the snow brushed green grass and I realized something vital. I had to pee. No, make that, I HAD to pee. While this is generally a problem easily solved there is one hiccup. The church? It has no plumbing. It has no heat or insulation either (other than a wood stove) but that is another post all together. However, it DOES have an outhouse. Well, 2. One marked "women" and one marked "men". 

NGB was raised partially on the farm as were my parents. They all laughed uproariously as I danced the pee-pee dance and fought the suggestion to pee in the wooden box. After a bit of teasing, to prove to them I am NOT a wimpy city girl, I walked bravely to the outhouse and unlocked the door. The door that is locked in THREE ways on the outside... With some struggling I got it, opened the door and saw... 

Well, what could I really be expecting? Gold plated seats? I small heater? A hand sanitizer container filled with softy foral scented soap? No. But I could have expected a ROOF. Something to prevent the snow from piling on the cold splintered wood with the oval shaped hole. I stared... I tried to suck it up, be a tough girl. But the thought of snow on my sensitive behind? No. I stepped away and told NGB, who was beside me, that I would wait until we got to the hall. He offered me his boy-outhouse. With no toilet paper or light. Then my stomach turned from the scent and I said no. I think it turned his stomach too, he walked away with me. Or it could have been that he ddn't want to stoop over to pee in the hole (the outhouse itself was a few inches shorter than him). 

Willing away the bladder pain I walked into the church, through a throng of my aunt & uncle's pierced grandsons and made my way into the tiny church. I found my aunt and gave her a hug. We talked and I mentioned the outhouse... the sun-roofed outhouse. She laughed at my squeemishness and told me I should have squatted behind it. 

You are not taught how to squat in the city. You are taught to assess a place for the cleanliness of their bathrooms, or to find a place that has cheap drinks in case it's "customers only". As I explained to my aunt that to successfully pee in the bush I need to disrobe from the waist down (shoes and socks included), pile everything on a log or some other raised surface then walk 10 feet  away, preferrably downhill,  to do my business. She began to chuckle and called me a "sprayer". 

I am sprayer. Hear me tinkle! 

But I was able to make her smile on a sad day. And successfully made my way to the hall before the service, to pee in the flushing toilets over there.