HH's Folly

HH is building an outhouse. Yes. We already have one. But in HH's mind, you can never have too many outhouses. OK, so the old one blew over in a storm, and the door fell off, and the wood is pretty much gray and bendy now. It was made of that stuff that looks like plywood, but it is cheaper, and you can see wood chip shapes in it instead of the smoothy smooth wood grain of the plywood sides.

The new outhouse is going down by the creek, near HH's MiniMansion. Hopefully, not too close. I don't really think we need it. I can have my son drive me back to the Mansion proper in the Scout to do my bidness in a real flush toilet if need be. HH says I should invite some of my 'teacher friends' (as he calls them) out for a weenie roast. His words, not mine. If they get wind of the outhouse agenda, I doubt they will come. I don't think wild horses could drag Mabel to my outhousewarming party.

I saw the new outhouse yesterday. It is parked in front of the BARn door. It is not nailed together yet. Only stacked. No such saying around here as "Built like a brick sh*thouse." Nope. In our Hillbilly lingo, it becomes "Stacked like a cast-off wood sh*thouse." Which is not actually so flattering, methinks. It smacks of garbage you see at work that is too good to throw away.

Yes, HH had himself a most scathingly brilliant idea. I dropped off some money to him to take the boys for a haircut yesterday (we are still on our cash budget--me more than him), and HH asked me to sit in the scrap sh*thouse. I don't exactly think it was an honor. I think it was more a means of seeing if I would fit. You see, these boards are not more than 36 inches long. Perhaps less. HH had stacked them three-sidedly. Like, there was no door, only a back wall and two sides. I certainly hope he is going to remedy that little sh*thouse faux pas, but what with his penchant for peering into bathrooms, I am not holding my breath.

HH had his tool box sitting inside the SH. I said, "Is that the hole?" And he said, "Well, it won't be so low. But yes. That's it." Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is borderline claustrophobic. She must sit at the back of the theater near the door. She likes to have her back to a wall in large meeting rooms. She does not like things close to her and (gasp!) touching her. So when I humored HH by backing into his SH, and pretending to sit down on his throne, I was quite uncomfortable. The walls were about an inch away from brushing my arms. Now don't go calculatin' and say, "Hmm...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is 34 inches wide." HH's wood is 4 inches. Ahem. Perhaps I should rephrase that. The boards HH is using are 4 inches high by 4 inches wide. They are long cubes. Stop shuddering, Mabel. I'm not so mathy in my description as you might be. So in order to attach those boards at the back wall, HH has inset them so that he is actually losing 8 (count 'em: 8!!!) inches of space from the inside. Now we're down to 28 inches of wiggle room. And I'm not doin' your calculatin' for you any more!

Need I remind you city slickers that the inside walls of outhouses are notorious for harboring DADDY LONG LEGS? I'm havin' none o' that. Nope. Nada. No way, no how. I shall not subject myself OR my imaginary guests to the creepy crawlies. I will even scrub my Mansion toilets and let said imaginary guests use my facilities. Only the boys' bathroom, though. Can't have people looking through my medicine chest and seeing my tube of fungal medication. Oh. I don't have any of that. That was a Seinfeld episode. Really.

If you receive an invite to the Hillbilly Mom Weenie Roast, I hope you an hold it. A long time.