The Porta-Potty Was Open, Thank Goodness

 

Chapter 170: The Big Toilet Obsession

June arrived like someone had accidentally leaned on the thermostat.  One day it was spring. The next day it was Arkansas trying to slow-cook me alive.  While most sensible people spent their time thinking about air conditioning and hydration, I found myself embarking on a much stranger mission: finding the perfect toilet.

This sounds ridiculous. It was ridiculous.

Years ago, during a stay at a fancy hotel in Taipei, I experienced what I can only describe as a life-changing bathroom encounter. The toilet came equipped with a high-tech bidet seat that seemed capable of doing everything except filing my tax return. Ever since then, I had dreamed of owning one.

I actually tried to surprise Nelson with one years ago while we were living in New York. He was overseas for work, and I imagined unveiling a luxury bidet as a welcome-home gift.  Unfortunately, that was when I discovered our condo's toilet was some bizarre horizontal-flush contraption that apparently required compressed air, engineering wizardry, and the sacrifice of my bidet dreams.

I moved on.  Or so I thought.  Now that we were building our own tiny house, the dream had returned.

Within ten minutes of opening the Toto website, I was completely overwhelmed.  Nothing was called a toilet.  There were Washlets, Washlet+ systems, integrated systems, partially integrated systems, toilet-and-seat combinations, heated water, continuous heated water.  Memory settings.  Air dryers.  Deodorizers.  Automatic lids.  Night lights.  Different water-line heights.

This is too much!  Do I want separate butt-washing profiles for Nelson and myself?  Do I want a glowing toilet bowl?  Most importantly... do I need a glowing toilet bowl?

After two days of intense research, I somehow knew infinitely more about toilets while feeling infinitely less qualified to choose one.  I eventually narrowed things down to two options and sent them to Brody.  Whether I had selected the toilet of my dreams or simply developed Stockholm Syndrome with plumbing fixtures remained to be seen.

One unexpected side effect was that I had started inspecting toilets everywhere I went.  Restaurants, campgrounds, gyms, public bathrooms.  I no longer entered a restroom as a normal person.

I entered as a toilet critic.

Chapter 171: The Layout Rabbit Hole

Thursdays are usually my "reset days" at the campground. It is my designated day for stationary activities: writing my journal, drawing, catching up on life admin, and generally pretending I have my life together. I even tied a few flies in the morning. But somehow the entire day got hijacked by floor planning.

I always thought I was really into colors, interior design, and home decoration. In the past, shopping for a lamp or a chair was fun because it was occasional and low stakes. This time, having to make real decisions for a real house was quickly becoming stressful.

What I was discovering is that it is incredibly difficult to visualize a 3D space from a 2D floor plan. I had some new furniture in mind for our future living room, while some of our existing furniture would move upstairs to the loft. On paper, everything seemed to fit. But I was becoming increasingly aware that "fits" and "works" are not the same thing. You need comfortable distances between furniture and walls, between furniture and rugs, and between pieces themselves. Then there were colors. Would all these shades work together and create warmth and character? Or would the whole thing end up looking chaotic and slightly unhinged?

Up to this point I had been hand-drawing floor plans and furniture layouts. After drawing what felt like the eighth version and still feeling unsure about everything, I finally admitted defeat and downloaded a floor-planning app.

The software immediately made life easier. Suddenly I could drag furniture around, check dimensions, and experiment with layouts in minutes instead of hours. The problem was that when the app confidently showed everything fitting perfectly with space to spare, I somehow didn't trust it.

"That can't be right," I found myself thinking. "Surely the couch is bigger than that."  It was one of those moments where technology solved the problem but not the anxiety.  By the end of the afternoon I had spent hours moving virtual furniture around and second-guessing every decision. Briefly, I felt like I was back at work, racing toward a deadline that only existed in my own head. For someone building a house, I was surprisingly stressed about a couch that doesn't even exist yet.

Chapter 172: Fireflies, Mud, and the Porta-Potty of Destiny

One Sunday we took a detour through downtown Rogers.  Normally we spend most of our time around Pinnacle Hills, but the older downtown area felt completely different.  Historic buildings, huge magnolia trees, cute little storefronts, and excellent shop cats.

Nelson bought coffee beans from the original Onyx location while we wandered around agreeing that we needed to come back for a proper date night.

That evening, back at Blowing Springs, something magical happened.  A tree near our campsite was covered in fireflies.  Hundreds, tiny flashes blinked throughout the branches like miniature fireworks.  We stood there completely enchanted.  Had I known this beautiful display was apparently nature's way of announcing "massive storm incoming," I might have appreciated it slightly less.

Instead, we went to bed delighted.  Several hours later we were awakened by rain.  Lots of rain.  The next morning Nelson put the van into gear.  Nothing happened.  He pressed the accelerator harder.  Still nothing.  And the van shook. The wheels spun.

Then came the words every vanlifer dreads.

"We're bogged."

The site had already been soft when we arrived.  After days of rain and an overnight storm, the Don Don Van had sunk into the ground like an anchor.  Because apparently our beloved van isn't just big.  It's big-boned.  Very, very big-boned.

To make matters worse, a fallen tree had blocked the campground entrance road.  Even if roadside assistance could help us, they couldn't actually reach us.  Fortunately Scott, the campground manager, offered to rescue us.

What followed was a comedy of errors involving tow hooks we didn't know existed, hidden compartments we didn't know existed, straps that came loose, straps that snapped completely in half, and my growing fear that Scott would eventually decide we weren't worth the effort.  On the third attempt, with Scott towing and Nelson driving simultaneously, the Don Don Van finally lurched free.

We left behind two enormous trenches in the grass.  The evidence was undeniable.  

The rest of the day felt strangely exhausting.  Nelson worked remotely from a gym.  I journaled while children from a summer camp repeatedly exploded through nearby doors like tiny caffeinated tornadoes.  We celebrated our escape from the mud with pizza.  The pizza wasn't particularly good, I guess survival pizza doesn't need to be good, and we enjoyed it anyway.

The fallen tree that blocked the campground road,

That night we parked at our construction site.  Exhausted, we fell asleep immediately.  Then, sometime after midnight, I woke up with a stomachache so intense I became convinced disaster was imminent.

For over a year I had carried emergency poop bags beneath the bed.  This was their moment.  Except I quickly realized I probably didn't have enough time to locate them, install them, and maintain my dignity.  Also, there was absolutely no way I was about to conduct a gastrointestinal emergency two feet away from a sleeping Nelson.

So I made a decision.  I grabbed a headlamp and sprinted through the darkness toward the porta-potty on our construction site.

One of my biggest vanlife fears had always been nighttime diarrhea.  And here I was, living the dream.

The porta-potty itself was surprisingly clean.  There was toilet paper and nothing smelled terrible (not yet anyway!).  A random weed was somehow growing inside... considering the circumstances, it was a very welcoming sight.

After the crisis passed, I sat there feeling equal parts relief and existential reflection.  Outside was darkness and potential wildlife such as... snakes?  But eventually I made it safely back to the van.  Lying in bed afterward, adrenaline buzzing through my system, I couldn't help laughing.

In less than twenty-four hours I had experienced:

• A van bogged in mud.
• A vehicle rescue operation.
• A midnight sprint to a construction-site porta-potty.

Vanlife brochures rarely mention days like these.

Which is a shame.

Because somehow, those are the stories that end up being the most memorable.

Baby Canadian Geese!