Got to Go

My wife has a way of talking that leaves you wondering what she's talking about. It takes a while, but usually with a simple question posed back to her, all becomes clear. My speech therapist daughter calls this 'fractured speech.' It can be a lot like listening to Gracie Allen at the end of the 1950s 'Burns and Allen' television shows, when George played very straight and would ask Gracie something about her family. Out flowed more news than even Einstein's brain could absorb. Planets were orbiting.

Gracie talked in circles. Concentric circles. You had to grab one and hope that tangentially it touched another one, so you could hop off and get to the meaning of what she was saying. Quite honestly, it made for great entertainment.

Such was a part of speech my wife recently made when we pulled up to my daughter's place one Friday evening to attend the first grandchild's Pre-K graduation.

As soon as we got out of the car my wife announced, "got to go." This made no sense to me. I strain to make sense of things, and right now this one didn't click. Go? We just got here. What the hell does she mean?

It didn't take long before my eyes were seeing what she was seeing. A construction crew's portable toilet in front of the house that advertised the convenience of outdoor human waste elimination was being provided by a company called "Got to Go." The long awaited project of revising a side entrance to the house, along with a bathroom and kitchen renovation, had finally started. Construction lumber was stacked up and the place looked a bit of a mess.

In their first year of living in the house I stayed over one night before accompanying them to Saratoga the next day. Despite specific instructions as to which bathroom to use, I used the wrong one and flushed the toilet. This was not supposed to be the bathroom you used if you needed to flush the toilet. Hence, the planned renovations.

Luckily for me, there was no ill effect, although my daughter did believe I was showing early signs of getting old and that her life was now forever going to be changed by a father with an increasingly petrified brain.

Another trip to Saratoga is planned this year and I might be staying over before we head up that way. The renovations will still be going on, and I suspect the outdoor commode will be still be there. Frankly, I can't wait to atone for my mistake of 2010.

If I need to go in the middle of the night, I'll make my way outside and use the 'Got to Go' outdoor potty. I can't possibly be chastised for using the wrong bathroom, unless of course I lock myself out of the house and set off the burglar alarm trying to get back in.

When did life get so complicated?

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