All the Rage for Portaloos

There are things I do, and things I try really, exceptionally hard to avoid. High on my top 10 favourite list would be dancing, especially in fabulous high heels. To hell with future bunions, although now that I personally know three women who have undergone the ghastly toe-breaking procedure required to reset their feet I do give it a little more thought. On my top ten no way I’d rather stab myself with a fork list would be porta-loos. Porta-loos, or porta-potties, as they are quaintly known stateside, have made a come back. As if I didn’t pay my dues at enough outdoor music festivals in my twenties, or the aromatic outhouse experience of our annual family camping trips, they are currently de rigueur on the social circuit, and in an ironic twist of fate we are supposed to enjoy it.

They’re a fixture at country weddings, bohemian outdoor parties, even town parks where the healthy taxpayer base that manages to spring for a water complex and an adventure playground is perfectly comfortable slapping two enormous porta-loos alongside. (Yes, Bethlehem, NY, I’m talking about you.) In fact, there’s such a market for portable outhouses you can opt for the common or garden blue variety more typically seen roadside with construction workers, or go upscale with deluxe trailer models complete with mirrors, vanities, and scented air. I’ve had mild porta-pottie anxiety ever since I witnessed the toppling of one with the occupant still inside. There’s an awful lot of blue dye in those things. Not to mention an awful lot of other unpleasant things. But it’s hard to deny their utility, and we jumped on the bandwagon for a party last year. The oversized single unit was billed as a step up from basic since it “includes a sink and toilet paper holder”, as if either one should be considered optional.

I found myself escorting my daughter into a blue porta-pottie at a recent wedding, (one with a backdrop of frothing rapids crashing over a craggy waterfall, you don’t get more boho-chic than that). Their blue Tardis, two of them actually, had scented air and a special shelf (definitely an upgrade) where you could place your handbag or purse. Outside was a table with a woven basket that literally runneth over with free toiletries. If the basket had been in the ladies’ room at the Saratoga Race Course we’d have been forking over dollars for the chance to pump some hand cream, or fish for floss and a half a pack of Tums.

Here, thanks to the mosquito madness, the overwhelming choice was bug spray. I grabbed an innocuous bottle, something organic, deet-free, and lemon-scented, and doused my daughter and self, head to toe – hair, dress, and country chic Wellington boots. (I was channeling the cover shoot from Town and Country.) Making our way back to the crowd, a pungent stench followed us like the cloud enveloping Pig Pen. I kept stopping to sniff. Finally I sniffed my daughter’s head and the penny dropped. We – my daughter and I - smelled like stinky wet dog thanks to the repellent I had so liberally applied. Our arrival, immediately following a publicly-requested call of nature in a porta-loo, brought vibrant new meaning to ‘eau de toilette’. Luckily the stench prompted a team effort to mask our pong with a host of offerings from air fresheners to spilled booze.

This past weekend, the wedding involved a huge peak topped marquee and a deluxe, all white, trailered porta-pottie. The set up had discrete side entrances for the ladies and gents, three stalls for each, and the ubiquitous fresh air upgrade. It also came with the free wicker toiletries basket option. I passed. Considering it’s geared up for special occasions, the designers seriously overlooked a key detail: the unreasonableness of expecting women in stiletto heels to ascend a flight of metal stairs. They might as well have added a miniature ice rink or obstacle course in the foyer. (And if I wanted people to see my Spanx I would have found a way on the dance floor, much like the guest at my brother’s wedding who kept sending her skirt north.) The deluxe porta-potty bus was so much like ascending mobile airline boarding stairs that in the stall I half expected the whole unit to drive off.

Fortunately, despite dancing the night away in my killer BCBG five-inch heels, I wasn’t the unfortunate lady clinging to the bathroom handrail after slipping on a stair. Nor the gentleman carried off in an ambulance with a sprained ankle and concussion from falling on the dance floor. My luck was in. Having seen the inside of at least six portable toilets in six months, I’m just glad no-one tipped the porta-potty over.