The Wetness of Water

Almost six days into this enforced vacation in Salina Kansas, I am reflecting on the relative importance of those things necessary to survival in the wild. And by wild I mean someplace without a decent restaurant.

I would say that the basic three are food, water, and electricity. Food is a no-brainer. When the zoo’s deviled eggs make you sick, and the Mickey D food begins to taste like the cardboard it is, you need some decent food in your refrigerator. Lettuce and tomatoes, for starters. This simple salad can taste like manna from on high if you’re sufficiently deprived. Yogurt. This acidophilus-containing tummy filler will combat those nasty zoo eggs and get you regular in a pinch, if you get my drift.

Electricity is another no-brainer. How else can you watch the Idol finals if you don’t have electricity?

Water, of course, sustains all life, washes your dishes if you’ve been dumb enough to run out of the paper variety, cleanses your body and your clothes, and is an important part of that which will not be mentioned in the water closet. Which is why, of course, they call it a water closet.

But get stuck in a tow yard and even if your water needs are met courtesy of the hose they so generously have hooked up to their faucet, you end up with other life-altering decisions to make.

I have already been told not to abuse the electric by using the iron, hair dryer, microwave, and curling iron. Sheesh. All the fun stuff.

And now it appears I may not be able to do something else unless we are fixed and mobile very soon.

Here’s the deal with the water. It comes in, but it doesn’t go out. You have your holding tanks – one for fresh water, one for grey water – that’s the effluence of your showers, washing machine, kitchen and bathroom sinks – and another for “black” water. Which of course is that which shall not be mentioned.

There are gauges that tell you just how full or empty each holding tank is. Our grey water tank was 95% full, so John crept out at midnight last night and pulled the plug on our soapy, skin-cell polluted grey water and let it flow down the driveway of the repair station. By morning all was dry, and nobody was the wiser.

But you can’t empty a black-water tank just anywhere. So I’m sitting here waiting for John to tell me my bathroom privileges have been suspended. In which case, you may reach me at the local Best Western. It won’t have all the comforts of home, but I can wash my hair, and if I’m lucky, the TV will work and I can find out if it’s Kris or Adam on Idol. As if. Adam will walk away with it. He’s the bomb.

Betty