Whiz Easy

I bought one of those devices intended to allow women to pee more easily in the bush (ie. facilitating our ability to pee standing up). I had a few hiking friends write to say that they’d used a similar product and thought it was great. It only took a few days for it to arrive after I ordered it, and I couldn’t wait to check the thing out.

Alas, it was a busy day, and the device languished in my car as my boyfriend, Brent, and I went for breakfast, drove from Calgary to my dad’s summer place near Red Lodge, stopped at my sister’s place in Red Deer, finally landing in Edmonton where we had dinner plans with my mom. I can’t wait any longer – I bring my new "hiking gear" into the pub and finally pull it out of the packaging. It’s purple. We joke about that. We discuss its features as advertised, and Brent sticks it on the end of his nose (noting that he wouldn’t do that once it’s been used… thanks for that). Brent speculates that because the device is quite firm it will be difficult for me to use it to write my name in the snow. He of little faith.

After a pint-and-a-half, I excuse myself to use the washroom, and Mom and Brent both look at me, then look back to the device – both of them incredulous that I was leaving it behind. The gauntlet thrown, I grab the device (in its discrete packaging) and take it with me.

In the stall, I put the toilet seat up. Why not, right? I unzip and try to figure out exactly how far down I have to pull my pants to get the device into place, the obvious goal being to displace them as little as possible. It becomes clear that I’m not going to get the device snugly into place unless my pants are pulled at least to the bottom of my buttocks. Already I’m thinking, how on earth is this preferable to squatting in the woods? It takes some effort to convince my body to open up in a standing position – the training to not pee in our pants runs very deep. Finally, I get a trickle started, but oh my, what is that… the device is leaking from the back. My underwear takes most of the damage, but there is also a small trickle running down my leg. I realize how foolish, deeply foolish, it was to try this in public with only one set of clothing. I give up for the time, fearing further damage.

I return to the table with the device back in its discrete packaging (and my underwear riding shotgun). Mom and Brent try not to laugh when I share the inauspicious results. They simply agree that perhaps more practice is in order.

Later on, back at Brent’s, and with a bit of the pint-and-a-half left, I try again. This time, in the privacy of Brent’s bathroom, I take my pants right off and, pessimistically, push his bathroom rug out of harm’s way. This time, with the device firmly centered right in the middle of things, I successfully pee standing up.

Will I now be trying this in the bush? The answer lies somewhere between "when pigs fly" and " not on your bloody life". I’m not even sure if I’d try to use it for protection from the dirtier outhouses. By the time you’ve exposed yourself enough to position the device appropriately, your hiking pants are accumulating all manner of "dear lord no" on them. For the foreseeable future, I will stick with the reliable "Pop and Squat" manoever in the woods.