<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"><channel><title>Potty on Gromet's Plaza Archive</title><link>/tags/potty/</link><description>Recent content in Potty on Gromet's Plaza Archive</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Thu, 28 Feb 2008 00:00:00 +0000</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="/tags/potty/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>The Portable Potty</title><link>/stories/2008/02/28/the-portable-potty/</link><pubDate>Thu, 28 Feb 2008 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>/stories/2008/02/28/the-portable-potty/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;I happened at one of my son’s High School Football Games.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;I was the typical soccer mom, chauffeuring my son around after school – to the games, to the Dentist – to the Library – any place where he couldn’t walk, or ride his bike to.  My husband Ralph worked in the City, and usually didn’t get home for dinner until after six – mostly closer to seven, when the commute was congested.  We lived in the suburbs – one of the many bedroom communities that sprang up around the City to house the growing population of white-collar workers that had been drawn to the city by the growing computer revolution.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item></channel></rss>