To Pee. Or Not to Pee.

Disclaimer: This post contains references to pee pee and euphemisms for the male anatomy that The Trophy Wife believes to be scientifically accurate. Reader discretion is advised.

I cannot help myself. It is not a question that I want to ask, but I must. I have to know, yes.

The Hub and I are driving home from a splendid church service. In the convertible, yes. The sun is warm on my face and the scent of early blooms is in the air. Ah, spring.

But I cannot help myself. I have to know. About the condition. Of the church's urinal, yes.

Note: If the reader finds this statement baffling, perhaps a quick CLICK HERE is warranted.

The question is somewhat awkward. As a Trophy Wife, and a genteel one at that, I wish to maintain an air of dignity with my inquiry. About the condition. Of the urinal.

How was the pee hole today? I ask The Hub.

Note: The business of gentility needs a little work, apparently.

The Hub relates chatting with a Fellow Member in the sparkling men's room while The Fellow's adorable and precocious four year old lifts up his thing to aim it into the urinal. As the men chat, yes.

Note: I am grateful for female anatomy, my friends.

So The Kid is aiming his ding-a-ling and saying Daddy! Daddy! But Daddy and The Hub are discussing deep spiritual concepts, probably, and ignoring the fact that The Kid is high on his tippy toes, teetering and peeing in the urinal, yes, but there is some sort of ricochet problem. With the pee pee.

Daddy! It's splashing on my face!

Oops.

The urinal wins again.

Carry on!







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