Wetting my pants

Even though it's blurry, this may be my favorite photo from the Pittsburgh trip.  Ed and I are walking around his neighborhood telling funny stories.  So funny, that I have to wet my pants a little at a time.  That leg up is trying to stop the overactive bladder.  It's an aging thing, people.  What I really love is Ed's face.  If he were thirty years older, he'd be peeing too.

This isn't the first time I've wet my pants.  Not even close.  I walked around Sam and Sarah's Phoenix neighborhood where Sarah and I love to out snark each other and flushed the entire bladder on someone's sidewalk (under cover of night).

This will become family lore, of course.

I'll have to update that list of subjects not to be mentioned at my funeral.  "Remember, I'm a dignified person," I've told my four sons.  Snorting all around.

"This is what we're going to do," Ed said.  "We're going to lay you out and let visitors write on your corpse with magic markers and have their picture taken with you."

"I think we could charge for that," Sam said.

When we lived in NYC, we were driving from Brooklyn to our place uptown along the Westside Highway.  "I have to pee.  I have to pee.  I have to pee now!" I yowled.

There is no place to pull over, no gas stations; there is just the Westside Highway and the Hudson River.  Tom hands me the rug the dog uses when sitting in our car.  "Pee on this," he says.
And I do--through my clothes.  When we get to the apartment I run inside, while Tom picks up the corner of the sopped rug between thumb and forefinger and walks it to the garbage can at the corner.

NOTE:  Ed bought the t-shirt that morning from an American Indian in the Strip District.  It says something like:  "Know that you can trust your government."