Pissed

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The above photograph is the wife’s pocketbook, drying out upside down on the picnic table behind our house.

It’s, perhaps, her all-time favorite bag. Lots of little pockets. Deep purple. Brings it everywhere. Today, for example, the wife brought to to a street fair we attended in Orange, California. Fun time, good food, a bit crowded, overly hot, amazing ice cream. We left, and walked four blocks to the nearby train station. The wife excused herself to use the bathroom, and asked our 12-year-old daughter to watch her bag.

Which, technically, she did … after accidentally settling down in a puddle of dog piss.

We believe it to be dog piss. It certainly could have been human piss, or rhino piss, or even Sasquatch piss. Though, based on the location and time of day, it was almost certainly dog piss.

The wife returned from the bathroom, saw the location of the bag and, well, wasn’t thrilled. She lifted her purse from the puddle, and yellow beads dripped from the underside. It was, truly, a sad sight to behold; the 121,234th affirmation for not carrying a purse, or man bag, or whatever.

The wife quickly washed it off, muttering beneath her breath the whole time.

Now we’re home, and the bag is basking in the sun.

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