The Most Disgusting Thing About Me

I have this thing, a narrow throat. It causes me all sorts of grief. I have to be careful when chewing food that I masticate it as much as possible. I have to split most pills before I can swallow them. I couldn't find a single prenatal pill that I didn't have to split into at least four segments. Once, when I was 16, I had a piece of meat stuck in my throat for 18 hours. It was awful.

I'm more likely to get something stuck in my throat if I haven't eaten much. Which is why one of the worst times was when I had been on an all-day river rafting trip with almost nothing to eat. My first bite of food got stuck. It was there for 12 more hours. The most common advice I get when something gets stuck is "Eat something else to push it down! Like a piece of bread!" This does not work. I can't even swallow my saliva, it comes back up and I have to spit it out. Anything else I try to eat or drink comes back up as well; IT'S DISGUSTING.

About ten years ago I swallowed a small (SMALL!) round vitamin and it made a home in my throat for 20 hours. I had to carry around a cup into which I had to deposit my spit. AWFUL. I eventually went to the ER, where it loosened right before they scoped me.

And it happened this week, right before an important business dinner. I was supposed to be in Salt Lake by 6:30 to have dinner with an out of town associate and some of my team. We were going to Frida Bistro, where I have always wanted to dine and have never had the chance. I didn't eat much beyond an apple for breakfast and a Kind bar at lunch, knowing I would have a great dinner. Right before I left I took two small Advil tablets, because, you know, I had surgery. The first tablet turned slightly as I swallowed and it stuck. No moving. No swallowing. Like it was installed in there with an L bracket.

I swallowed hot water, I tried bread, I tried to force my muscles to move it down, and nothing. I couldn't miss the dinner, all I could do was hope it would wedge free on the drive. I stopped at a store and got an apple and a Diet Coke. Do you know what it's like driving on the freeway with the equivalent of a Mentos and Coke shooting from your throat back into the cup on the dash? IT'S GROSS. I was praying, swearing, hoping, texting my friends, but nothing. I arrived at the dinner not knowing what to do. I wouldn't be able to swallow anything, not even spit. What was I going to do? Excuse myself to the bathroom every two minutes to spit into the toilet? EMBARRASSING.

I sat on the end of the table and demurred the corn chip appetizer. I ordered the duck and saffron rice with root vegetables and stone fruits. When the server came over I asked for a water glass and then, in Spanish, I asked for a dry glass. I poured a little water into the second glass and hid it behind the water glass and the large votive holder.

(This is so gross.)

(So embarrassing.)

When people weren't looking at me, I would raise the second glass and tip it, pretending to drink, and then release my saliva into it.

You guys.

I know.

The entree arrived. I made like an anorexic and moved everything on my plate around and cut up my meat. I pretended like I wasn't terribly hungry. I SPIT INTO A GLASS.

And the meal progressed. It went fine. I think. Unless they noticed me SPITTING IN A GLASS.

Oh my Hell.

I asked the server to box up my meal more quickly than usual (relieved that I could ask surreptitiously in Spanish) They ordered dessert. Flan, which is my favorite. I took a tiny bite when it was forced on me, knowing it could only stay in my throat for so long until my body would force it out. But when my co-worker insisted on taking more, I thanked him and shoved a huge spoonful into my take-out box. I was so hungry I could cry. All my food in front of me, and unable to eat even a morsel.


The dinner ended and I took my box of dinner home, the pill just as lodged as it had been hours before. At 2:49am, ten hours later, the pill had finally disintegrated enough to fall the rest of the way. I got out of bed, went downstairs and ate my cold duck and rice, chewing carefully and wincing as I swallowed.

And that is one of the most disgusting things about me.

The Cost of a Cool Halloween Wreath

Yesterday at my kitchen table my friend Jenny, fresh off the plane from a week in New York City, told me of a mutual friend who had mentioned Jenny's recent travels. How lucky for Jenny that she got to go, said this friend. Yes, replied Jenny, but everything has a cost...


I made a Halloween wreath!

I sent a picture of the wreath to Noelle who replied, "I'm getting tired just looking at it." I laughed and said,
"What do you mean?"

"Because there are Michael's-esque stores involved, and driving and hunting for things. There's glue, and kids, and glue and feathers both stuck to my fingers. I can't find a nail and hook, my finger gets banged with a hammer and...."

"You're so right. It all started because E.G. had piano lessons, so I had 30 minutes to kill and drove down the street to Hobby Lobby. Next thing I know I'm driving between Michael's and Hobby Lobby, I can't find the right letters to spell "Boo", the kids are complaining, the baby eats a sack of 'fruit' snacks, and there's leftovers for dinner because I'm busy making crap."

"And you're thinking, 'I'm trying to make good memories for you, you ungrateful jerks!'"

"Pretty much."

This morning the baby woke up early crying furiously. I opened the door to find her in a puddle of crib vomit the color of fruit snacks. It was either the snacks or the leftovers. Freshly bathed and nursed, she lost it again, drenching me and our chair. Ah, one of those tummy bugs, I accepted.

I put her in the worst outfit she owns: a pink and black polka dot ruffled tutu leggings nightmare with a cartoon character on the front, because if she's going to destroy clothes today, let's not make them something I like. She got so many compliments on her outfit at the grocery store that I guess I no longer have good clothing taste. The people must be right, and I must be wrong.

She splattered her outfit and the car seat on the way home.


(But I really love my cool Halloween wreath.)

Update to the Great Recession

We are fine, everyone, we’re fine.

I feel like I need to update The Great Recession post to add a few details.

First, we are fine now, we aren’t in desperate need. Do not worry over us. The worst is behind us (I hope!)

I wanted to write about how the Great Recession had affected us because I think our children and grandchildren deserve to know about how hard times can be blessed times, how the struggles of everyday life can make us better people, even when the slog through tires you to your core. You should write about it, too.

On the face of it, there’s nothing special about our journey. There are a thousand of you who read that post and nodded along because it was the same story as yours, not in the details, but in the belt-tightening, white-knuckling of daily life during these times. We are far from the only ones, and we are far from the worst of it. We are ordinary. Some of you struggle as single parents; some of you lost houses, cars, or more tragically, loved ones; some of you had trials that were awful, scary, and unbelievably difficult. I learned that no one gets out of this life without experiencing terrible things, that we would do well to be kinder to everyone because someone else’s journey can make yours seem like a ride on a carousel.

The flip side are the grousers who complained about the bright spots, that I got to go to Hawaii on a “vacation.” The truth is that I choose to call it a vacation. I was working, I was in meetings, interviews, and working the whole time. I spent 30 minutes with my feet in the ocean. I spent most of my time in the hotel room with Lulu. And guess what? I still call it a vacation, because I was in freakin' Hawaii; it was in a hotel room in Hawaii. I am GRATEFUL for the chance to work, even if it has to be in Hawaii. Comparison is the thief of joy, y’all.

Get ready, here come the squishy parts...

I believe in the power of tithing. We made a commitment to give back 10% of what we earned in tithes. I know that because we made that commitment, we were continually blessed. When things would get down to the last $40, we’d take a deep breath, and not worry. Something would always come in. A client would pay their invoice. I would be approached for more work. Those ends would always meet, eventually.

And you know what? It was a blessing to learn that if you are open to what the Lord would have you do, if you will try your best, and work really hard, eventually, things have a way of working themselves out. You just have to give the Lord space to work his miracles in his time. Sometimes it isn’t immediate, the route may be circuitous, or come in a way that you expect, but it just works. All things will work together for your good, y'all.

Finally, I have two really great employers right now, one of whom is TodaysMama. I need to publicly thank Rachael for her unceasingly hard work, her brilliant mind, and for the chance to work for her. She makes dreams come true (HAWAII.) The rest of the team I work with are so high-trust and outstanding, it’s wonderful to share the load. There are great things on the horizon for TodaysMama, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

It's been quite the journey, and it's not over. Love you all to pieces!

I haven’t even told you the Parable of the iPod yet, kids, but trust me, it’s a good one. Stock up on tissues.

The Great Recession

Three-and-a-half years ago we were stable and steadily growing. Then the economy tanked, so did my work, and we've been living by the skin of our teeth pretty much ever since. I know that so many of you have been in the same boat: all of us, floating along, furiously bailing out the vessel to keep it from totally sinking--even bailing out when the water is up to our chins and all we're really doing is moving water from the lake on our right side to the lake on our left. Sue recently wrote about the bankruptcy and foreclosure she went through, when it seemed like there wasn't much to be happy about, and the swells threatened to overtake.

I've been there: staring at the rapidly dwindling food storage, making meals out of the freezer, thankful for the wheelbarrow of free produce a neighbor left on her driveway. Spending an unemployment check on bags of flour and rice, confident that I could make bread instead of buying, knowing that rice will stretch and that cheap dried beans are even tastier than canned. We were blessed because my frugal childhood taught me how to cook delicious meals from scratch. Putting the electricity bill on the credit card. Letting the tires on the car go bald. Going without a car for weeks when we couldn't afford to repair it. Negotiating with the hospital. Feeling terrible guilt for taking the money grandma would give to the boys for their birthdays and recklessly blowing it to buy them things like food...and shoes. Taking the scraps of leather that Susan gave me and patching the boys' pants. Patching those pants a lot. Living the old pioneer creed: Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without. Our grandparents were shaped by the Great Depression. Our children will be shaped by the Great Recession.

We're the lucky ones. We'll never starve because we have family that can help, if it gets really bad. We have a church that can help us if we need it. We have health insurance. We are educated. I can always work retail. The baby was a good nurser and we didn't have to buy formula; she was healthy and didn't need the doctor. All the kids were mostly healthy and I could duck the well-child visits with their serious co-pays. I can mend, cook, and let things go. Every time we got down to our last dollar, our last line of credit, some work would come and we'd be OK for a little bit. Each mortgage payment made felt like a victory. We made it on a wing and a prayer and a shoestring and a hundred other cliches. I stopped worrying, because it felt like I would worry myself to death. I learned to take a deep breath and trust that good things would happen.
Joe and I would laugh, "We're broke," I'd say.
"Yeah, but we're broke in this house."
"We're broke with (sometimes) two cars."
"We're broke with kids and a good family."
"We're broke with the lights on."
"We're broke with Internet."
"We're broke with insurance."
"We're broke and you went to Hawaii."

And it's true: I went on a Hawaiian vacation paid for by Disney, and our family had $40 in the bank for the rest of the month. I brought my food to eat on the flight so I wouldn't have to spend money in the airport and make it $30. Hawaii is the kind of miracles that kept happening and left us not feeling bereft, but loved (thanks, Rachael.) Feeling taken care of, knowing that the worst had happened: we'd lost our security, our family members had ill health, but we still had so much.

"We're broke and we have enough."

If there's one thing I learned, more than anything else, is that if you are grateful for the little that you have, if you thank Providence, or the God of your heart, you will find the happiness in the small things. I am grateful the TV I bought in 1995 still works. I am grateful for strangers who drop new furniture by the door. I'm grateful for friends who would pick up my check if we were out, refusing to let me pay. I am grateful for the work and the companies that hired me; they were generous and I have learned so much. I am grateful for Zoloft, for a pregnancy without complications, an easy delivery, and for not being pregnant anymore. I am grateful for mild summers and winters, and for warm sweaters. I am grateful that sometimes we could share with others (I cried when a check came in before Christmas, allowing us to give our children a modest holiday and pay for a few bags of food for the food bank.) I am grateful for friends who make me laugh until it hurts, letting my burdens lie easily on their shoulders. I am grateful for neighbors who understand when we can't fix the mower. I am grateful for a thousand and one mercies I have experienced in these years.

Every night we'd say a prayer to give thanks for our bounty, because even in our lack, it was bountiful.




I have been thinking about the Great Recession recently, since it feels like we may have turned a corner (if the Eurozone doesn't plummet...and let's not go there.) Would you do your grandchildren a favor and write down what the past five years have been like for you and your family?


UPDATE here.

Dispatches From the Bread Line

This is a hard post to write.

For the second time in a year I find myself without a regular work/job type thing. Sure, the “economy is bad” and “times are tough” but those are for other people, not me and mine, right? I shouldn’t be under that delusion anymore, but it’s still hard to accept. We’re trying to figure out ways to cover the bills and it’s getting tight. I know deep down that everything happens for a reason, and that things fall apart so others can fall together; it’s just a little heart-stopping in the mean time.

I think the last time this happened, back in March of this year, I was in a far worse place. Not only had I lost my job of three years, but my mother had been diagnosed with a virulent cancer (that happened on the same day, in the same hour, by the way.) I was a mess. I’m not a mess this time (at least not yet.) My mom is doing well. I’m grateful that I was able to find work relatively quickly and that I got to work for a great company for the past six months. I felt impressed when I considered taking the offer that I should take it, but that that job would be short term. Since most of my employment life has been measured in years, I was a little shocked when it turned into months, although I probably shouldn’t have been.

I’m definitely trying to fight the feeling of fear with the feeling of gratitude. I know we’ve been placed in our home for a reason, although it’s been a struggle to fit into our neighborhood. We have wonderful friends and family who buttress us. My husband does important work, work that really does change the world, I wish with all my heart it was enough to support us. I’ve heard that there are women out there that demand that their husbands change careers. I couldn’t do that. He loves what he does, and more importantly, he’s amazing at it: he has the highest student test scores in the district.

While we figure out what happens next, I could use a prayer, a candle, or a Budda-belly rub, whatever it is you do.

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Two part blog! It's like you're getting the range of human experience only in a limited way!



Part One: Where I Lament the Common Man

There was an election Tuesday, and, as usual, it didn’t matter that I voted, or that I cared, or that I hoped people would come to their ever-loving moderate senses for once in their lives (they won’t.) I’ve never missed an election, even when it was me holding a toddler, a baby, and facing down 3 elderly folks.

Another 2-6 years represented by people who won’t represent me, and, in fact, do their best to embarrass me at every possible moment. At least this wasn’t the 2004 election, when I cried for days and couldn’t get out of bed. Not a joke, although we can turn it into one: what do you get the girl who got another 4 years of a man she found the antithesis of all her values? An E.U. passport!

And this also wasn’t the election of 2008, when I wrote this post and half of my readers unsubscribed. You won’t unsubscribe, will you? I need you, even though most of you statistically voted differently than I did. I’ll still be civil, I just need to sniffle a little (you understand, right? Of course you understand! Barack Obama is still your President and statistically you’re sniffly about it!)

Part Two: Where I Turn on the Common Man

But all that misanthropic sorrow was yet to befall me when I left to meet Susie for her birthday dinner that night at a restaurant to which I’ve never been. I’d heard good things, so I was looking forward to the experience. The food was fine (my entree fine, the creme brulee curdled,) but the service was unbelievably bad.

I arrived late (VOTING) and snugged in next to Tiffany. She’d ordered two cheese plates for the table which had been consumed before I arrived. She flashed me a look and told me that she’d asked some questions about the Camembert that the menu advertised before ordering. The server said, “The what?”
“The Camembert. What can you tell me about it?”
“You mean the Brie?”
“No, it said the Camembert.”
“We don’t have that.”
“But, it says right here...”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tiffany pointed at the menu.
That was when some smart girl at the table spoke up and said, “She’s talking about the Camem-BERT”
“Oh! The Camem-BERT!”

It didn’t get much better. Like when Tiffany tried to pay for herself and Susie because she had to leave early. 20 minutes after she gave the server her card, he returned with ALL the bills and hers still not run.

The bills were all mixed up, people charged for things others had ordered, people charged for things they never ordered--and everyone charged 1/8th and 1/8th for the two cheese plates that Tiffany ordered. This is in an empty restaurant, by the way.

“Well,” he said, “Sorry. You all moved around so much I don’t know who had what. I can’t run them again after I’ve already run them. So, if you could just mark on your bill what’s right and wrong and then I’ll run them through.” And then he left.

Yes. I had to break out a pen to cross out the 1/8th and 1/8th of cheese plates I was charged for, cheese plates I had not even arrived early enough to consume.

When one friend brought up that she was charged for a dessert that another had ordered, the server suggested that the original dessert-orderer simply pay my friend in cash later.

Tiffany appeared to be on the verge of homicide. I flagged down the server and explained (AND WROTE on the bill) that Tiffany should be charged for both cheese plates, Susie’s meal, and that he needed to close out her bill immediately. He started to explain something and I cut him off--”Please run it now. Thank you.”

He scurried off to run Tiffany’s card (a short 40 minutes after she first gave him the card.) Here’s a shot of her new and improved bill, in case you’re interested:

As a former server, I was embarrassed for him! And also annoyed by him!

Just like you are with President Obama!

Now, let's all hug.

What Year Is This?

My name is Carina.

I am thirty-four years old.

And I wrecked my dad's new car last night.

I Lost My Job

OK, so I didn't actually lose my job, it wandered willfully from me to participate in some sort of contest called a "lay-off." I hope it wins whatever the prize is, maybe some sort of bowling trophy? This means that for the first time in years I don't have a daily job to go to and earn money from. The not going to something thing isn't so bad, but the not earning money thing is terrible.

See, I wasn't working for a boat. I was working for food and electricity. And to support the two times a year that I go golfing, because golfing is expensive, yo, and no longer one of my hobbies. I hereby renounce golf.

It's been exactly a week since the job went away and I took it pretty hard. I sobbed at my former office. I cried all the way home. I got out of my car and kept my sunglasses on and marched straight to my bed, where I tried to lie down but only succeeded in sitting up because of the huge pit of doom developing in my stomach. I calculated that we'd have $200 left over out of my husband's salary after paying tithing, the mortgage, and the car payment. "So I guess it's PB&Js?" Other Half said.
"PB&Js in the dark," I answered.
And then I cried some more. I didn't sleep. No, I slept even less than usual, which is driving on the edge of hallucinationville.

Some other stuff happened that day and I can't talk about it yet (Not Allowed,) just rest assured, it's just as bad, probably worse. So within 15 minutes I had a Terrible Bad Health Thing happen in the personal life and I lost my job. And I'd thought that the green french toast I made for my kids that morning would be the worst thing I'd have to endure that day.

I was supposed to go to dinner that night with my dear friends. I resolved not to say anything and just to enjoy the being together, but we started playing Whose Day was Worse? GUESS WHAT? I WON! Also, the number one killer of domestic cats is feline AIDS.

Thursday I hardly remember. Dear friends Phread and Lucky came over, fed me food, and tried to cheer me up. Noelle took me out to lunch where she narrowed her eyes, hunkered down, and helped me figure out my next move. You know, the move other than sitting on the couch in your sunglasses and crying until you hiccup while your youngest child is patting you on the arm. I think I slept that night? Not sure.

Mostly my heart was just broken.

I've been working for so many years that I don't even know how to deal with this whole thing, not to mention the anxiety of not being paid. You see, Other Half is a public school teacher. I don't have a choice about earning an income, I must to keep my babies clothed and fed. Yes, it's despicable how poorly teachers are paid. Wait, no, it's not simply despicable, it's infuriating. He loves his job, he loves the difference he makes, but loving your job and being paid a wage that can support a family are two different things. Here's where I swear at our state and its policy of paying teachers, you know, the people that educate the future people, an insultingly low wage: @#$%@#F$^$##!$. What can I say? Low teacher pay makes me stabby.

I am a writer by trade, and I know that there is freelance and contract work out there for someone with my wicked-sharp experience in web content and internet marketing. If you hear of anything, let me know, because my schedule is suddenly free. Well, it will be free just as soon as I'm done working my way through this box of Kleenex.

Dear 1979, The Whole "We Don't Believe in Overhead Lighting" Thing is STUPID

I wanted to do something hot for my husband this Valentine's Day. You know, romantical. And there's probably nothing more hubba-hubba than hiring a handyman to install some overhead lighting in a bedroom so that you don't have to leave the light on in the closet or bathroom to illuminate the space.

Married people are so mysterious.

Lark recommended a handyman whom she credits for saving her marriage. We both married academics. We need professional handymen.

Handyman Mike arrived this morning and we did a walk through of the house, discussing projects. I got stars in my eyes when he started talking about a kitchen remodel. "We could take down this wall."
"Yesssss."
"And task lighting there and there."
"YEeeessssSSS," I breathed, ignoring the Good Angel who was screaming that we do not have the money, not in any currency form on earth, not even pie. Bad Angel insisted, even without a formal bid by Handyman Mike, that a whole kitchen remodel with the removal of two walls and adding new support columns, moving the plumbing, new appliances, counters, and some cabinetry, would probably cost a max of like $3,000 dollars. Surely, said Bad Angel, We could get our hands on a measly $3,000, even maybe an equity line? And think how happy you'd be, He murmured deliciously. Good Angel was freaking. Whatever. Killjoy.

Handyman Mike asked me where the electrical box was and I opened the door to the backyard, where instead of hearing nothing, we heard the rush of something.
"What's that?"
"I don't know," I responded.

He hopped over the railing and showed me the pond that was developing next to my foundation. A rushing pond. In January. Our first burst pipe!

Somehow, this is less exciting than I thought it would be.

And it probably means no overhead lighting.

Super fantastic!

"You're on irrigation water down here?" prompted Handyman Mike.
"Culinary..." I said.
"Your water bill..." he finished.

Well, I'm the one who wanted to own a house. I don't remember Good or Bad Angel having anything to say about that.

When my new coffee table arrived I was so excited. I don't get new furniture, except, I got new furniture! I couldn't wait to assemble the table, so while Morgan chatted with me, and the children ran around hitting eat other with the styrofoam packing, I grabbed an allen wrench and got to work. Each stretcher screwed in and foot tightened until the table rose and gleamed.

I lifted the heavy marble top with Morgan's help--not even being pregnant gets you out of heavy lifting around these parts**--and all was in place.

We smiled at each other, and that's when Proximo took the allen wrench next to me and drew it across the top of the table marring the finish.

I gasped and looked at Morgan, "Thirty seconds! I had a new, beautiful table for thirty whole seconds before it was ruined."

How did you vote? +



+When this post was published there was an accompanying poll to vote on how long it took Proximo to scratch my table. 37% of you said 3 minutes. 28% of you said less than 30 seconds, 19% thought 27 minutes, and the rest several hours.

**NO I AM NOT PREGNANT. Morgan is the preggo.
So in case you're keeping score, not only did I make the guest in my house do heavy lifting, but she was also with child. I am awesome.

October Surprise

Last week our ex-nanny, and still cousin extraordinaire, M, asked our family to be in a movie on Saturday.  OK, so it was just a student film, but we couldn't say no to M.

Friday night was just marvelous.  I wasn't sleeping, which was good, since Proximo wasn't either. I had the distinct privilege and honor of cleaning El Guille's throw up from where he missed the bucket, changing his sheets, cleaning him off, all three kinds of delightful! I woke up to a call from M reminding us of call time. 

I got up so tired that I thought I would throw up. And then I did. And did again. Yet, a promise is a promise. I know what a hassle it is to plan a shoot and then not have people show up, or have something go wrong. I managed to get into full makeup, get everyone dressed, and all of us out of the house. I rode shotgun, armed with a bucket.

We drove down to the park with Proximo screaming in the back seat because I had not let him buckle his own belt. All we had to do was sit on a blanket and pretend to be a happy family enjoying the park.  I got out of the car, walked two steps, and retched into the bucket. At some point, just holding the bucket wasn't enough, I had to fall onto my knees, in the middle of the park, in a skirt, cardigan, and full makeup, and empty the contents of my already empty stomach. I just like attention.

I walked a little wobbly to where our blanket was set up and laid down with the rest of the family. Proximo clung to me like he always clings to me, but this time with anger and loud noises, apparently annoyed with my inconsiderate illness. The crew did a couple more takes of the scene they had already set up and then turned to us. Just as we were ready to roll, I motioned to M to bring me the bucket. You know, with a cinematographer, a director, a sound guy, production assistants, rolling film, in a city park. I guess I can't run for office anymore without some really fantastic and perfectly lit YouTube footage ready to make an October surprise.

There's just something really funny about looking at yourself in the mirror after throwing up and seeing yourself in all that makeup. I thought about washing it all off, but decided that if models have to do it with perfect cat-eyes, so could I. The rest of the weekend was just as lovely. I may have even forgotten to feed the children one day, who can keep track? Solid food is for suckers.

It Has a Mirror Finish!

Several months ago I moved into a new house that I have yet to take pictures of and no one ceases to remind me of that deficit. Sorry. I should have taken pictures of the house before I started decorating it, when it was still a blank slate. I should have taken pictures of the house before my children started living here and tearing everything down, nicking it up, and using dry erase marker like Febreeze. Oversights have occurred on my watch.

Perhaps you've wondered to yourself, "Hey, what does Jet Set really do with the vast quantities of money she gets from ads?" And if you don't, you must have better manners than I do. I saved up those tens of dollars and combined them with some freelance work and bought the concussive device sparkly marble table you see above. Isn't it pretty?

If you are not a parent, remember all those times in the middle of the night you had an accident? Or threw up all over your pajamas? Or didn't make it to the bathroom in time? When your parent took off your clothes, changed your sheets, hugged you, scrubbed the carpet, and took your temperature? SPOILER ALERT: Once you have kids, you're the one changing the sheets and the clothes, hugging, and reading thermometers. Maybe you even guessed that you'd be sniffing stuffed animals for leftover bile, trying to identify what still stinks in the room, and hoping you don't run out of blankets and pajamas. I got 3 hours of sleep last night. Poor Proximo.

To make up for the night before, the universe delivered my new chrome table. Morgan, safely ensconced on my sofa, explained the glamor of life in entertainment production while I assembled the thing. Gang, it's so beautiful, it completely makes up for all of the sheets I've washed chunks out of and underwear I've tossed.

Can you guess how long before Proximo of the Chunk Blowing scratched the finish on the new table?

No, go ahead, I want you to guess. Go vote in the poll on the side.