I'm always tempted to write about my many failures. They're so much more amusing and educational. Like the time I penned the dog in the swimming pool area, and then went skinny dipping. The dog, knowing exactly which part of the fence was weak, busted through the pickets and ran into the neighbor's yard, then refused to come when called, running joyfully through the neighborhood. I had to streak down the road to catch him, with only a flapping towel for modesty.
There's also the time my mother found my, uh, marital aides, the Great Soup Explosions of '99, '00, '01, '02 and so forth, and the time DH walled up the chipmunk nest under the floor without ensuring that it had been vacated first. Or the many cross-cultural moments at work, where someone from another culture says something horribly inappropriate in America, but which is OK in their culture. And of course, I should close with the admonition that I am NOT pregnant no matter how the picture looks, just FAT, thanks.
