Imagine you’re on a date with a supermodel. I grew up in the ’80s and I dig brunettes, so I’d choose Paulina Porizkova. You choose whoever you like.
Now imagine you’re having dinner somewhere really nice. Fine food, fine wine, perfect service – the works. The conversation sparkles like the crystal, and you yourself are shining like the silverware. You’re pretty sure that if you don’t score tonight, she’s at least going to give you a second date to try again.
And then she rips a fart so nasty it makes waves in the tablecloth.
That’s kind of what it’s like being the parent to a really cute kid.
(Hat tip to John Noonan, who suggested posting a martini-fuled email here on the blog.)