Even though I am very happy with my whole life situation, sometimes the Mormon girl in me wonders why I haven't managed to find some nice Mormon boy, had a nice Mormon wedding with a reception in the church cultural hall decorated with streamers and feeding people nut cups and produced half a dozen (probably not-so) nice Mormon children. Where's my domestic bliss?
Then my dog starts coughing and I freak out, first Googling her symptoms to discover she may have "bloat" then figuring out how to phrase my calling in sick (it was a medical emergency, but fortunately I didn't have to call in) and I rush her to the vet -- for a cough. On the way I was alternating between making sure Pippi didn't stick her head too far out the window and fall out and thinking, "Oh, yeah, OK. Totally get it."
Actually, you don't have to imagine. You can read about it here, when we went to the hospital. And here, when I encouraged lying and deception among the children. Or here, when I realized I am not smarter than a 7-year-old. Or here, when I taught 3-year-olds despite having what we call a dirty mind.
But at least it's not bloat, right?