Dining Room Table . . .

Shh-sh. Do you hear that? Right now - somewhere in America (on a wired, Wi-Fi, or Internet data plan) - SLF is shopping for a dining room table.

How do I know this? She's been doing it - obsessively - for many many moons. And, for that, I admire her.

Let me be clear. Dining room tables, for me, are just below the types of grass and vegetation that grows in our back lawn or what the neighbors are having for dinner on the scale of things I care about. And just above the struggle to cure the common cold on the list of things I have an opinion on. If I'm being honest . . . I really, really, really could not care less about the table upon which dinner sits. Or where I eat breakfast. The spot where we work on homework. The flat surface where board games are played. I. do. not. care.

But she does. A lot. And she's been torturing herself since days of Underoos. She has probably looked at 1,843 tables between Internet, stores, catalogs, and magazines. Ah. Wait. Now she's up to 1,845 (like I said - she's looking right now). I'll just wait and see when and where this nets out. In the meantime, I'll continue to eat my food, surf the Interwebs, and practice multiplication tables (with the kid - I know mine) at whatever current table is currently sitting in the dining nook.