Mayflower has seen everything—nothing fazes her. She worked in a major metropolitan hospital for 15 years—she’s seen everything imaginable come through the ER at one time or another. And her father was an LA City firefighter. We can be watching CSI or ER and eating spaghetti, and she’ll say something like "oh, that’s nothing—one time we had this guy come in with his chest ripped open and his intestines hanging halfway off the gurney. I was trying to bag him, but half his face was blown off and I couldn’t get a good seal." Meanwhile, I’m looking at my spaghetti and turning 14 different shades of green. I look up just in time to see the coroner on CSI drilling a half inch hole through some guy’s skull and out the other side. By this time I’m looking at my spaghetti wondering if I’ll ever be able to function sexually again. Of course, my wife finally looks up, sees the expression on my face, and says something like "what’s wrong with
you?" I mutter something like "um—nothing," while I push my plate to the other side of the bed. "I’m not hungry anymore—I think I’ll just go get a beer." Of course, she says something like "OK—whatever," and goes right on slurping her spaghetti. As I’m climbing off the bed, I hear her say something like "oh that’s so fake—the brains don’t really come out of the hole like that…
sluuurp"