Five years ago, J and I attended a fantastic New Year’s Eve party. The drinks were flowing, the props superb (Michael Jackson hats and gloves, anyone?), and the people rockin’. Needless to say, I partied a little too hard and had some trouble getting back to my then-apartment in Baltimore.

Luckily, J wasn’t quite as drunk and escorted me back to my place. But as soon as I walked through the front door, I collapsed. Literally. I couldn’t get off the floor and made quite a spectacle of myself as I tried to take off my boots.

Instead of helping me, J proceeded to start cracking up and even managed to whip out the camera to take pictures.

Such a considerate man, no?

I was reminded of this event today when I was woken from a nap by soft whimpering.

Where the heck is that coming from?

I knew that the culprit had to be Comang; I just couldn’t find him.

When I finally located my silly dog, he was behind a window curtain. He had somehow managed to get himself on the narrow window sill and was stuck. Too scared to jump down (it’s about 3′ high) and too dumb to retrace his steps back to safer heights, he stood on that ledge whimpering for his mommy to come rescue him.

I always considered myself the caring and sympathetic one of the couple. But as I look back on this episode and realize that I took pictures of our confused and flustered (and embarrassed?) dog instead of immediately going to his aide, I see that I am no better than my husband!

I can see us doing the same to our kids as they are surely to get themselves into embarrassing situations over the years, and posting the evidence online for everyone to see.

What do you think? Should we start saving up for therapy?