9 Months and Counting.

This is the 15th night in a row that all my meals have come out of a shrink-wrapped container of some type. Maybe I’m being a whiney cheater by counting cereal or single-serving yogurt for breakfast, but I like streaks. I don’t think I’m alone, either. People love quantifying things, and they are more impressed if those things are consecutive. DiMaggio: 56 games in a row with a hit. Julia “Butterfly” Hill spent two years in a redwood tree to deter loggers from destroying the forests. The Simpsons are in their 14th season of cartoon hilarity. Ok, so maybe it’s not that funny anymore, but it’s still on television.

You always hear about amazing runs like these. But what about the mundane streaks, the sad streaks? No one says, “Hey, Jim made it 12 years at the Post Office before finally having a nervous breakdown.” Or, “Maggie stayed on hold for 47 minutes with her insurance company, just to sort out a billing error.” We’ll give out awards for how fast someone can eat 100 hard-boiled eggs, but the best a mother gets for fixing dinner for five for 19 years successively is one day a year in which the prizewinner receives chintzy cards, picked out moments before they were half-heartedly delivered. “Happy Mother’s Day, honey.” Obligatory kiss on the cheek.

I guess there’s a reason we only herald certain streaks. Some of it has to be an ego thing. I’d like to think I’m the only hero in Los Angeles spending two hours in deadlock at the end of his 12-hour day, just to get home to make dinner for his girlfriend. The truth of the matter is that, while I’m sure other motorists appreciate me not killing myself or anyone else on the “free”way, and I know the girl doesn’t overlook my sacrifices, I am hardly worthy of accolades. With no discernable talent and barely enough self-restraint to make it through the day, my successes are personal triumphs only. Joltin’ Joe I am not.

But I think my mother deserves a phone call.