Brain Dead. Send Vodka and Lemon Twists.

Our investors are coming to town tomorrow for a Board meeting and I am but fried to a crisp. My job title is Comptroller; in actuality, I am the Comptroller, VP of Administrative Affairs, Den Mother and Career Coach to the rest of the (all younger) VPs and Director-level staff. Prepping my own work for a Board meeting is a big enough task; getting everyone else ready to rumble is just non-stop, toe-curlingly, relentlessly exhausting.

I should mention that I love my job, my bosses, and my co-workers, I really do. (I even love our investors. A more fantabulous bunch of investment bankers you will never meet.) Someday I'll post more about it, because the organizational dynamics at play are utterly fascinating to me, and therefore might be of some slight interest to my pretty Internet friends.

But not tonight! Tonight I am fried to a crisp. Michael is out, the kids are down, the dog is quiet, and the last half of "Grey's Anatomy" is waiting in the DVR. Not wanting to give in to the total lametude (totally a word) of a cop-out post, though, I thought I'd share the genesis for my blog name. It's a cute little bedtime story: I'm telling the story, then I'm going to bed.

Two years ago, when my grandmother moved to an assisted living community nearby and stopped driving, Michael and I bought her car from her. It's a young-ish Honda Accord, and believe me when I tell you it had not seen much use -- perfect for Michael and his long commute. We wrote Gram a check and in addition to the car, got the extra good karma of her satisfaction that the car was going to be of "good use" to somebody.

As must befall all Honda Accords eventually, however, the miles started catching up with it this past summer and things started to break. I think there was an exhaust system problem, and several tires needed replacing. The starter went. Et cetera and so forth.

On one of these many triage missions to our local mechanic, Michael picked up an old New Yorker magazine to flip through while he waited. I'm sure he snorted back an audible laugh when he got to this cartoon, and I'm equally sure he asked the mechanics' permission before ripping the cartoon out to bring home to me. We were deep into the selling-cookies-to-raise-money scheme by then, and I was punch-drunk enough to fall in love with the cartoon, stick it on my fridge, and make goo-goo eyes at it every time I walked by.

Months passed, cookie sales ended, and as I cast about for a name for the new blog, Michael very sensibly pointed out that I would never come up with anything as good as Lemonade and Kidneys. As soon as he said it, I knew that he was right, as he so often is.

Thank you, and goodnight.