I was born on a red table. This table was a fixture in my parents house for 19 years and then it disappeared. Nine years later it re-appeared, in a completely different place. I've seen people set keys, beers, books, videos, jars of coin, and lamps on this table oblivious to the fact that I burst forth from my mother's vagina on it. If it could talk I think it would complain, "I"m a dining room table damnit!! Not a birthing table, not a coffee table, not a computer desk, but a dining room table!!" Such abuse.