“I don’t understand how you do this. ”
“This! This kitchen thing you do. There were EIGHT THOUSAND bowls in the sink and seventeen knives. What do you need EIGHT THOUSAND bowls for!”
“Really? Really. Eight thousand? Whatever, Mister Flour ALL OVER the sink and the counter and some on the walls and ooooon the flooooors and socks by his desk and glasses on the desk and never cleans the surface of the–”
“That has nothing to do with the fact–”
“–cabinets or the cabinet doors or the fingerprints on the refrigerator or sweep and mop the floors or vacuum or do the wash or–”
“…that you can’t seem to cook one single meal without–”
“–make the bed or put the toilet seat down or–”
“…using EVERY DISH IN THE HOUSE FOR ONE MEAL!”
“EIGHT THOUSAND BOWLS, SHAWN, REALLY. I MEAN REALLY? EIGHT THOUSAND?” I partner this statement by standing in my kitchen and becoming a wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man.
“YES. AND SEVENTEEN KNIVES AS WELL, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU’D MAKE TO NEED THAT MANY KNIVES!”
“WE DON’T EVEN OWN EIGHT THOUSAND BOWLS. THAT’S A LIE. YOUR FACE IS FULL OF LIES RIGHT THERE! BESIDES, WAS THE MEAL BAD?”
“I DON’T…well, of course not. Nothing you’ve cooked in years has ever been bad.”
Smugly, “Then you’ve nothing to complain about.”
“EIGHT THOUSAND BOWLS!”
Three hours and episodes of Supernatural later, I leaned over and quite assertively stated that we do not own eight thousand bowls, thus, starting the entire argument all over again. Which neither of us were very heated about and both of us ended up laughing at one another profusely.
I may be the oddest woman on the earth, but its these small things that let me know I’m also the luckiest.
(To be alive. AND loved. That too. Yes.)