We had our weekly let’s-clean-the-kitchen-like-we-said-we-were-going-to-all-week time last night. At the completion of this weekly event, we reaffirm our dedication and pledge that we will not let that happen again and will undertake small cleaning after use. The following weekend we once again confront a snarling mess that must be subdued with a chair, a whip, and the promise of a fresh steak after the show. This week, however, the beast would exact its revenge. I blame this on the fact it was starving, as I took out enough crumbs from the floor the previous week to feed a third-world country for the better part of the holiday season. Normally, I am in the line of fire from the belligerent mob as Rhiannon works her second job of supporting her first job on the weekends, but yesterday, she had had enough and she wanted to take a break and do some cleaning. It’s easy to see why I married this woman. I take breaks from cleaning; she takes a break to clean. I sense the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
The kitchen started off well enough. Clean dishes were put away and crumbs swept up to the sound of faint purring. (Kitchens are suckers for chin scratches and rubbed tummies like that.) However, everything turned for the worse when the anti-bacterial cleaner got in its eyes. Glass was broken and Rhiannon was down bleeding. Soon, small plastic measuring cups were raining down from above. Seeing the wife battered and bloodied, I knew I had to do something and fast.
Using a loaf of French bread for balance and a melty stick of string cheese as a high wire, I tight-roped from counter to counter above the upturned contents of our cutlery set. With both the audience and the beast distracted, Rhiannon was able to escape back stage where I soon joined her to tend to her injuries. Sensing the show was over, the beast settled down and allowed me to lead it back to its cage for the night. Once again, the plan is not to let it back out by next weekend, but we all know how effective that strategy seems to work for us.