The one casualty in our move a year and a half ago was our microwave cart. All things considered I didn't care at all, since the damn thing was free to begin with, and I didn't have to carry one box during The Move That Ate My Brain, Spat Me Out And Made Me Swear With God As My Witness That I Shall Die In This House. By the time that move was over I was happy to prop up my now busted microwave cart with a roll of painter's tape and call it good.
But I really hated that microwave cart.
It was innocuous enough. Plain blond wood. Knife block on one side. But it wasn't very functional and the thing just bugged me for some reason.
In my tee tiny kitchen there are about five cabinets. You think I am kidding but then you probably are not crazy enough to live in a house from 1916 with the original kitchen. I mean we have new appliances and floors and countertops but the cabinets are original. And for some reason we cook differently then the Warehouser executives that used to stay in this home. I am far from a gourmet cook but even my pots and pans could not be housed easily in the cabinets with our food and other dishes.
You would think in a solid marriage that where to store pots and pans would be a minor thing.
You would be wrong. SO WRONG.
I will not go into details except to say that J was unreasonable on the subject just as he is unreasonable on the subject of french toast (I know most people were brought up as SAVAGES and savages put syrup on their french toast but one would think that once you see the light of sugar and cinnamon that savages would become civilized but NOOOOOOO) and we just threw the damn things around and crammed everything where it would fit.
We needed storage. And also a life because seriously, this bothered us entirely too much.
But I solved everything by putting up industrial metal shelving (assembled by my OH SO CAPABLE two hands) yesterday. Now there is a place to put the microwave and sodas and the crock pot and all the pots and pans and cooking utensils. It is like the heavens opened up and little angels came down to brush the tangles out of my snarly-ass hair (pain free!). Places to put things.
Until Buster started barking at it.
He did it a little bit last night but when I got home from work today Buster just started barking and barking at that wall. There is nothing else there so apparently it is a chrome alien sent to suck out our souls.
Which is fine with me honestly, as long as my soul continues to have a place to put my pots and pans.
1 comment:
french toast? needs syrup. Cinnamon and sugar? what is this nonsense. That is called cinnamon toast. So different than the fancy (snort) french version.
and ha ha, isn't that the microwave cart I gave you? HEH.
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