Mr B was a little skittish and mistrustful the other day when he stepped into the kitchen and I was cheerfully putting away the silverware (the boy-barians have mutinied on this chore, and I don't have the energy to b*tch about it anymore). He stopped in his tracks, gave me the once-over-eye and a wide berth as he opened the cabinet. "So how long is this gonna last?" he archly queries. "Probably 'bout a week," I reply in a chipper voice as I perform an adorable bend-snap-toss with a serving fork. And for now I am strangely at peace with my kitchen slut status. Although not even I am under the illusion that is gonna last for long... I guess I am just so giddy about my two month hiatus from the roiling, boiling cauldron of my day job that Windexing idly for hours and organizing the dirty dishes in the dishwasher has put me into a zen-like, peaceful trance. So let sleeping dogs lie, folks. Just back away slowly and keep your eye on the door... You'll be the first to know when all this "peace" and tranquility goes BAD.
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