I’m short on time today, but I wanted to toss these two, unrelated bits at you.
Bit the First:
When we were leaving Wal-Mart on Sunday night, someone was standing by the door giving out free kittens. No lie. I heard “free kittens,” and my head snapped around and the guy doling the fuzzballs out locked eyes with me, pointed at me and then pointed at the kitten he was holding. NOT FAIR, MAN.
We seriously considered it. Or at least, I seriously considered it, if you are of the mind that, “KIIIIIIIITTENZ NOM!” qualifies as such. But, ultimately, we went home kitten-less, our reasoning being a) we don’t know where those kittens have been so they might be riddled with disease or zombies b) we really don’t need a kitten right now and c) our cat would hate us.
Bit the Second:
Another lovely feature of my awesome kitchen is our dishwasher. Now, I’m glad to have a dishwasher at all. And considering that the one we have is from the first Reagan administration or somewhere thereabouts, it’s in fantastic shape. It’s one of those “portable” dishwashers that isn’t hooked up hard to your plumbing, but is freestanding and can be wheeled over to the sink and run from there.
Because of the way our kitchen is laid out (stupidly), the dishwasher sits across the room, opposite from the sink. When I want to run it, I have to swing it around, hook it up to the sink, then thread the power cord behind the oven to the only nearby outlet.
Every time I swing the dishwasher around, I bump it into the oven. Every time. And the other night I was going through this ridiculous routine and sure enough, *smash.* Suddenly, I thought, “This is the one activity that I probably have in common with people who do lots of steroids or PCP. Somewhere, some asshole is throwing the dishwasher at the oven, just like me.”