The Bright Side

The kitchen. When we move, I won't miss it. I might even accidentally light a match in it and run out after the movers. Except I wouldn't want all of the other people in our building who loathe their kitchens to be harmed.

It's really a great apartment. It boasts an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows that overlooks Lake Michigan, a reasonable amount of space for people who didn't accidentally buy Shaq's couch, and a pool. The kitchen is the blemish. The hairy mole. It's not just small. It's narrow. Its suffocating. No matter how much you clean it, it's still dirty. It's stained with remains of inhabitants before us. Not bodily remains. But, you probably knew that.

I've arranged, re-arranged, arranged it back. I've moved the toaster next to the knives and then over near the cookbooks. I've beaten the toaster with a spatula as punishment for its cumbersome design. I've screamed, I've cried, I've laughed that laugh that only insane people laugh.

The husband thinks it's a fine kitchen - one we should be grateful for. Sometimes he projects that kind of contagious positivity that makes me embarrassingly aware of my monster-like ridiculousness. And ridiculous it is. Because this is our view.

For you, husband, are always my brightest side.