I am fighting a losing battle with my kitchen. La cuisine and I have been at odds practically since day one. There was the great fruit fly invasion of August, wherein, drunk off two martinis and the influence of watching Casino Royale, I launched a full-scale stealth attack using GLAD Sea Breeze aerosol bathroom deoderizer (yes, I'm well aware that there weren't enough toxins to kill them, but it stuck and froze to their wings and that made me happy.), leaving the walls sticky and smelling like decaying fauna. Then there was the first time I opened the kitchen window only to have it slam down on my thumb, causing me to anthropomorphecize it as the reincarnation of Hitler. Things weren't always this way between us. When I first moved in, I remember lovingly scrubbing every surface, the stains in the fridge, rust around the stove elements, arranging the single large cupboard according to themes. Inviting my first guest over for dinner and breaking out the killer placemats, my first purchase after deciding to move out. (I should mention here that placemats are right up there with foreskin and inner monologue on the list of Things Jews Don't Have.) Those were the good times. And now...she smells if I don't do the dishes within seconds of using them, she inexplicably turns bananas brown less than 24 hours after bringing them home (don't cry for me, Price Choppers), and like the rack belonging to women of a certain age, my own spice rack has begun to droop and slant in ways clearly not designed for public viewing.
Kitchen, my proud, worthy adversary, to thee I say: suck it.