Seven Inches



See that?  See that right there?  That's the amount of space between the pile of dirty dishes Bee and S.B. put on the counter and the DISHWASHER I WILL EVENTUALLY, APPARENTLY, HAVE TO PUT THEM INTO.

Seven inches.  Seven frickin' inches.  Is it too much to ask?  

I mean, I suppose I should be applauding profusely and handing out gold stars just because the men managed to walk the dirty dishes into the kitchen.  I should scream my praises over this feat and not ask any other favors for a week.

But . . . come on.  Seven more inches and the kitchen would have looked clean, not cluttered.  Seven more inches and I wouldn't have to worry about fruit flies or Mr. C knocking things off the counter.  Most importantly, seven more inches and they wouldn't have to hear me shrilly screaming about what a pigsty this place is.

Geez.  God created the world in seven days.  All I'm asking for is seven measly inches.

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