Where he belongs – out of the kitchen and outdoors with a sandwich.

After extensive research, I have come to the conclusion that where ever you are working in the kitchen, your husband will be directly in your path.

Ten percent of the time, it may for some perfectly legitimate reason.  The other 90%, what on earth made him decide to plant himself there? Directly between me and the television, so my line of sight is blocked from the IU/Michigan basketball game.  Or, while I prepare dinner, he plants a blockade between the stove and the sink.  “Scoot, scoot!”

I remember similar discussions between my mother and father.  “Bruno!” would be the exclamation, and his response was always, “What? What am I doing?”, as he turns to her as she’s cradling a 50-pound pot of hot chicken noodle soup back to the stove.  My sister and I would look at Dad like, please Dad, you must have known – sadly, he never learned.  So, we heard “Bruno!” a lot.

And then my poor sister, who built an island in her kitchen with seating across and out of the way of the kitchen, so her husband would have a comfortable and less intrusive place, but he prefers, as do I, I confess, the space between the kitchen stove, the sink, and the new counter.  But then, I’m a woman, and we work from the “Queen of the Kitchen” theorem, and that’s a whole different conversation.

To prove this, should the scientific theory apply?  Question, Hypothesis, Prediction, Testing, Analysis.  Sounds good to me, perhaps the basis of a grant?  I’m unpacking my scientific notebook as we speak, along with my magnifying glass.

OK – I may have a relatively small pool  But, this is a serious problem that needs attention.  I, Mom and my sister can’t be the only ones facing this ongoing generational dilemma   I think it’s genetic.  I watched a special on Nova tonight about the Human Genome Project.  There has to be some defect in some chromosome that can be corrected by some genetic reconfiguration.  But then when “cured,” my husband would probably wash the white load with the red load.  Egads . . .

Love you, my darling Richard!