When D and I were living in sin in Salt Lake City back in 1999 (we were 19 and unmarried and drinking. Gasp.), I was preparing us and his older brother, Ryan, cocktails in the kitchen. The kitchen was a beyond a disaster. Sorry, Ryan, but it was. It was scary. It was dangerous. Literally every surface was covered with materials for Ryan's architecture assignments. Even the floor. And, yes, the cupboards. The top of the fridge. The sink. Everything. We didn't even make food in there because it was so encrusted with paper, card stock, foam core board, exact-o knives, pins, shavings, wood, plastic sheeting, etc.
Whatever. I'm sliding right back into the complaint department. I was making cocktails that only a 19 year old has the money and interest to make: screwdrivers. I wasn't aware that Dustin was watching me from the kitchen doorway while I pushed aside debris to make room for our three mismatched mugs. I poured the two ingredients in each and began half-heatedly looking for something to stir with. Spoons would be the obvious answer but, no. We didn't have any. Clean ones or otherwise. Take-out chop sticks? Nope. The handle of a peanut butter smeared knife? How 'bout that plaster spattered, dust tinged Phillips head screw driver? Yes. I stirred each drink contentedly as Dustin crept up behind me, gave me a big hug and whispered, "That's muh gurl."
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