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I plunged my hands in soapy dishwater and went into automatic pilot as usual when washing dishes: Stare through the dirty window above the kitchen sink, wash a glass, rinse it off, put it in the drainer. A plate now. Wash, rinse, repeat. A flurry of activity on my patio-birds feasting on seed I'd scattered. And not just one bird-seven! After wiping my sudsy hands on my jeans, I reached for my binoculars. Then I scrambled to the kitchen table and grabbed a scrap of paper....
My husband poked his fork in the lone casserole gracing the table. "How about a few side items with dinner sometime?" His words seemed harmless. Combine a couple of words and a cute face, and you have a simple request from your adoring husband of six months, right? Wrong. Because what I did was blend that simple request about "dinner" with the time I spent grocery shopping and my "I don't like cooking in the first place" feelings. In the end, what I heard was "You're not much...
