The supper dishes done, I fold my checked dishcloth lengthwise twice then drape it over the sink spigot. I look around the kitchen, making sure that the cupboards are all tightly closed; the room looks so messy when they hang open. Ah, there's one that's not up to scratch, right over the stove. I cross the room and begin to close it.

            I wish I hadn't seen inside the cupboard, I really do. It's almost nine-thirty. My kids are in bed and I would like to settle down in the living room and read a good book.
            But all that falls to the wayside. I have issues that are more pressing. For you see, the spices are all wrong.

            The cardamom is next to the minced garlic and the cumin stands by the mint. Red-topped containers are intermarried with the green-topped containers; tall bottles live next to the tiny, half-ounced numbers.

            And not all the labels are facing outward.

            I've told my husband hundreds of times that the labels have to face outward. He did this. I would never have left things like this.

            Were he not at work I would tear him a new asshole. How dare he make more work for me? Doesn't he realize how tired I am all the time? That time cleaning the cupboard will take away from the things I really want to do? If he can't arrange it properly, I wish he wouldn't bother.

            I like control, have all my life. I learned a long time ago that people like perfection, that people want to be friends with the person who has all the answers; you become indispensable to them. They don't have a recipe for rogan josh? No problem; come over to my house and I’ll find the recipe for you. Need someone who can look over your resume? Call on me, my grammar’s excellent! Sometimes I wonder if my husband married me because he loved me or because he couldn't live without the support I faithfully bestow upon him, year after year, time after time.

            Yawning and angry, I begin to pull jars off the shelf. I have forty-seven spices in my kitchen cupboard. Six are containers of cloves, because you never know when a recipe is going to call for cloves, after all. I have three containers of garam masala because when one container gets a little low it doesn't match with all the others so I buy another container and pour some of it into the other container so that they match. It looks so neat. I have never used the wasabi; I bought it on impulse. How many times have I gone to make something new and discover that I don't have the necessary ingredients? How popular is wasabi?

            I sort the spices by size first, taller ones on the right, short ones on the left. Then I begin to subdivide--tall containers with red covers, short containers with red covers, then all the green covered jars, etc. I debate whether I should place them tall to short, or maybe alphabetically. Do I put garlic powder in the same category as ginger or with paprika? Which word do I count when I alphabetize?

            I ponder this for a full ten minutes, my eyes blurring in front of me because I'm not even blinking. If the cat hadn't meowed, I might have stood there all night.
            Finally, I decide to arrange by size, taller containers in the back, and smaller ones in the front. My eyes burning from lack of sleep and blinking, I begin the arduous process of putting all forty-seven spices back into the cupboard. What I wouldn't do for a spice rack!

            All goes well until I discover that I have four containers of cloves with red caps and two with green. One container is tall and the others are short. Should I separate them by height, because hey--they're all cloves and they like to be together.

            My husband is home from work. He's brought flowers at the grocery store, white daisies and pink carnations, a spring of baby's breath. He smiles at me; he wants to take me to bed, as any husband would be wont to do.

            I scowl at him. "The cupboards are a mess!"

            He frowns, places his gift on the tabletop and sits in a chair, waiting patiently. Oblivious to his concern, I turn away and continue to ponder my cupboard. The spices still look wrong.

            Take it all out. Arrange again. Place into the cupboard.

            At midnight, I'm satisfied. Perfection lies before me. I can hear my bed calling my name. I give myself a mental pat on the back for a job well done.

            Until I start to contemplate the cereal boxes on top of the fridge. I've never liked them there. Should they be in a cupboard too? Maybe next to the spices?

            My husband is asleep at the table. I grow angry at his lack of concern. I do and I do for him and this family and what of it? He's well-rested and I'm exhausted.

            That’s fine.

            I don't need any sleep tonight.

            The supper dishes done, I fold my checked dishcloth lengthwise twice then drape it over the sink spigot. I look around the kitchen, making sure that the cupboards are all tightly closed; the room looks so messy when they hang open. Ah, there's one that's not up to scratch, right over the stove. I cross the room and begin to close it.

            I wish I hadn't seen inside the cupboard, I really do. It's almost nine-thirty. My kids are in bed and I would like to settle down in the living room and read a good book.
            But all that falls to the wayside. I have issues that are more pressing. For you see, the spices are all wrong.

            The cardamom is next to the minced garlic and the cumin stands by the mint. Red-topped containers are intermarried with the green-topped containers; tall bottles live next to the tiny, half-ounced numbers.

            And not all the labels are facing outward.

            I've told my husband hundreds of times that the labels have to face outward. He did this. I would never have left things like this.

            Were he not at work I would tear him a new asshole. How dare he make more work for me? Doesn't he realize how tired I am all the time? That time cleaning the cupboard will take away from the things I really want to do? If he can't arrange it properly, I wish he wouldn't bother.

            I like control, have all my life. I learned a long time ago that people like perfection, that people want to be friends with the person who has all the answers; you become indispensable to them. They don't have a recipe for rogan josh? No problem; come over to my house and I’ll find the recipe for you. Need someone who can look over your resume? Call on me, my grammar’s excellent! Sometimes I wonder if my husband married me because he loved me or because he couldn't live without the support I faithfully bestow upon him, year after year, time after time.

            Yawning and angry, I begin to pull jars off the shelf. I have forty-seven spices in my kitchen cupboard. Six are containers of cloves, because you never know when a recipe is going to call for cloves, after all. I have three containers of garam masala because when one container gets a little low it doesn't match with all the others so I buy another container and pour some of it into the other container so that they match. It looks so neat. I have never used the wasabi; I bought it on impulse. How many times have I gone to make something new and discover that I don't have the necessary ingredients? How popular is wasabi?

            I sort the spices by size first, taller ones on the right, short ones on the left. Then I begin to subdivide--tall containers with red covers, short containers with red covers, then all the green covered jars, etc. I debate whether I should place them tall to short, or maybe alphabetically. Do I put garlic powder in the same category as ginger or with paprika? Which word do I count when I alphabetize?

            I ponder this for a full ten minutes, my eyes blurring in front of me because I'm not even blinking. If the cat hadn't meowed, I might have stood there all night.
            Finally, I decide to arrange by size, taller containers in the back, and smaller ones in the front. My eyes burning from lack of sleep and blinking, I begin the arduous process of putting all forty-seven spices back into the cupboard. What I wouldn't do for a spice rack!

            All goes well until I discover that I have four containers of cloves with red caps and two with green. One container is tall and the others are short. Should I separate them by height, because hey--they're all cloves and they like to be together.

            My husband is home from work. He's brought flowers at the grocery store, white daisies and pink carnations, a spring of baby's breath. He smiles at me; he wants to take me to bed, as any husband would be wont to do.

            I scowl at him. "The cupboards are a mess!"

            He frowns, places his gift on the tabletop and sits in a chair, waiting patiently. Oblivious to his concern, I turn away and continue to ponder my cupboard. The spices still look wrong.

            Take it all out. Arrange again. Place into the cupboard.

            At midnight, I'm satisfied. Perfection lies before me. I can hear my bed calling my name. I give myself a mental pat on the back for a job well done.

Until I start to contemplate the cereal boxes on top of the fridge. I've never liked them there. Should they be in a cupboard too? Maybe next to the spices?

            My husband is asleep at the table. I grow angry at his lack of concern. I do and I do for him and this family and what of it? He's well-rested and I'm exhausted.

            That’s fine.

            I don't need any sleep tonight.