Of Parsley and Plumbing

Which girl doesn't like a guy that cooks? Really, who in their right mind would want to join the throngs of stary eyed lovers fighting over parking spaces and dinner reservations every February the 14th? Nobody.

No. Every girl's secret desire is to have their guy flopping around the kitchen strapped up in an apron sweating over hors d'oeuvres too delicate for their banana projections called fingers. Of course a bout of food poisoning might change the average girl's mind. But for the most part, I believe that girls find be-apron-ed guys faintly amusing.

Well, all that is true until you meet a guy who shares a plumbing line with you. Then you pray to the Guardians of the Kitchen Disposal that that guy was a frozen pizza kinda guy. Because it seems that the guy who shares my plumbing line loves to cook on Saturday nights. I know this because of the poor plumber who is under my kitchen sink trying to save my kitchen from a dirty dish water flood for the second Saturday night in a row.

Did I mention that he loves parsley? For I see and smell plenty of that in my dirty dish water flood.

Now I consider myself to be a reasonable person. And my neighbours - guys and gals, cooks and frozen pizza eaters - are free to use their kitchen whenever they desire to do so. But when I have to haul 4 bucket loads of parsley infused dirty dishwater to my WC to prevent my kitchen sink from overflowing, I believe I have the right to be the teeniest bit of a grouch. And of course it is way more fun to write about the cook upstairs than to write about the clogged up plumbing system in my dinky little apartment complex.