The Problem in the Kitchen

We have a problem in our kitchen. And the problem is me. I shouldn't be in there.

Many bad things have happened in our kitchen. I have to hand it to Jamie, he's been really patient about all of it. He's had years of this behavior and yet he still lets me wander around, unsupervised. (Though, truthfully, there has been talk of changing that...)

Consider:

I've demonstrated no ability to remember if the open soda/water bottle/etc. is his or mine. I lived alone for a very long time. I'm used to any open container being mine. So I drink it. It's often not mine. It's often an honest mistake. But not always...

50% of the time when I try to make hard-boiled eggs, I burn them because I forget to turn off the heat and the water evaporates. I've twice blown up eggs in the kitchen. There is a reason why Glade doesn't make Exploded Egg Air Fresheners. A good one.

I don't believe in waiting for something to be done. I have a set amount of time I'm willing to wait before eating and if the food cooking time doesn't fit in, that's too damn bad. I'll eat it cold. (E.g., lean cuisine is 2:30. Pizza is 14 minutes. Fish is at least ten minutes longer than I have ever given it.) And yet, he still lets me prepare dinner once in a while and doesn't tell me to read the box to see how long it will really take to cook.

We can't have bread in the house. We used to have it. And we had this conversation every time:
"Where's all the bread?"
"I ate it."
"There was a loaf here two days ago."
"I like bread. If you want it to stick around, hide it."
Hiding worked for awhile until I discovered all of the hiding places. Of course, there was one place I didn't find, he forgot about, and when discovered, we had a dandy little science project. After that point: no more bread.

I break things: glasses, plates, bowls, vases, promises not to eat the last cookie.

I put things in the dishwasher that don't go there: certain knives, silver, certain plastics, thumb drives, etc.

I drink from the container. I drink from the container and put the empty container back in there.

I spill dog/cat food on the floor. Constantly.

I've left the refrigerator door open.

I've left the oven on.

I've left the faucet on full blast. Several times.

I've forgotten things in the oven.

I've demonstrated very little responsibility in or affinity for the kitchen. And yet, patient Jamie shakes his head, hugs me, and moves along with his life. He accepts me for the klutz that I am. Which is very sweet.

Sweet is not what I'm going for.

I'm going for long-term banishment.

And it's not working...