I bought a house back in 2007, before I met the woman who would become my wife. It was a real bachelor pad, complete with carpet stains, spiders in the bathroom corners and an indoor swimming pool made entirely of beer cans. But once my wife and I began our relationship, I started referring to my house as our house. My car became our car. And my pile of dirty clothes under the bed became our little quarantine-worthy smallpox outbreak. What I’m saying here is, I stopped seeing things as mine vs. hers; an attitude my wife largely shares, unless she’s clumsily breaking things and then denying all responsibility.
So fast forward to the end of the summer of 2012, when my wife was about to fly back to Germany to find us an apartment and start her new job while I wrapped things up in the States. Shortly before she left, we planned a small goodbye BBQ with our friends and loved ones. We scrambled to clean the house mere hours before this social gathering took place, focusing most of our attention on the kitchen and making it look as clean as possible. (Displaying one’s kitchen honestly, the way it actually looks from day-to-day, is like prancing about in tighty whities and openly flaunting your skidmarks; nobody wants to see the truth.) So as my wife was taking some glasses out of the dishwasher and setting them in the cabinet above, she somehow managed to knock over her own beer with her elbow, shouting…
THE WIFE: “Ahhh! Dammit! Your kitchen isn’t big enough!”
Oh God, My Wife Is German. 
This post is hilarious. I’m actually a British person and this actually applies to us as according to Germans, “your houses are tiny”. Er. If you say so mate! I live in a gentrified part of Berlin and one of the things that attracted me to the apartment was the huge American-sized kitchen. I’m an awful cook but that kitchen sold the apartment to me. And where do we have our drinks parties, do our homework, and work on the blog? In the kitchen!
Thanks for sharing. :)
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