Why no knitting got done today

I've been cooking quite a bit lately. Healthier, cheaper, yada yada. The real reason is that it's rather embarrassing to walk into a fast food restaurant, get greeted by name and have the staff start preparing your usual order without asking.
I love to cook; I really do. And I'm not a bad cook, either. My problem? Dishes. I would rather be in charge of preparing chum on a fishing boat than do dishes. Be the only person in charge of changing diapers in that psycho octomom's house. Muck out the stall of a horse with 2 asses and they both have diarrhea. Be Paris Hilton's personal bikini waxer. Get the picture? So, basically, what I do is wait until I have absolutely no dishes left to eat off of or use to cook. Then I break down and do them. Of course, in the summer, it has to happen a lot faster because of the smell. So here is what the counter looked like while I was washing up. This isn't the worst part. The worst part? I had already done one load of plates, bowls and cutlery, and there is more on the stove that you can't see!!


Not only do I wait far too long to do the dishes, I'm also an extremely messy cook. So cleaning up is not only doing 4 loads of dishes, but it consists of scrubbing the stove, oven, counters, cupboard doors, ceiling, you name it. This is not an exaggeration. Here is some small proof in the form of the stovetop, although it's hard to see the spaghetti sauce cooked on the elements, the burnt crumbs under the elements, the grease, the pancake batter, etc., etc.:


So I cleaned and scrubbed and now the kitchen is all sparkly. Except for the floors. I just don't look at them. It's better that way. So here is how the kitchen is supposed to look, but, quite honestly, rarely does:


And shiny stovetop - even with new tin foil in the element pans. And the crud cleaned out from underneath them.


Then, I spent half an hour on the phone with my vet because the Hound from Hell ate one of my crazy pills. He looks through all his books, we figure out what to do, I find the sedatives leftover from when she got her ovaried yanked (in case she starts getting hyper and all agitated) and then, after I give her extra food like he said to, I go into the living room, thinking I might be able to knit a bit, I shake out the cozy knit wrap on the couch and what do I find? A wrinkled little crazy pill. She didn't eat it after all. She sucked on it, but she didn't actually ingest it. Little bugger.
Oh well. I can knit now.