Every few days, it's the same question from Biggy. It's as expected as Gaga's Brussels sprouts steaming on the stove--routine yet filling the house with a certain fleeting unpleasantness.
I never don't know the answer to the question. Indeed, I know where all the flatware travels. I also know that I'm not the one responsible for it. I mean, any more than I'm responsible for Lo's bad manners or Jack's grade in math. That's to say I put my own dishes in the dishwasher, never take them in the car without returning them, never leave them in my desk drawer at work.
Unfortunately, Georgia had her car out of town, and I had no access to Biggy's place of employment. But here's a small sampling of where the fucking spoons (and forks) are:
In the basement, under Jack's side of the couch.
In the basement, Georgia's side of the couch. (Does she salt her yogurt?)
Under Lo's bed. (Look, she must have flossed after eating the cheese dipper.)
Under Biggy's side of the bed. (Note the 25 lb. dumbbell; we don't call him Biggy for nothing.)