A Rather Short Long Story

It was as I was standing on a stool in the kitchen 
with a purple polka dotted towel tied precariously around my waist 
after having taken my first adult-sponge bath, 
leaning over the wet microwave on the counter 
and a sink full of dirty dishes and white carnations 
with the cabinet door jamming into my shoulder, 
and staring as water transferred from the enormous bowl under the boiler 
to the measuring cup I was holding, 
elbows resting awkwardly on the wet microwave, 
through a siphon I'd crafted from blue and pink bendy straws, 
that I found myself wondering, 
How was your Saturday night?