John walked into the kitchen the other day, just as I was cutting up some beef for our oldest cat (don't ask). He started laughing as I made my way through the pile of raw meat, cutting each piece down with a pair of kitchen shears, and he paused to catch his breath and say: "You'd never make it in a meat-processing plant. They'd be all, 'here's your big-ass knife!' and you'd be all 'where are my scissors?'" Clearly I need to keep my day job.