I hate doing dishes. It’s not the garden-variety hate visited on chores like laundry, or even the ick-factor hate of cleaning the toilet (although there are spouses in the world, and I’m not mentioning any names, who would do well to take toilet brush in hand, like, ever). My hatred of dish-doing is bone-deep and burns with the heat of a thousand suns.
Which is why it was with heavy heart that I realized today I will have to take over dish duty at Casa Cranky.
Not So makes a good showing – he’s willing to wash the stuff in the sink more often than not, and he’s much, much less likely than I am to put non-dishwashable things in the dishwasher just to get out of a little scrubbing. But he’s also washing the dishes at 2 or 3 in the morning, when he’s so tired he can’t see straight, and that tends to cause a few problems. Problem the first: not-quite-clean pans and bakeware reclining, diva-like, in the dish drainer, waiting for the moment when I pick one up to put it away and find that there is a fine layer of grease on the bottom (or a film of unclean on the surface which no doubt was mostly invisible when the pan was wet). Problem the second: waterlogged scrubby sponges happily collecting bacteria and stench on the edge of the sink. Problem the third: the sink! Because it is stainless steel, and prone to rust spots when, for example, a not-squeezed-out sponge is left on the edge of it.
Less easy to quantify is the “reminding” aspect, which is entirely the product of my deformed psyche. If I have to instruct my beloved every time I wish for a dish to be cleaned, it feels like the dishes are my responsibility. If my beloved stumbles to bed at 3am without taking care of them, I am somewhat annoyed. On the other hand, if I assume that I’m the only one who’s going to do the dishes, there’s no one to be annoyed with. I can add dish-doing to my mental schedule and not feel like I’m having to do “extra” work.
I’ve been delegating dish duty more often than I probably should, just because I loathe it so completely. No more. Dishes, I will have the best of you. Yes. Fear me.
My inner feminist is cringing right now, but that’s mostly because I’m making her wear a 50’s housedress and an apron. Also, I have her hair in a beehive. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep your hair in a beehive? Marge Simpson has nothing on me.
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