To put it charitably, our house has character (read: is an ancient shithole). This prehistoric archeological site I inhabit leaves me wanting many things, none more so than a dishwasher.
No kidding, I easily spend, at minimum, 30 minutes every single day, standing in front of our too-small sink that holds approximately two bowls, because everything in our too-small house is, well, too small. Further exacerbating the cycle of pain, I have a proclivity for near-continuous eating, forcing me to engage in this monotonous chore more than the average non-glutton.
I scrub. I rinse. I rack that shit. I flick the garbage disposal on for a few seconds. Dammit, there’s a fork down there. I scrub some more, but this time, I put my sweaty bod into it, ohhh yeah… And I rinse again. Oopsies, I accidentally sprayed that steamy water on my bare, lightly-haired chest. Better take my pants off now. I guess I’ll start aggressively tossing my hair back-and-forth. Wait-I’m getting distracted again, back to the dishes! Damn, that non-stick pan did squat to prevent an entire meals-worth of food from adhering to its surface. Better let it soak. 24 hours minimum. 48 to be safe.
The optimistic liar in me alleges that my sud-lubed fondling of the cutlery presents an opportunity to be mindful. Each caress of the spoon is offering you an opportunity for unbridled connection with the entire universe. If not that, maybe doing the dishes can be a peaceful, uplifting experience in my day. I can enjoy this exercise. The pragmatist in me says, ‘Hey, you have to do this. Why not be happy while doing it?’
Well, because this is horseshit. I will not allow myself to be happy while undertaking such a thankless task. If a glimmer of satisfaction does arise at the assumed completion of the job, it’s as fleeting as a fart in a hurricane, since a house with zero dirty dishes is only a theoretical state that is proposed to exist, but I have yet to witness (there’s always that lingering cup on the nightstand, or the dishes from your work lunch fermenting in your satchel).
Rather than moments of clarity in front of that sink, I instead find my mind bombarded by one incessant thought repeating ad infinitum- ‘Damn, I spend so much time doing this. I need a dishwasher. I’m dishwashing my life away. Dishwashing.. .Dishwasher… Dishwasha…Dishwalla…Queue internal brain music- Tell me all your thoughts on God, cause I’d really like to meet her. And ask her why we’re who we are. Tell me all your thoughts on God, cause I’m on my way to see her. So tell me am I very far? Am I very far now?-Yes, you are very far…from being done. Oh darn, there’s still that egg pan from two days ago. I think that might require the 72-hour soak.’
On the few occasions I’m able to shake that landmark 90s banger out of my head, my thoughts are, unfortunately, no more pleasing or useful. For instance, amidst lathering my plates, I thought to write this very post. Now here I am, typing this unproductive rant, which will in no way help eliminate the dirty dishes still in my sink (Actually, I’m allowing the surfactant properties of the soap to break down the chemical bonds of the food particles, allowing said molecules to dislodge from the dishware and dissolve in the sudsy solution, thank you very much). I imagine that last parenthetical spoken with the utmost twattery.
So what do I mean when I say I’m no longer kidding myself? I mean I’m done denying the truth, and furthermore, my true identity- my highest and most dominant form, as Liver King might put it. And that truth is I am a miserable lil bitch when washing the dishes. There is no chance for serenity in that moment. I welcome my own suffering, for it’s my genuine nature to be joyless every minute spent washing dishes. And I’m at peace with that.
Yolo 69 420 