I hate doing the dishes. I really hate it. Kriner hates it too. We would have been divorced a long time ago if it weren’t for our dishwasher. (Not hyperbole)
My abhorrence for doing dishes has actually kept me from cooking certain meals. If it takes more than two pots to prepare, forget about it. Seriously. I love good food, but I hate doing dishes more. “That recipe calls for a sauce? Hmmm, maybe pizza tonight.” “Wait, pasta with sautéed veggies AND caramelized onions? Prego is fine.” Also, it is verboten in my house to eat oatmeal. Ever. The pots are impossible to clean. Frosted Flakes were good enough for me, they’re good enough for my kid. (However, using that logic, playing with mercury from a broken thermometer, jumping off the roof into a pool, and sneaking beer and stealing cigarettes from my parents are also good enough for my kid…might need to rethink the Frosted Flakes.)
It’s a funny thing to hate. I don’t hate laundry, or vacuuming (even though Kriner handles that) or even washing the floor. I just hate doing dishes. I have been ruminating on this for a while and I think I have come up with a reason why.
A few weeks ago, we went to my sister’s for Thanksgiving. Every year the women do the dishes after the meal, usually because Steve, my brother-in-law does all the cooking. That activity is actually better than tolerable because my sisters and my mom join in to help. We drink or sing or gossip…it’s time well spent. Also, their sink is located in the island of the kitchen, so people can sit and chat while you are washing up.
However, when I do dishes in my home, it is a solitary and lonely exercise. I feel as though doing dishes in my small kitchen, looking out the small window in my small life should be portrayed in some dark, depressing Russian short story by Tolstoy. Maybe I need a sound track of “Laura’s Theme” after dinner when I wash up.
My sink is located on a wall, so when I do the dishes, I turn my back on the whole kitchen, and ultimately, the house. It’s like I’m back in Mrs. Stannel’s 4th grade class at Wilson Elementary, and I (once again) need to be disciplined. “You’ve been laughing at inappropriate times again, Liz. Go stand in the corner and do dishes!”
Washing dishes would be more fun if it were a team sport. Of course I could ask Kriner to help, but even though it is difficult for me to comprehend, his revulsion of doing dishes is even greater than mine. So, even though he wants to be a good guy, and wants to help, he is in such a foul mood after the dishes are done, that I regret asking him in the first place. Why make two people miserable when only one has to suffer? Dumbledore drank all that poison himself to get to the horcrux; he didn’t ask Harry to have a shell-full, did he?
I think someone needs to introduce a sink on wheels. That way, I could roll into the living room while scouring a pot and see what’s going on. “Are you two in here having fun without me? Well, not anymore!” Or maybe at the least roll it into the dining room, and rinse the plates right then and there before they go into the dishwasher. (And can we please give a moment to roll our collective eyes at THAT? What brainiac created a dishwasher that is so piss-poor that you have to rinse, and sometimes actually wash the dishes before they get washed. Could someone please invent a dishwasher that does just that? That washes dishes? Seriously? Like, now?)
Years ago, I was bitching about how much I hated doing dishes (because it’s that big of a thing for me – that apparently I have carried this vengeful attitude toward dishes for decades because everything else in my life is so freaking fabulous that this is the only thing I have to bitch about…) and my friend Anne said, “I love doing dishes. I like putting my hands in warm water, and it is a moment of quiet after a busy day.” I envied her in that moment. The thought of my hand in warm water harkens back to poorly executed sleep-over pranks (did that work on ANYONE?) and quiet for me is difficult; it always has been.
Tomorrow night we are having friends over for a pot luck. We will be using paper plates. (Don’t judge, we got the nice kind…with like designs and crap.) Also, pot luck means guests will be taking their dirty dishes home with them. Now THAT’s a party I can get behind.