Sink Full of Dirty Dishes
I harbor more disdain for washing dishes than should be possible to feel for any mundane household chore or task. The majority of the time when visitors come to my house they find at least a few items in the sink for which I will, of course, apologize. I don’t often subscribe to the wash the dishes the moment you’ve finished with them philosophy. With two children, a husband and logic, to say the least, I should in order to make my dish washing life simpler. But there is always something else to do, always something more important or appealing, like attending to my screaming son. Not to mention the flood of disgust and annoyance I feel every time I look at a slimy, food encrusted plate, cup, bowl, pot or pan. The silverware produces fervent resentment unmatched by that of anything else.
It’s not the dirtiness that irks me. I am far from squeamish. The frequency and repetitious monotony of standing at a sink with hot water and soap, scrubbing, is unbearable. Dishes get dirty, constantly, incessantly. Not five minutes after I’ve completed washing everything stuffed into the sink, an offensive, oppressive object appears. Washing dishes should be thoughtless second nature by now, a time in which I can reflect, muse or organize my to-do list. Instead, washing dishes is a distraction, a semi-reachable itch whose edges I claw at in vain straining to curb the horrible, unrelenting burning sensation. Constrained and vanquished, my dishes mock me from their shallow, food encrusted pit.