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Sink Full of Dirty Dishes

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.

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6 thoughts on “Sink Full of Dirty Dishes

  1. Timothy Kasminoff says:

    Repetitious. Monotonous. Oppressive. Offensive.

    I like this post, perhaps because I feel the same way about washing dishes, but much more likely because I can easily relate this to working in the restaurant (forgive me, but I just got off of work, and it’s very fresh in my mind). I often think of the restaurant, and when I do, I find myself thinking of the building, the doors, the lights–all of it, constantly repeating and participating in the “function” of being a restaurant, 363 days a year, year after year after year. I think of how the people come in, day after day; sit in the same tables that someone else sat in just a moment before; ordered from the same menu that countless people have ordered from. It’s monotonous, its unoriginal, its BORING. So much so that sometimes I cannot help but feel oppressed, in the sense that: this is it, and its really never going to change. It kills my spirit; it offends me to be stuck there fulfilling a role, and of course, the best part is that I made this choice.

    Sorry for the rant, but, on the brighter side, this made me think. You are a wonderful writer.

  2. Yes, I feel the same way about dishes. I try so hard to keep up with them, but really, my sink is only empty when I know I will be having company to impress (or at least not disgust.) It is MANDATORY that the next place I move to has a dishwasher!

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