tanja

It seems as though not being able to do dishes is chiefly an affliction of those having grown up in suburban areas where dishwashing machines are prevalent. We wash everything as though were really only rinsing them to put in the dishwasher, where they will be really washed. A while ago, I was serving a friend some food on a plate I thought was clean, only to have them wrinkle their nose at a congealed piece of goats milk cheddar that was still attached to it like a barnacle. Perhaps Im too dainty.

I managed to tackle the dishes only after I anthropomorphized them:

OK, guys, youve been giving me grief, staring back at me from the sink in your mocking way, snickering amongst yourselves over how youre just going to keep multiplying like wet gremlins until she finally loses it. You think you can just sit there and taunt me, waving my domestic inaptitude in my face, consistently reminding me of me shortcomings? Well, you all have another thing coming. Yes, tonight, you will get washed, my ceramic friends. No more of this standoff. Ive more important things to attend to, like learning how to clean the filter in the drier and figuring out the best way to boil an egg.