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Dishes are, I believe, one of the largest banes of my existence.
I am, gradually, you understand, in the process of what I am calling "The Golden Palace Cleansing of Aught Four". It's in preparation, I hope, for getting a cat - a sort of cat-proofing process, and throwing away all garbage and putting everything in its place is the first step.
Cheerily, I did my laundry, carried it by hand the block and a half to the laundromat in the near-freezing weather. I took my meager supper while watching Smallville (a small but pleasant joy of mine). I merrily folded and put away my newly cleansed clothes while watching blood spatter all over the screen as Starz aired Kill Bill Volume I. And I straightened my papers from all my different classes and random spurts of mental energy, throwing away garbage and basically putting every thing in its place while watching Le Divorce, a movie that makes you not like Kate Hudson very much at all, and isn't funny though I thought it was going to be, but is also very interesting to watch - with a very solid dramatic question, so so much the better.
The dishes, though...
All my life, it seems, the problem of "the dishes" has plagued me. From the beginning, with my mother, always asking me why I never did them, though I could see that they were "starting to pile up" as she put it. Of course, my reply was always that I simply did not realize that it was quite time to do them. I relented, and did the few that were there, for my mother is something of a neat freak, but that's a base point.
In college, living more or less on my own, this battle between me and dirty flatware was extened. I consented to wash them usually the few moments before the mold started to get a firm grip on the food remains - disgusting, isn't it?? My roommate at the time was even worse, of course, and often left things until they began to stink.
Out of the dorms, my baseline was slightly altered - I washed when there were no more clean dishes and I could not stand to wash plate by plate, glass by glass any longer.
For a brief period of time, I took to washing my dishes immediately after I was finished with them. My problem, however, was that I had reserved this practice almost strictly to plates, silverware, and glasses - never the pots and pans that were used to actually cook my food. And gradually, I gave up on glasses, and then silverware, and then the whole process was lost. Another casualty in my war.
So now. Daily, I walk though my kitchen, past my sink. My few dishes watch me pass by, ignoring them, overlooking them, sighing that they can't just magically be clean without effort on my part. No longer can I fudge my way around the issue: I must wash them, or starve, for fast food and takeout are no option for someone in such dire financial straits.
WHY can't I do them? WHY are they such a nuisance to me, when I can easily straighten my apartment, wash my clothes, and basically deal quite handily with all the other issues of The Golden Palace Cleansing of Aught Four without breaking even a mild sweat? I'll admit it too: I've got a bit of neat freak in me. I really hate being unclean myself - it is rarer for me to skip a shower than for me to not wear my seatbelt or skip a class. I enjoy the fact that my apartment is now (mostly) clean!
Why do the dishes plague me so???
... Well... It's eleven thirty in the evening, my feet are cold, and I have a class in a little under 12 hours. I'm going to take a bath and leave this problem tomorrow.
stare You've won another battle, you greasy, caked-on food-remnant menace. The war is ongoing, my enemy. Oh yes. You cannot win every battle....
domokun
 Adeiras · Tue Nov 02, 2004 @ 05:44am · 0 Comments |
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