Doing the Dishes

So, let’s move away from things I love, to things I…well…hate’s a strong word.  Let’s go with, view with distaste.  That of course, would include housework in general, and doing dishes in particular.

I’m a dedicated slob, incapable of doing the most mundane task without tripping, spilling, or sloshing.  I don’t think I’ve ever done dishes (even with a dishwasher) without looking like I took a fully-dressed, spot shower.

Today I tackled the stack of dishes resembling a Dr. Seuss construct on steroids.  Plates tipped in sideways, bowls stacked every which way. Pots and pans…just don’t call the health department.

I began the drip and drain process.  When I was a kid (pre-dishwasher), my mom usually washed and I had to dry.  My brother was Male and so not expected to sully his hands.  (Thank goodness times have changed!)  I would drip and get the dishtowel all wet.  Mom would tell me about her day, what the neighbors had said, or listen to my adolescent woes.  She always listened sympathetically.  I realize now, that try as I might, I was never quite as sympathetic with my own girls.  We never had the woman’s ritual of cleaning up…because times have changed.

Years later, I remember my mom asking me in puzzlement how I got my casseroles so clean.  I was impatient – after all, she had taught me.  I didn’t realize that was one of the first signs of her oncoming dementia.  I wish I had shown her again and again, if necessary, with the sympathy she always showed me.

I never clean a casserole now with remembering the bewildered look in her eyes, asking how to do such a simple chore.

A lot of water gets spilled when I wash the dishes.