Like you may have inferred from the title, washing dishes is the worst thing in the world. I hate it so much! It seems like no matter how clean the kitchen may have been yesterday, it’s always completely wrecked today. Living with a roommate definitely makes matters worse, since they’re the one causing most of the disarray, yet never dive in and scrub up. Dirty dishes are the bane of my existence; a constant mockery of my once proud kitchen. Their crusty, smelly veneer of previously delicious cuisine reminds me that all things will eventually rot. That all things will end, and the best tombstone any of us can really hope for is “At Least It Didn’t Clog The Drain”. The fact that this storm cloud of misery could be gusted away with a small amount of diligence only strengthens the bitter hatred I have toward the chore. Washing dishes is the worst thing in the world.
In response to this never ending torrent of filth, I have doled out chores to all of my children. Each one has a simple daily task to complete for the singular purpose of making my life better. Unfortunately all of my children are dogs and their efforts are minimal. Why I keep these useless hangers-on around is beyond me. You had one thing to do, Frida! My cries of frustration are met only with dumb stares and wagged tales.
Luckily, I have an automatic dish washing machine, you may have seen one of these at the local shopping emporium; I recommend them to everyone I meet, solicited or not. It takes a great swath out of the pile of used eating receptacles, but it requires constant loading and unloading. Like I don’t have anything better to do? There have been times, dark times, when I have opted to replace standard meals with paper-wrapped burritos for no other reason than the lack of utensils needed. As green as I would like to convince people that I try to be, there are moments when I would rather chop a baby sapling down with a prison shank than wash another plate. Paper plates are expensive, but the emotional savings are incalculable.
It is with a crushing feeling of shame and defeat that I turned to the internet. “What is the easiest way to wash dishes?” I begged my trusty search engine. “Make your roommate do it” was the best response, but no. No, for this situation I would need something stronger. Something steadfast. A shift in the paradigm of ablutionary practices. My search went on, probing the musty nether regions of the webs. My time spent typing left my hands twisted and sore, the hours drifted by like a fast-motion clock montage from old tv shows. I could have conquered sinks worth of post-meal platters in the time I spent searching for the easy way out. Long story short: just do the damn dishes.
The few tips I did learn were helpful, though not really anything revolutionary. Rinse first. Start with the cleanest and work toward the dirtiest. Use a small cup of dish soap instead of dumping it in the sink. Get a bus tub to soak the dirties before washing. Drink alcohol.
But the real lesson here is to not let things go so far that you face what seems like an insurmountable feat just to get back to normal. Don’t let problems pile up without addressing them, it just makes them easier to ignore until you finally decide to give up. And sometimes soaking in hot soapy water makes everything just a bit easier. I wish there were some life lesson to be learned in all of this.