116 Dirty Dishes
Dear Wally:
Please help me convince my lazy (but good hearted?) husband
that leaving dishes in the sink is a bad idea.
I’m really sick of it and he doesn’t listen. Is it really so hard to just do them before
bed so we don’t have to come down to a disgusting mess in the morning? I cook and he cleans. That’s our deal.
-Frustrated
Dear Frustrated:
Tell your husband that leaving dishes in the sink is a
dangerous and expensive game. Here’s
what could happen: After dinner, your
husband ‘helps’ clear the table by putting the dishes in the sink --not doing
them, mind you, but more, staging them for someone (like you?) or something
(like gremlins? ) to take care of.
Despite his Herculean, yet unsuccessful, efforts to eat enough Mac and
Cheese to feed a small island nation for a few days, the remaining scraps fall
off his plate and into the drain where they begin to congeal into a gelatinous,
impervious bolus (which is exactly what is happening in his arteries, by the
way). In his thin defense, he thinks
food scraps will just go down the drain because, after all, isn’t the sink just like a mini toilet? (The answer is no). The weight of the impossibly stacked,
gravity-defying dishes –a formidable, if not precariously fashioned
monument,-compacts the Mac and Cheese wad and effectively seals off the
drain. But your hubby can’t see that
now, can he (?) because he’s on his way
to…
…the sofa!!
…to get horizontal and comfy. (“I’ll do the dishes later,” is a redolent
promise that comes wafting in
predictably on the nose of a foxy, nocturnal wind). This post prandial ritual of well-intended
interia involves some degree of surrender, some degree of ball scratching and
some degree of grunting. A wicked combo
of being sated to American excess, being supine, being left alone, and perhaps
being anaesthetized by an episode of American Idol and, BAM!—he’s off to lala
land. Now it’s all over but the shouting
(and the snoring and the farting).
You stare at him spread eagle and passed out. Contempt?
Pity? Resolve? This is your prince charming. Not only NOT a help in the kitchen, but
actually a liability. His outstretched
hand drifts lazily to the floor as if weighted down by an imaginary, King Size
Milky Way bar and you know you’ll need a crowbar if you have any chance of
budging his lard and claiming some sofa real estate. You stare back at a mass of intimidating
dishes which will realistically neither do themselves, nor be done by gremlins
(who are busy stealing socks, ripping underwear and hiding Chapstick).
This is sexy stuff.
It’s time to step outside and have that walk in the fresh
air (the house has lost its erstwhile ‘fresh’ scent thank you very much Mr. Mac
and Cheese). You make a mental note that
it is to be added to a growing list of isotopically unstable foods that produce
in your husband’s complicated GI track this rank and undesirable
off-gassing. This list includes, but is
not limited to: Indian, Greek, Chinese,
Japanese (“dirty knees, look at these”)
and Brussles Sprouts. (Thanks a
lot Belgium- What else ya got?). All now
officially off the list of viable dinner foods, so long as you are around.
Out you go for some perspective and fresh air.
But!!!
The indoor cat has jumped up on the counter to inspect this
jungle gym of stacked and teetering dishes.
One misplaced paw and the hastily constructed structure buckles. You can’t hear- you are outside. Your comatose husband is on the 13th
hole gripping a 3-wood in his reverie and about to make the Masters’ shot,
can’t be bothered. The cat springs backwards
momentarily as the cheese-encrusted serving plate knocks the faucet handle into
the on position. Uh oh.
Quickly the sink fills on account of the compacted , organic
drain plug. Nasty sink water soon spills
over onto the floor and makes its way to the floor vent. Water, as it is wont to do, finds the path of
least resistance, and that path is unfortunately to the cellar by way of the
main circuit breaker of the house. Good
grief.
Contact with 220 volts of electricity energizes the water
back to the source by unfortunate way of the curious kitty’s central nervous
system (caught figuring out if soaked
Mac and Cheese stuck in the drain in a flooding sink is worth the effort). 220 volts uses up 1 or 2 of her remaining
lives. At least. The well pump shorts out and burns out the
motor (there’s a couple grand! Hoo
Haa!). Meanwhile, hubby slumbers on,
unaware. Even the reek of singed cat fur
can’t wake up your Sleeping Beauty.
When he finally does wake it’s because the cat is sitting on
his face -it’s the highest spot on a now soaked living room floor. This is no fun for either of them and
asphyxiation is a hell of a way to wake up (or not wake up).
But that’s not your problem.
You are outside admiring the night sky and considering if there is an
alternate universe (or many) where there is a couple exactly like you , eating
the same dinner, watching the same show (M-35
star Idol?) --only the dishes have been done, the sink hasn’t
overflowed, the expensive circuit breaker hasn’t shorted out, that cat hasn’t
been BBQ’d and you are not out thousands of dollars in repairs.
So, tell your husband to get off his duff right about now
and save the family some headaches and Benjamins.
When I was in college, we had a dorm rule. If you didn’t do the dishes on your dish
night, you could expect to have them in your bed at 3am. Just saying.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want him
over to eat dinner and then fall asleep on your sofa? Email at cwn4@aol.com
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