Deciding on a title for my blog was a more arduous task than I had anticipated. I hmmm’d and sighed, typed and deleted, then ultimately chose something that made me chuckle; a memory.
Dishes are one of my least favorite chores, which can be said of many people who are sane and sound of mind. However, I cannot stress enough how much I loathe dishes. Especially dishes that have been dirtied, piled up, and dried with food. I believe my hate of washing dishes came to a peak in 2011. At that stage in my life I was living in Vegas and my sons were ages nine and ten. My husband at the time (now ex), James, was in California attending Federal Law Enforcement Training. Now, let me preface by saying both myself and my ex-husband were going through big career changes at the time which can be stressful. (<—- Translation: try not too judge harshly when I reveal my story.)
I remember being on a three-way call with two of my best friends, Max and Lindy. We were venting about stressors in our lives: men, jobs, dishes (guess which one was mine?). I recall standing in front of my overflowing, stinky sink, with my cell phone delicately balanced between my shoulder and ear, feeling extremely dis-heartened.
Now, this was my train of thought that started like the little-engine-that-could and then sped up like a down-hill locomotive without brakes:
“Why is this MY job? Why am I spending an ounce of my time doing something that I don’t love? And how the hell did my sink fill so fast? Did the neighbors add to this pile without me knowing? How did my Mom do this year after year after YEAR without any complaints? Am I wired wrong? Does this make me a bad Mom? Wait…so because I’m a woman I feel that I should enjoy cleaning and scrubbing? This is society’s expectation. Yes, that’s it. I’m not doing them. I’m not doing my dishes for every women out there. I’m throwing out every dirty dish in the sink in the name of feminism.”
& that, my friends, is EXACTLY what I did. I talked myself into throwing out every filthy plate, every soiled bowl, every nasty utensil. I tossed every dish from my sink to the garbage while trying to convince my two friends on the phone (who became privy to the clanking and smashing every time I threw a dish in the garbage) that my actions were not only acceptable but rather a ‘statement’ for all females. You’re welcome. My friends thought it hilarious rather than courageous. And it quickly occurred to me that I was lazy not a leader of feminism. But damn, it felt good.
I might add that about a month or two after my dish destroying escapade, I spotted my ex-husband opening each cupboard slowly. He had a puzzled look on his face and he hesitantly asked, “Hon, where did all our dishes go? We’re missing a lot.” I didn’t make eye-contact and quickly rushed into the living room shouting over my shoulder, “Oh… I actually threw them all out!” He responded with, “As in, threw our dishes into the trash?” I tried to stifle my laughter, “Yup. For women…” there was a long pause. “Huh. Okay then.” & he never brought the incident up again.
Again, I state with a smile: Dishes are not for the faint of heart.