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Moral of the Story: Do the dishes because you don't want Arnold to tell you to "stick around" |
The beginnings of the EPIC HATRED of pots when soiled (not like soiled when someone took the MOST EPIC poop of a lifetime in a Cuisinart® , but soiled as in: smutty, grimy, or just plain dank—not in a good way, but like… well you get it.).
Okay, enough of the caps lock, I feel Kanye West channeling through me.
So. Dirty Pots.
I shudder when I think of them.
It all began when I was a wee young lass. Jooj may not share this same sentiment, to this is my story. (I really want to add beezies, to the end of that statement, but will refrain till further notice.)
Anyways, when I was a wee young lass, I abhorred the kitchen. Or cleaning. Probably just the cleaning.
You know why?
Because the giant stack of grimy dishes always stared at me, awaiting some scrub loving. My 8-year-old self imagined those pots like giving an old lady a sponge bath, and scrubbing every orifice of that weathered, wrinkly skin. Our grandma naked is a scary thought.
Dirty Pots=Scrubbing old ladies (or men, doesn’t matter as long as they are covered in liver spots and multiple wrinkles, like sand ripples in the Kalahari desert).
I was stuck doing the job. A lot. Before I knew how to curse, my 8-year-old vocabulary was: “DANGIT.”
Scrubby McScrubberson. Elbows deep in three-day-old grime. My face contorted at every odor and feeling of hard two-day old pasta plastered to the metal pan.
Worst of all.
No one thanked me for my dutiful effort to rid the world of the grime on pot(s).
And so, the battle became a war.
Jump forward, my bitterness towards my constantly resurrecting foe in full swing.
I am in college. By that means, I have roommates. Roommates are like friends and human banks to contribute to keeping a roof over your head. Especially when diplomacy rules, and you orchestrate chore days for everyone in the house to adhere to. I love roommates—unlike my other half. But you know what I hate about roommates?
WHEN THEY DON’T DO THEIR DAMN DISHES….
And that pot monster is back. Glaring me down, waiting for that scrub-a-dub-dub.
You know what pots?
FUCK YOU.
***
Scenario 1: It’s a good chore day.
Threat level: Minimal
Outcome of battle: Win for the Human
Looking at the chore list and I see it’s my day for chores. I look to the sink.
-Sigh. But at least it’s my day and tomorrow is someone else’s.
Happily, the previous task-holder from the day prior loaded the dishwasher and I empty it and replace with dirty dishes. Put in the dish detergent, turn the knob and hear that machine rumble rumble rumble.
The kitchen is immaculate when you are through with it, but my hands are raw with dish-soap, iron-wool marks from scrubbing and of course—fucking hot water I forgot to balance out with cold water.
Be proud.
But pride is swift as I become bewildered as ravaging females pillage the kitchen, scraping together homemade meals that range from Top-Ramen to flank steak for one (Yes. That happens). It’s a battle for the stove—stains, like bloodstains, but of pasta sauce (fucking pasta sauce), riddles the once pristine white surface of the electric stovetop.
Shrug it off. I did my chore.
Scenario 2: Not your chore day
Threat Level: Moderate
Outcome of battle: It’s close, but Humans win
The scavenging roommates have successfully decimated all health code violations of the kitchen. Dishes are stacked sky-fucking-high, food remnants haven’t been scraped out, and! It’s not my dish-chore day; but it’s the weakest member of the taskforce.
Damn it.
Hours go by. Walking by the kitchen intermittently through out the day and the dish-beast is there. Festering in its ungodliness.
Daylight dies into night—when the beast comes to full form.
Dinner.
The soldier tasked today makes it in time to clean the dishes. The beast is slowly killed, only small parts of its being are left in the sink, awaiting the dishwasher as the first load of casualties are expelled into the dish-water-of-nothingness.
The other agents don’t see it, but the monster is biding its time. The sink--Its camp--houses the leader—the dirty pot: filled with pasta sauce.
(What’s with the fucking pasta monster?)
I flick it off; We’ve won this round, but tomorrow’s battle will be tough.
Scenario 3: It’s a Friday
Threat Level: Low-ish depending on circumstances
Outcome of battle: I win.
I clean the kitchen usually on Friday when no one is assigned the chore because it doesn’t bother them as much as it bothers me.
Dinner is made. The roommates have pillaged and successfully laid waste to the land. Having no plans, I clean.
**same scenario as 1: The kitchen is immaculate when you are through with it, but your hands are raw with dish-soap, iron-wool marks from scrubbing and of course—fucking hot water you forgot to balance out with cold water.
Kitchen monster—submerged in Dawn®; dying a slow and chemical death.
Scenario 4: It’s Friday and there is a party
Threat Level: Double Fucked
Outcome of battle: I lose and am crucified
No story can be told, but survivors are few and far between. According to the official death-records:
"The double agent Tequila distracted her from the task of dish-watch duty and the Pot-Monster grew to enormous proportions. Worst of all, the pasta stains returned, and this time were partnered with left over dried bread crust."
-end journal
Needless to say, I HATE dirty pots.
And mingling with that double agent Mr. Tequila, you sneaky sneaky asshole.
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