I never realized how much I hated doing the dishes until I was able to stop doing them. I declared, I don't like this very much, and Eddie said that he'd do them. So every once in a while, I do them anyway, and I hate it. A lot.
So does he.
We have a small sink. We apparently eat more than the average human being. Somehow, we use all the spoons in the drawer, and we have a lot of spoons.
Every time he does the dishes, the sink is full again. It's a vicious cycle.
The other night, I climbed into bed, and then heard a large bang, a short clink, and then: MOTHER FUCKER! Eddie rarely curses so this had to be some sort of tragedy in the making.
I called out, You okay?
He called back, I hate doing the dishes!
The next morning, I awoke to find one casualty: the ceramic olive-oil-bottle shaped thingie that is for resting cooking spoons on while cooking is now cracked in two. Thankfully, we went on a mission a few months ago to find Krazy Glue (you'd be surprised how difficult it is to find), and so I have yet another maintenance job on my hands.
I say another because somehow every week, I find myself doing some sort of chore that's less housework and more construction site-ish. Well, my kind of construction. As in, hey I replaced the toilet seat all by myself! I haven't done that type of thing in a long while, probably not since I moved in here by myself.
Since then, the construction chores have waned and then disappeared, and my days filled up with housework, like the dishes. Now that the dishes are taken care of, I'm back to being Rosy The Riveter.
Until we get a dishwasher. We can dream.
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