Few things in this life elicit such feelings of angst and physical pain for me like a kitchen counter covered with dirty dishes waiting for little ol me. Now, don’t get me wrong. We’re not nasty people who don’t clean up after meals and just throw all our dirty dishes up on the counter and leave them there until someone finally realizes there’s not a clean glass, plate, bowl, pot, pan, fork or spoon left in the house. I know of people like that, but I’m definitely not one of ’em. My germ-a-phobic tendencies won’t lend themselves to that kind of “laid back” lifestyle.
No, our kitchen counter covered in dirty dishes awaiting me is usually pretty organized, as far as dirty dishes go. Everything has been rinsed off and stacked neatly with like items. Mind you, some of those stacks can get rather tall. You see, I usually only do dishes once a day, twice if Mountain Man cooks one of his absolutely life altering breakfasts. And I prefer not to do them right after we eat supper. I’d rather spend that time with the people who matter most to me. Not Dawn dish soap, a scrubbing sponge and a drying towel. And that, dear readers, leads to one of my biggest gripes in life.
I do not now, nor have I ever, had the luxury of a dishwasher. The dishwasher in this house is yours truly. Some women dream of fine jewelry, designer clothes and shoes, extravagant vacations to some far off exotic land, and expensive cars. Not this mountain girl. I dream of a machine that does all that washing, scrubbing, rinsing and drying for me. What can I say? I’m a simple girl, with simple wants.
Now some people will be baffled by the mere fact that I’ve never lived in a house with a dishwasher. I can completely understand this bewilderment, but cannot fully explain the reasons behind it. I guess, first and foremost, my mother never had one when I was growing up because she’s one of those people that doesn’t believe a machine can get her dishes as clean as she can. She’s insane. That’s the only plausible explanation for her thinking.
When I moved out on my own, neither my apartment nor my more recent house in town, came equipped with the little modern marvel that I just know would change my world for the absolute better. Because they were both rentals, I wasn’t allowed to alter anything in them. Installing a dishwasher was completely out of the question and I didn’t have the space for one of the freestanding models. So, onward I trudged through hundreds, if not thousands, of loads of dishes, complaining every step of the way!
I’ve washed dishes the old fashioned way my entire life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had some help along the way with this dreaded chore. I’ve not had to go it alone every single day. But still, this is a task that I loathe more and more with each passing sink full that I have to delve into and scrub through.
Now, just for the record, Mountain Man would have the best dishwasher on the market here tomorrow for me if there was room for it here in the cabin. But, alas, there’s not. Which, in a way, is a good thing. I can’t believe I just typed that sentence! A good thing? I must not be fully awake just yet! Not to mention, I made Mountain Man a deal when I moved into the cabin with him. If he agreed to do the cooking, I’d do all of the clean-up afterward. And as much as I despise this task, knowing that I get to indulge in his culinary masterpieces makes every minute spent elbow deep in that sink full of suds worth it!