I'm the sort of person who has an impressive formation dirty dishes deposited all around the sink. They're compulsively organized and stacked by size and shape, but dirty and waiting all the same. They do their best to taunt me like proper hussied sluts reflected in the glow of dim, red streetlights, except I don't particularly care. Efforts wasted, ladies. Nice try putting out the vibe but I don't swing that way.
Before you panic and call the housekeeping police, don't worry — they're not covered in flecks of barf or stinking up the place and they'll be cleaned up long before you come over for punch and pie. They're rinsed and sorted and when we run out of the tiny forks Jon prefers I'll wash the whole lot in one big hot batch, put them away, and start again as the phoenix is reborn from the ashes of my glorious apathy.
After living with my mother, an unwholesomely tidy woman, and a following series of very orderly roommates, I thought surely there was something wrong with my vagina's dishwashing settings. I thought maybe "someday" when I grew up into a real woman a switch would flip and I'd get up after dinner and plunge my hands into hot soapy water instead of watching tv and sleeping.
Update, year of our lord 2013: No. Turns out there's nothing wrong with my vagina, that's just the sort of person I am, the sort that piles dishes around the sink in neatly corresponding stacks. I should probably apologize, but I won't.
Quite nearly as irrational as my indifference to accumulating formations of cups and plates (national park opening next year, hike Cup Valley and view the wonders of Bowl Canyon) is my ongoing war with CRUMBS, as no such horrible a menace has ever maligned my kitchen. It is in fact impossible for SOME PEOPLE to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without a blizzard of breadcrumbs liberally assaulting all nearby surfaces. Is there no hope for the future of sandwiches? Is there no hope for the cutting of crispy-edged pizzas? I may have every plate I own waiting behind the faucet but by god there will be no crumbs.
I'm not sure what critical detail of my personality we've just uncovered, little crumbs of my soul hidden between the plates, but whatever it is, now you know. Also bananas make me queasy and I roll my ankles when I walk, and if you tell me I shouldn't curse so much I'll title every post with a swear word for the next two weeks because I am an adult woman and YOU DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. You'd better write that down in case it might come in handy later.
Dirty, filthy, dirty, filthy filthy filthy.