Death by Dishes

I hate doing the dishes.

No, I loathe doing the dishes.

When I'm standing at the kitchen sink, rubber gloved and feeling warm from the steaming soapy water, I hate my life.

Well, that may be a slight over-exaggeration, but I often find myself doing a brief cost analysis on how much it would take for me to throw out all the dirty pans and pots and replace them with shiny new ones. Obviously, it never works out as a cost-effective solution, so I inevitably end up having to scrub and scour and wash...all the while cursing at myself for making nachos that (although delicious) left hard-as-cement melted cheese in the corners of a baking tray that simply REFUSES to disintegrate.

But, just now, my wonderful partner (with the great ass) swooped in, kissed me on the cheek, and sent me into the living room to drink my tea as he gallantly put on his own (slightly larger, and white) rubber gloves to take over.

So now I'm sitting here, typing this post, drinking my lovely morning caffeine fix, and listening to a little Method Man, clanging silverware and occasional outbursts of rhymes from my lover-for-life.

What a nice morning.

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