A sure sign it’s time to do the dishes…

November 26, 2010

“Can you get me a plate?” called hubby from the living room.

“Um… there are no plates,” I answered from the kitchen.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Or something plate-like then?”

With all due pomp and circumstance, I presented my man with a Tupperware lid.

In the years since the renegotiation of THE (infamous) DEAL – a politically charged, highly controversial, bit of newlywed legislation – we’ve held a long running Mexican Standoff over the dishes. And, much like the World War II era housewives who fashioned ball gowns out of mattress ticking, we weather each long siege (before the inevitable dish soap blitz) with resourcefulness and creativity. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but in our Calgary apartment, invention’s maternal grandparents go by the names ‘stubbornness’ and ‘procrastination’.

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So THIS is what happens when women try to do it all…

June 7, 2010

It seemed like such a great idea at the time… A quick toilet scrub while running out the door to my full-time job. In pursuit of maximum efficiency, I squirted some cleaner in the bowl and went at it with a vengeance (quite literally). I attacked the chore with such violence, I must have looked like I was plunging some horrible clog. Until…

Exploring the delicious, pine-scented back woods of Quebec, one quickly learns to walk a few paces behind a partner. No, our dear French Canadians do not subscribe to some antiquated religious diktat – although the prevalence of front yard Virgin Mary ceramics do make one wonder. The gap is simply to prevent one of those prickly, dew laden, boughs from clocking you in the nose when it whips back across the path.

We lose so much in the time-clogged rush of being a modern woman; so many of life’s most beautiful lessons are forgotten in the mania of “having to do it all.” As the brush caught on the rim, and a heavy spray of yellowish, mucky, bleachy, ‘water’ splashed up into my face, I grabbed hold of the gentle quiet of those pine-lined trails to stop from screaming. No, life is not fair (especially before 7am), but it’s nice to know there’s still enough justice, somewhere out there, to make sure I was wearing my glasses!

(image source)


This gal’s dream girl

March 8, 2010

Elbow deep in dirty dishwater, I threw back my head and cried out her name…

“MARTAaaaaa!”

Someday, somehow, somewhere, we’ll be together. I just have to hang in here long enough for fate to connect us out of billions. Her gentle green eyes haunt my every chore, promising relief, freedom… joy of the purest kind.

I know my fantasy is horribly politically incorrect, especially after this, but I really don’t care. I dream of my Marta the way soldiers dream of peace, the way golfers pine for the snow to melt. She is the light at the end of my tunnel, a constant, almost physical, presence giving hope to my housework addled self.

I would know her if I saw her on the street – the vision has become so tangible. Over the years, I’ve modeled every feature of my model maid. But I doubt there really is a Marta. And if, by some miracle of justice, she does exist, somewhere out there, I’m sure she’d have better things to do than our dishes!


How have I let it come to this?

January 5, 2009

Where did it go so wrong? I’m a 21st century independent woman who fights fiercely for equality at every opportunity. So how could I have been so blind to the grand injustice happening under my nose on a bi-weekly basis?

My husband stood admiring (I’d like to think the man was in awe) our freshly scrubbed (by moi), gleaming white bathroom. “Did we get a new toilet paper holder [spring]bar?” He asked, pointing to the naked black plastic rod in its mod-chrome setting.

“No,” I said, confused, “it’s the same one it’s always been.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, we both came to the same horrifying realization. I was the one brave enough, or foolish enough, to put it into words.

“You’ve never seen it before, have you?” I asked, wide eyed as the truth hit me. He shook his head. “So you’ve never replaced the roll the whole time we’ve been living here?” It was more statement than question. “That’s almost two years!”

He smiled sheepishly. “I guess not.” Then he flashed that ever-so-darling grin that I’m sure got him out of all kinds of trouble as a kid, and as much as I hate to say it, still works just as well today…sigh.

Click Here to read about how toilet paper can solve the global oil crisis – no really!