One night I was reading in bed. My bed-mate was already snoozy snoring so I was using my handy dollar store clip-on reading light. It's the kind of light that is just barely light enough to see; sort of. So I hit the end of my book and glanced at the picture of the author on inside of the back cover. I took a double take. Then a triple. My nose was practically pressed against the book trying to see in my dim dollar light. By George, I'd just finished reading my second book by this same author only to realize I knew her! I went to junior high school with her, but had obviously lost track of her and didn't know her married name. The next day I headed to the library and got more books by her. I had enjoyed the two books I'd already read and she was such a nice girl in junior high.
So, I enjoyed some of her books more than others, but overall, liked my old chum's writing. There was one book that has stuck with me and caused a great deal of thought, though. It's not so much the story line or anything, but a quirky habit of the main character. This woman (whose name I can't even recall) experienced life, tragedy, miracles, success, you name it. This is the clincher - you ready? When the life, tragedy, and stress hit, she had a peculiar way of handling it. Really ready? She washed dishes!! Seriously folks, she filled the sink with hot, soapy water and washed the spaghetti sauce off stoneware. She'd stick her arms elbows-deep into the comforting suds and think. She'd think, pray, cry, laugh -- a regular catharsis. Her dishwasher sat brand new and unused as she hand-washed amid epiphany.
This talented author described the suds and warm water in such a way that I believed her...almost.
I have thought about this over and over -- mostly when I'm washing dishes. I've come to the conclusion that I must be doing it wrong. I don't enjoy it, for one. Also, I don't feel calmed, comforted, or cathartic. Mostly I just feel like I need to hurry and get it over with 'cause I don't like touching used food.
In an effort to make this whole thing work for me, I went to the store and bought some new dish soap. Palmolive. I remember having that kind at my kitchen sink when I was a kid. I quite enjoy the smell and thought that perhaps it would make me all nostalgic and comfort-y. All it really did was make me remember the time I washed cupcake tins with it and didn't get all the soap washed out before I baked in them. Blueberry muffins that tasted like Palmolive. Yuck.
I tried so hard. I looked at my list of things I would like to do when I feel upset or stressed. Drink Diet Coke, eat chocolate, read a book and hide from the world... nope, no dish washing. Nothing, in fact, that is at all productive or effective in cleaning my house. Drat.
I was feeling kind of bad about myself, but then started wondering if this lady and her dishwashing-therapy was even for real. Perhaps nobody does that and it was just for the story. You know, like literary license. I thought about emailing the author to voice my concern, but decided not to. After all, I did like her books and she was such a nice girl in junior high.
