doin' the dishes

Be it unbelievable, I am at this moment doing the dishes. They're soaking, actually. That is to say, I am a young single male not yet settled on a particular dish. A dish is a slightly antiquated way of saying attractive young woman. I've only heard my mother say it, who was a wealth of vocabulary to me in her time. Perhaps it's too soon, but I'm attempting to revive "dish" in the hipster vernacular with the pun of doin' dishes. The idea came about when a friend related to a friend that he takes his shirt off when doing the dishes to keep the shirt from getting wet. I responded that I always take my shirt off when doin' a dish, too, for the same reason. The comment was discarded, possibly for the inclusion of the outdated homonym. It didn't take much for the catch phrase, "like noneother" to catch on, once I uttered it around some kids in an urban neighborhood. Maybe this trendsetter's spotlight is waning. Naturally, it took some coaxing of the interests to get to this point of dish doing, tonight. Please read on.

Waiting for phonecalls is an effective method of procrastination. My apartment was a heap of clothes and miscellany, biting at my heels when traipsed. I'd lay a few eggs of correspondence via telephone, and wait for them to hatch. Pointless activities ensued whist it seemed as if important time was being spent. The apartment was temporarily no longer at my throat. Once a party did call back, the red eyes of responsibility toward the mess were thoroughly at bay. While I was waiting, I found myself cleaning my glasses, as I can be found doing at many points when I am trying to avoid doing something. But I had taken the cleaning a step further, popping out each lens. I attempted to clean the gunk hanging out on the underside of the bridgerests... Bridgerests. It kind of sounds like a hip way of saying "breasts" Like, "biotch" or "shizit." I'll have to try that out on someone. In any case, my glasses are half-rimless, so I ran my fingers over each lenses' underwire. Pretty soon, I had a plan. I would begin cleaning my apartment without the help of my glasses, then I'd see what I missed at the end. How zany is that?

At first it was a bit like an image-enhancing effect like you see on emotional talkshows like Montel Williams. Kind of misty, tears-welling blur. I began to clean. There's an even tradeoff in going for a quarter on the floor, and finding it to be a guitar pick; as there is in going for a guitar pick and finding it to be a quarter. I encountered many little notes a friend had written me a while back, and some photos of better times. There were momentos of family, things from people now obscured by the mists. I was wearing a Jennifer Aniston face through much of the cleaning. Ok, Montel and Ms. Aniston; I'll be checking my usage stats for Google hits on those two. Without my glasses, I began to take on some amount of tunnel vision. I became sidetracked with small items, carrying out their destinies. A slip of paper bearing a phone number needed scrawling on the designated paper next to the phone. As my eyes were able to focus better, more little papers in the area came in to view. They were, as well, scrawled. All this, still, should have been done with the aid of my glasses. Decisions of which bits of paper to keep and which to discard should have too, but I was wearing blinders.

What appeared to be drafts of letters or lyrics or other sensitive information were systematically shredded. I've always wanted a shredder, and perhaps I'll ask for the dicing model this Christmas. But, there are manual methods I feel adequate. For those who can identify, and for those who always wanted a sure fire quick and dirty shred, follow these: Take paper in hand, rip once in half, stack, rip once in half, restack, rip once in half, restack, repeat as necessary. The bulk of the cleaning did not involve relocation of papers, however. A friend who did call back stirred my fears more by saying I must start with laundry, and, "Get 'er done." Dealing with paper is at least stimulating. It's like writing a blog while you're doin' a dish__it's having some reading material while you work. I made a few extra phone calls, and I believe I set about cleaning my ears. I found, however, sorting laundry without my glasses on, was an experience. Foul odors, or spring fresh scents were intensified with my near blindness. Relying primarily on my sense of smell, the task was completed expediently.

In many apartments, there might be the tendency for a movie, music, or video game collection to get out of hand. My disarray of compact discs are contained in a chamber below my feet, having converted what wasn't damaged to digital format on my desktop computer. I own three DVDs. All of them are computer games. Most real dishes probably know that these are the top three signs they are dating a nerd. Well, if I was dating someone right now, who knows what I might be cleaning up. My mind is led to the bathroom. No, I have no natural urge at the moment, but it something I've thus far neglected to document. The bathroom has been just that, neglected, for some time. The place doesn't scare me, but I'm afraid it will scare guests. I have faith the water will drain, but I can't always rely on my friends. There's a chance I'll get on my knees and scrub eventually. I just hope I don't walk in on a lady trying to relieve herself in a standing position.

This night cannot go down in history without respect paid to the Coca-Cola corporation. There is an outstanding 20 ounce Diet Coke machine within a two minute walk from my residence. The cold beverage is served at a price of only 75 cents, which is a good fifty percent markdown from many button-bearing bandits in this city. They say caffeine, and most stimulants produce a false sense of alertness. Is that to say narcotics produce a false sense of sleep? Come to think of it, the morning after seems to say it as such. Statistics on the cleanup include 16 intact guitar picks recovered, 2 additional: broken. I've since donned my spectacles and hunted down that nondescript ball of lint I took note of while in a frenzy of recovering a group of ballpoint pens I thought I'd lost. Apparently, my tunnel vision lingers. I've let the dishwater grow cold while slashing and pounding at the keyboard. If I had a dish to do at the moment, in the metaphorical sense, she might be as cold and stagnant as the water. With a metaphorical overtone here, too; I suppose I'll pull the drain, and let the cups and plates settle 'til I run water over them again. Figure that out.