I should be writing something other than a blog entry right now. A cover letter, some copy for a certain website, maybe even some poetry.
Perhaps it's some kind of compulsion to procrastinate.
I am blaming the bloody broken dishwasher for my lack of productivity.
The damned thing has been growling for months. Saturday, it leaked a big 'ol puddle of water on the floor--which of course I discovered after stepping in it.
I am convinced that major appliances are designed to fall apart within a certain amount of time. (In this case, eight years.) It's a conspiracy.
I think I dislike washing dishes by hand.
I try to see it as some kind of Zen thing...to approach the task mindfully, take my time, use it as a meditative moment, since I'm also working on this "slowing down" business...
But it feels like a time-waster.
How quickly we become dependent on our machines.
At the risk of sounding like somebody's grandma, talking about walking to school in the snow (uphill, both ways) I feel compelled to mention that we did not have a dishwasher in the house when I was a kid. My sister and I did the dishes by hand, taking turns with washing or drying and putting them away. It never seemed like that big of a deal.
Later on, my mom got one of those big old-fashioned dishwashers on wheels, that we stored in the corner of the kitchen, and rolled over to the sink after dinner. It had a hose that hooked up to the faucet.
I haven't thought about that in years.
Boy, that thing was ugly. And HEAVY.
And yeah, I am indeed so compulsive that all the forks and spoons must dry in a straight line, in the vicinity of like utensils.
It's a sickness.
Enough of this rambling! I've got dishes to dry.
Blood Pudding Press notes
3 hours ago