Secrets to Happiness: Secret #16

UPDATE: Jocelyn would like for me to point out that this photograph is not from our kitchen. I agree with her and apologize to her for perhaps leading some of you to believe that I was representing my own home. I was not.

Much like the not-so-secret Secret to Happiness #5, this one has to do with a relatively simple household chore. You can probably guess from the photo.

Do the dishes

Daily. Don't go to bed until they are cleaned and put away or loaded in the dishwasher. Turn the dishwasher on before turning out the lights.

Dishes...for most of us, they aren't really a problem. But for some of us, they are a big deal. We don't have the energy or desire to tackle them, we have odd shaped glasses that don't fit in the dishwasher, or we made something that sticks to the sides of a saucepan. We can find a million excuses for not doing them until tomorrow.

Bad idea.

Because tomorrow the task won't be any more desirable. If a guy lives alone or with one or more male roommates--I'm about to make a sweeping generalization--he is at least 50% likely to let dishes stack in the sink for two days or more. In some extreme cases, pestilence can find a foothold amid the debris. We hope that someone will take pity on us or be filled with enough disgust to take care of the problem.

Dishes. Makes me think of a quote of The Lord of the Rings, when one character picks ups the ring that Frodo has dropped. He says, "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing."

That's the way I feel about a meal's worth of dishes.

A clean counter and sink is a real boost to happiness. If you don't like doing the dishes, then learn how to like it. They aren't going away. If you have a family, split up the work. Everyone can pitch in and get it done faster.

By the way, this includes putting clean dishes away once the dishwasher has finished.

You don't live out of your laundry room and baskets for clothes, do you? (If so, that'll be addressed in some future secret.) Don't live out of your dishwasher for glasses and plates and silverware.

Here are some suggestions to ease the pain:

1) Load the dishwasher immediately after using something. Exception is your drink glass, which you should use for the day.

2) Limit your use of difficult to wash glassware or dishes. This includes narrow stemware, fancy china, or anything that isn't dishwasher safe. They just discourage you from washing.

3) For handwashing, have a dish soap dispenser, sponge, and, optionally, rubber gloves (that fit you) available near the sink. For dishwashers, have the detergent and rinses handy.

For handwashing:

4) Buy a cheap dishrack to allow items to drain and dry that you've handwashed.

5) If you want to hand dry, keep a supply of linen dish towels clean and available. After a day's use, put them in the laundry.

6) Buy bottle brushes and scrub pads for hard to reach interiors and heavy scrubbing, respectively.

7) Wash glassware first. Pots and pans last. Change the water when it needs to be changed.

When dishes are dry:

8) Put them away.

I'm certain that most of you already know and do this. If so, I'd love to hear your suggestions for making this as painless as possible.

If there are multiple people in the house, I believe that everyone should share this chore. No one should be left to do this alone.

Unless I am visiting my parents. Then Mom can take care of them.

Alison

She had found a seat, part of a row of cheap imitation black leather and chrome seats which can be found in every airport in the world. She could see straight down the hallway where passengers were arriving from Terminal C. A steady swell of them flowed up the hallway. She thought that a large flight or two must have just deplaned.

She sat there, self-consciously, on the edge of the seat, leaning left, then right, straining to spot her mother. She didn’t like these crowds. They were all so busy, pretending to ignore her, but she believed they were scrutinizing and evaluating her. She already knew her nose was too big, as were her hips. She had a fleshy chin and she wore thick dark tortoise shell earrings that clashed with her pale skin.

She tugged the ends of her shorts, trying to cover the milkiest areas of her thighs. Her hair, pulled back severely, hung in a bushy red tail. Her glasses, too large by a decade, did not give her that sexy librarian look that she so envied. She kept the top two buttons undone on her blue gingham blouse, revealing a freckly chest with no cleavage. She wore simple tan flats because she was embarrassed by her tiny toenails. She felt mousy and suburban and uncomfortable.

People continued to march up the hall and out of Terminal C. Men in gray and navy blue, lightly rumpled, trudged along with heavy shoulder bags and speaking loudly and authoritatively into headsets about signing papers and setting up critical meetings. Women, in pantsuits or tight skirts, looked tidier, but talked into the same phones and said the same things. Their shoes, though, made annoying prissy clicks once they left the carpet and hit the glossy stone tiles.

Shifting her legs to make them look smaller and seeing no sign of her mother, she settled back to wait, half closing her eyes, trying to block out the people. She listened to warnings about abandoning luggage and trusting strangers. The deep plaintive voice of a singer crooned a love song through tinny speakers and the rumble of wheeled bags and the rhythmic clacking of shoes kept her immersed in yet disconnected from the crowd.

She leaned back and ran her hand through the tight strands of her hair when she sensed someone looking at her. She opened her eyes and saw a man, maybe thirty, flashing a smile at her and walking toward her from the Terminal C hallway. His teeth were white and straight. His lapis eyes and his short curled hair gave him an exotic air. His suit was a professional’s blue, the shirt crisp and white, the tie straight and subdued. His shoes were polished and bright. He wore a class ring and a gold wristwatch.

He looked into her eyes with happy recognition. She was still leaning back, taking in his beauty, when her self-awareness caught up with her. She had splayed her legs at a most unflattering angle. With some difficulty she sat up just as the man was within two steps of her.

“Alison?” he said. His voice was full of hope and excitement, both high and cheerful.

She pushed her glasses back on her nose and looked into his sparkling blue eyes. She opened her mouth, but no words formed. Her lips felt dry. Here was a man. A man was talking to her, in an airport. And a handsome man at that.

“Alison?” she repeated in a choked voice.

His smile left his face. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. His cheeks flushed a hint of pink. “I’m sorry. But you look like…you look like someone I used to know.”

“Oh,” she said in a downward aching tone. She wanted to change her previous answer, but the moment was gone. She could’ve been Alison. She could’ve been the Alison who had the terrible accident and lost her memories. This fantasy rolled through her mind as she kept her eyes locked on his, looking up at him from her cheap black leather and chrome airport seat.

“I’m sorry. I can’t…you look just like her. It is so strange. You look just like her and…I haven’t thought about her in years,” he said. He gave her a thin-lipped smile of embarrassment.

“Oh,” she said again. She smiled a sad sympathetic smile and tilted her head. She could love this man, she thought. He was so handsome and vulnerable.

As if he heard her thoughts, he said, “Whew, my heart is racing. When I saw you…I couldn’t believe it. I thought, ‘Alison! After all these years.’” He touched his forehead. “Well, I better be…”

“What were you going to say to her?” she blurted out, maybe too loudly.

He laughed a good tension relieving laugh. She smiled wider but couldn’t catch her breath enough to laugh with him. She kept his eyes in view.

He clucked his tongue and sighed. “I would have said, ‘Ally, I’ve missed you.’ And then I’d sit and talk about the old days, if she had the time.”

She inhaled deeply. “I wish I were Alison,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.

If he heard her, he didn’t show it, but he gave her a sympathetic smile and said, “I’m sorry to have bothered you. I really am.” He looked at his watch. “You have a great day. Take care.”

“Ok,” she said. “You have a good day, too.” The words came out strangled as if she couldn’t suppress her anguish. And she watched him gracefully walk away, probably toward baggage claim and rental cars.

She sat. Then stood. She paced. Five minutes later, her mother trundled up the hall from Terminal C. She ran to her, hugged her vigorously, and took her carry-on bag. She wanted to hurry her along to baggage claim.

“What is going on, child?” her mother said. “What are you so excited about?”

She didn’t answer right away. She continued walking and smiling.

She felt, she knew, that love was possible. She wanted to hang on to that knowledge for as long as she could.