The dishes won't do themselves (or... How I lost and Sink won).

The key to consistency is... well, being consistent.  

Consistency can be defined in a few different ways.  

In the culinary world, consistency is the difference between something that might be runny,  perfectly light and airy, or as dense as a cinder block. Since I am not a baker, and I barely consider myself a cook, I will for the moment refrain from using culinary metaphors.

In other areas of life, consistency takes a different form.  In theory, consistency can lead to habits.  These can be good or bad.  An example of the good:  Doing daily maintenance on the litter box has obvious and noticeable positive effects.  And being consistent in this leads to one of the better habits a person could (and typically a happier feline).  An example of the bad:  Ignoring the little box for days on end, despite the best intentions of daily cleaning.  Again, the results are obvious and noticeable.  And make for a foul smell and an unhappy feline. 

This is admittedly not my strong point in certain areas.  Some things, I am religiously consistent about.  Like, I shower every day.  Were I to not do this, I believe the results would be quite obvious, and generally unpleasant for those around me.

Other things, despite my best intentions, tend to fall by the wayside until it becomes something I absolutely have to do.  Like doing the dishes.  Believe me, I have the best of intentions.  Make dinner, eat dinner, clean up the mess.  I seem to be pretty solid in the make dinner part.  And the eat dinner part is a no-brainer.  But that damned "clean up the mess" part.  This gets me every time.  

When I was a kid, and in reality a teenager too, I was a pro at making a mess in the kitchen, eating whatever concoction I managed to produce, and leaving a sink full of dirty dishes.  And magically, for a time, if I left the dishes in the sink long enough they would manage to clean themselves.  And the process would repeat itself.  

That is until my dirty dishes magically disappeared from the sink and appeared in my bed.  Apparently my mother's generally good nature has its limits.  Lets be perfectly clear on this one: I held no actual belief the dishes took care of themselves.  I was fully aware of mom's involvement.  I Was also fully aware I was taking advantage of the situation.  What I was completely unaware of was the fact it was a source of disgruntlement.  Yes, I was a typical idiot teenager.  

Lets go ahead a fast forward a bit, say 30 years (give or take a few). Last night I found myself staring at my sink.  Its a double welled sink and I have no dishwasher.  The left hand well is full of dirty dishes.  The right one is empty (its my preferred side for whatever kitchen oriented task is at hand so I keep it empty and will risk the mountain of dishes in the other).  Last night I needed a spoon.  And they are all dirty.  As I stared at my sink I started talking to it.  It was a decidedly one sided conversation.  It just stared at me with glaring contempt:

Me:  Hmm... There is a spoon in you somewhere....

Sink:  .....

Me:  Why does all the silverware disappear to the bottom anyway?

Sink:  ....

Me:  You know, if you cleaned yourself you would really develop a sense of accomplishment and and a deeper understand your own self-worth.  

Sink:  ....

Me:  And I really feel like should you clean yourself up I will feel like you are doing more to pull your weight around here.

Sink:  ....

Me:  On the positive side, I feel like if I leave you for one more day I won't find you in my bed when I get home from work.

Sink:  ....

Me:  What, you got nothing constructive to say?  

Sink:  ....

Seriously, this conversation happened.  Sadly, I feel like Sink came out on top of this one, and I'm not even quite sure how.  Sink's ability to simply remain calm and quiet is infuriating.

So, Sink still sits full on the left hand side.  I remain somewhat defiant in the face of this.

Well played, Sink.  Well played.  But, I found a plastic spoon, anyway.