I have idiosyncrasies like everyone else does - those things that one does that defy logic and reason, except in one's own addled head. They can sometimes be silly, quirky things that people adore: "Oh that James and his high-stepping gait," but mostly they are the darker side of an individual, no less quirky or silly, but much less endearing.
One of my poorer qualities is that my brain has convinced itself that NO MATTER WHAT, if I have made the dinner, I shall not wash the dishes. Or stated more truthfully, I may wash the dishes, but I will pout and feel sorry for myself the entire time, then spend the rest of the evening dark-eyed and moody. It is beyond dumb, I know. Regardless, it happens. It happened the night before last. My wife should have full authority to call me a baby and tell me to get a hold of myself, however, she is much too gracious a person for that, so she made certain that I knew she would wash the shit out of last night's dishes, and she did.
This has been an incredibly long buildup to what I actually have to say tonight, but it is necessary. Totally necessary. So, tonight, I decide to man the hell up and just wash the dishes, no whining. Big step for me. As anyone stuck with first world problems such as no dishwasher in the kitchen would know, you must first empty your drying rack. Cool, no problem. Usually this is where my moodiness takes hold and I crash and bang pots and plates together so everyone in the house knows how phenomenally unfair it is that I am doing this chore. Not this time, though - I've turned a new leaf. So, I begin carefully placing all of our mismatched earthenware into the cupboards, have all the silverware in the drawer with nary a clanging of metal, and all there is left is this metal disc, at the bottom of our chrome drying rack. I reach for it, and it refuses to budge.
It is one of these: --------------------------------------------------------->
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(those arrows are completely necessary for formatting purposes, trust me)
Now, those awesome blades, which had most recently been used to puree some wonderful herbage for green mashed potatoes, were lodged between the chrome wires of the rack. If you have never washed a blender, and grazed a knuckle against one of these modern marvels, you would have no idea that they are actually made of the universe's sharpest material.
I begin to wrestle with this sharp bastard with all the caution I can muster, but the more I twist and turn, the more stuck it seems to get in this besotted drying apparatus. I now am loudly cursing the fact we have no dishwasher. This is reminding me of one of those twisted nail "get it unstuck" puzzles that grandparents inexplicably find joy in watching their grandsons have aneurysms trying to figure out.
(spoiler alert)
Only in this case, the nails are actually razor sharp blades designed to puree any object they come in contact with, and my grandpa is actually my own pride telling me if I don't get this mothereffer unstuck I should seriously slap myself hard.
I continue, by now my digits looking like I just completed a marathon thumb-wrestling competition with Edward Scissorhands.
Truthfully, the end of this story is not nearly as triumphant as it should be - although I did manage to employ the use of a single chopstick, a pink pig spatula, and one leather gardening glove in the release of the death blades. I held it aloft in the kitchen, alone, gave the old self-satisfied grin & nod, and pretty much just put the blender away. But I REALLY put it away, if you know what I mean.
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