We were all sick on the weekend. Feeling like crap and about ready to die. Seriously. So I convince The Dad (aka the ex) take us to the doctor's. I'm sans vehicle so I have to beg for the favours whenever I can. He obliges and picks us all up. He's apparently a braver man than most because he'll be in close confines with us - at the doctor's office they masked us in the waiting room and then whisked us off into an exam room all by ourselves. Our doctor wore a mask the whole time she treated us and after she escorted us out the back door! Even though she had just declared us H1N1-free! (Which is obviously what all the precautions were about - everyone is scared sh*tless of this thing.) But anyway:
The Dad also stops at the drug store so we can fill our numerous prescriptions (whole family full of asthmatics that were apparently not managing our asthma very well, what with expired puffers, etc.) and we picked up some soup for lunch. Later on, after the girls and I have been fed (The Boy was out of town for the week) and are relaxing on the couch (read sleeping and snoring) I begin thinking of the various household chores that need to be done. And I cringe. I moan. I practically cry. Because I didn't do a damn thing all weekend - we were sick dammit.
The next day, we're all back to work/school (remember no one has H1N1, just me and The Girl have viral bronchitis, so we're doing the phlegmy cough thing and yes a bit contagious... but I sit off by myself in an office and haven't been talking to people too much, and she's just going in to pick up some work/do a class activity). So we suffer through Tuesday and then crash that again night. Note no mention of household chores being done. We're scraping by people. But at this point the kitchen sink at the very least needs some attention. And I am loathe to address it! I begin hinting to The Girl that the house is slowly turning into a sty and brace myself for the showdown.
But since I brought dinner home on Tuesday evening, The Girl is feeling a little giddy (it's called a Poutine High) and she actually offers to do the dishes. Say what?! I mean this girl has not washed a dish in weeks, I swear, and blatantly refuses household chores when I try to assign them to her (teenage girls are a lovely thing folks). And here she is offering to do the dishes. Well praise the Lord, now I am giddy. Ah the power of Poutine. But wait - she does clarify that she'll do them the next day, since she has no classes on Wednesdays. Hmm... now I'm suspicious. Then she adds taking the bins out to the curb (Thursday is waste collection) and I'm sold. Deal! I straighten up the dining room table and clean the bird's cage. It's the bare minimum but it'll do.
So the next morning I leave early in the morning and don't even think twice about the sink. I know my teenager would not mislead me, she wouldn't toy with my emotions about something as serious as doing the dishes. Except, she does. Meaning she doesn't do the dishes. All day on Wednesday she is home, by herself (the pets barely count), and she doesn't do them. Plus she adds more dishes to the pile. But I'm too drained to fight. I leave it. And tell myself I'll talk to her later or I'll find the energy to do them myself. I clean the bathroom sink that evening and decide that's all I got in me. Dishes be damned!
On Thursday morning I sweep right past them again (literally, I swept up the more noticeably bits of debris in the kitchen that morning instead of washing dishes)... but I know they're there, taunting me. I hate dishes. I'm out late on Thursday evening (Smalley has dance class) and when I get home I send up a prayer to Molly Maid that The Girl made good on her promise before I walked through the door. No such luck. Damn!
At this point we're eating out of the Tupperware and smell from the sink is becoming... unpleasant. So I casually ask about her promise to do the dishes and she pretends to have no clue what I'm talking about. And again, I am too tired to fight. *sigh* (However I will point out that it really was because I was sick. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not back down and I don't usually let her slide this much, but I just was Not.Up. To. The. Fight. cough hack)
Friday morning, I decide I need to document this atrocity. This is what my kitchen counter and sink looked like last Friday morning folks. And I warn you now, it's not pretty:
But I still left it. Friday morning is no time to deal with dishes like this. Heck I was willing to pick up the 12 pounds of dog sh*t in the front yard instead of facing this mountain. Besides, I knew they would be facing me that evening. And I'd find the courage to face them then. Because I know that despite her promise, The Girl was not tackling them without a fight.
But then, divine providence! The Girl text messages me during the day - she wants to sleep over at a friend's house that evening, is she allowed? As I sit at my desk reading her text the devious music begins planning in my head and the maniacal cackling begins - MUWHAHAHAhahahahahaha! I respond quickly: Yes! But only if the dishes are cleared before I get home!
Check and mate. She has no choice. She has to do them. I have been saved. I arrive home that evening with a spring in my step. I hit the couch with Smalley and we eat popcorn while we watch R. Patts on Ellen from the PVR (the Canadian equivalent of TiVO). And I enjoy the evening. Because I didn't have to do the dishes.
Sometimes you gotta bask in the small victories people.