Wednesday
Apr112007
Holy God, A Man Washed My Dishes
Posted By 
Noelle | Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Noelle | Wednesday, April 11, 2007 A Vintage Post, retrieved from Scrubbed Innocence.
A man offered to wash my dishes. Without prompting, he offered to wash my dishes.
A MAN OFFERED TO WASH MY DISHES. All of them. And he did.
A MAN WASHED MY DISHES! And his work was swift and thorough. And he sang a little song while he worked.
HE WASHED MY DISHES. All of them.
Could he have known this was my secret dream? Could he have known he was the first to grant my secret wish, a wish I had wished to the universe as fervently as if wishing were worth anything at all? He did it. He washed my dishes, thus securing his place in my personal history of unforgettable people, and, it is likely, earning the unending respect and adoration of my mother, to be realized should they ever meet, which may or may not occur, considering that, according to my hard-fought though regrettably persistent cynicism, our coalescence is likely to be, as it seems are all things contemporary, a flash in the pan. But oh, how he would scrub that pan!
Stars, when you shine, you know how I feel. Scent of the pine, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life... for me... And that fresh pine scent has ultra-grease-cutting action, yet it's mild on the delicate skin of your hands! Or his.
A man washed my dishes.
Flowers are easy, and they die. Candy gives you diabetes. Jewelry, schmewelry. Sex, hex. All pale to a dip in that dirty dishwater every now and again. A drink from a clean cup feels wetter on the lips!
Only a handful of men have really used my dishes, if you know what I mean. Now and then, a passerby might drink from one of my cups, but I don't offer my spoons and bowls to just anyone. And this is not because I attribute any special significance to cutlery and flatware (that would be ridiculous), but because often times my attention span for people has expired before they've even made it two steps into the kitchen. As a lot, people are endlessly fascinating to me. Social pathology CAN be fun! Individually, however, they can play only as long as their imaginations are wide, and, as it turns out, a lot of people enjoy the comfort of walls. A lot of people live in imaginations smaller than my kitchen. But the words "impossible" and "unrealistic" are not allowed there! Laughter is required in all rooms of the house, and playful banter makes any chore a lark (Spoonful of Sugar, anyone?). So does nudity, or costumes.
A man washed my dishes. And he wore a silver apron.
The historical roster of kitchen visitors has been cleared but for one name: the name of the man who washed my dishes, without prompting (!), completely and thoroughly, and then wiped the counters and the stove, and then took me to bed.
It is almost as miraculous a feat as building a tower. Very close.
A MAN OFFERED TO WASH MY DISHES. All of them. And he did.
A MAN WASHED MY DISHES! And his work was swift and thorough. And he sang a little song while he worked.
HE WASHED MY DISHES. All of them.
Could he have known this was my secret dream? Could he have known he was the first to grant my secret wish, a wish I had wished to the universe as fervently as if wishing were worth anything at all? He did it. He washed my dishes, thus securing his place in my personal history of unforgettable people, and, it is likely, earning the unending respect and adoration of my mother, to be realized should they ever meet, which may or may not occur, considering that, according to my hard-fought though regrettably persistent cynicism, our coalescence is likely to be, as it seems are all things contemporary, a flash in the pan. But oh, how he would scrub that pan!
Stars, when you shine, you know how I feel. Scent of the pine, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life... for me... And that fresh pine scent has ultra-grease-cutting action, yet it's mild on the delicate skin of your hands! Or his.
A man washed my dishes.
Flowers are easy, and they die. Candy gives you diabetes. Jewelry, schmewelry. Sex, hex. All pale to a dip in that dirty dishwater every now and again. A drink from a clean cup feels wetter on the lips!
Only a handful of men have really used my dishes, if you know what I mean. Now and then, a passerby might drink from one of my cups, but I don't offer my spoons and bowls to just anyone. And this is not because I attribute any special significance to cutlery and flatware (that would be ridiculous), but because often times my attention span for people has expired before they've even made it two steps into the kitchen. As a lot, people are endlessly fascinating to me. Social pathology CAN be fun! Individually, however, they can play only as long as their imaginations are wide, and, as it turns out, a lot of people enjoy the comfort of walls. A lot of people live in imaginations smaller than my kitchen. But the words "impossible" and "unrealistic" are not allowed there! Laughter is required in all rooms of the house, and playful banter makes any chore a lark (Spoonful of Sugar, anyone?). So does nudity, or costumes.
A man washed my dishes. And he wore a silver apron.
The historical roster of kitchen visitors has been cleared but for one name: the name of the man who washed my dishes, without prompting (!), completely and thoroughly, and then wiped the counters and the stove, and then took me to bed.
It is almost as miraculous a feat as building a tower. Very close.
1 comment:
It's true. It's sexy. Tor-sexy. And angellic. Ripped-muscles-and-witty-brain-indicative-angellic. Ride that angel, frauline.
KML