The Freelance Retort: The Chore of Chores

Graphic by KROMKRATHOG

The Freelance Retort by Brian Moloney

Z left the dishwasher running this morning, which is usually a sign.

A sign that I’m supposed to unload it once it’s done.

Because to unload it before it’s done, is not advised.

I know….

Now….

So I wait until it’s finished…completely.

And there actually is a sign that tell me the dishwasher is running, left right there on the counter, over where the actual dishwashing process is occurring.

You know, because sometimes I find the sound of sloshing water and strange humming sounds to be of undetermined origins, better left to those that investigate the paranormal.

What?

It was a natural conclusion.

Of course, I have most of the day to work myself up to it…like when I see Z’s car pulling into the driveway at 5:30.

But in any case, it’s not a big deal…or at least as big a deal as I make it out to be on occasion…so I’ve been told.

I mean, I’ve been doing this on and off for 13 odd years.

Odd being, the operative word.

So I have it down pretty well.

A place for everything and everything in its place.

Except for the occasional odd shaped items that don’t seem to have a place.

Like serving bowls and casserole dishes and those other things that you use for chafing or something…which at least to me…seems really odd.

I told you…“odd” is the operative word here.

Anyway, I can handle the mugs and dishes, both large and small…and the bowls all have their place, as well, whether they’re ice cream bowls or cereal bowls.

No problem there…as easy as a baby’s jigsaw puzzle.

But those—again—odd shaped things…especially the ones that tend to have handles…or come in peculiar colors, like amber…those tend to be problematic in finding their way back home.

Of course I tried that old standby method of just leaving them out on the counter where they somehow find their way…all on their own…once Z gets home.

But that particular method is often frowned upon.

So now I make an attempt to do the right thing…as Z likes to refer to it…which I find a little melodramatic.

So I open this cupboard and that, looking for a clue.

Hmmmm…these things look like they might be related to those things…so maybe they belong here.

Or you might find an opening on top of some other dishes or bowls…and let’s face it, once the cupboard door is closed…out of sight, out of mind.

Or so you would think.

Not always the case.

Because sometime there can be shifting…and sometimes there can be clunking…behind those cupboard doors.

And then you know…you don’t want to be in the kitchen come dinner prep time later that evening.

“GET IN HERE!” is usually how it starts.

“Just a second…I almost have all my Zombies locked up in the barn!”

Which is usually followed by “NOW!”

A solitary, monosyllabic word that’s generally not wise to ignore.

“What’s the problem?” I ask, genuinely befuddled as to what could be the matter.

“That’s the problem,” Z says, pointing toward the leaning tower of assorted odd shaped bowls and covers that are—at least I think— expertly stacked and balanced atop one another…as long as you don’t need to retrieve any of them for the foreseeable future.

“Nice, huh?” I say, actually expecting praise for my stacking acumen...not berated because some people lack the capacity to appreciate flair.

“And does the pasta bowl really belong in the Microwave…or the colander in the oven?”

I actually wasn’t even sure what a colander was, other than something that tells you what day of the week it is…but, still…I thought it wise to sheepishly shake my head, no.

“No…and is the silverware supposed to just jump out of the basket, on the counter, where somebody left it, and into the drawer, on its own?”

“It usually does…as far as I know” was my response…which was apparently the wrong response.

Over the years I’ve learned to read Z’s expressions, and the one that involves actual fire emanating from her eyes, is the one that says…well, you don’t really need to know what it says.

Just know that I grabbed the basket of silverware and began the tedious chore of sorting and arranging each spoon, knife and fork, by size and purpose, into their allocated slots, most of which were already brimming over, because you don’t want to be caught short on eating utensils, should the Third Army decide to drop in for cake.

Dull knives, sharp knives, steak knives…all in their place. Dinner forks, desert forks, soup spoons, tea spoons, ice cream spoons, pudding spoons…all in their place…and only their place.

And then there are the large serving spoons…for which there never seems to be a place…or there might be a place, but they never seem to want to stay in that place, because serving spoons just think they’re special and can wander into any place that they want.

But what’s a few hours sorting silverware in the grand scheme of things?

I mean it could be worse…I could be organizing the garage.

Chores on top of chores on top of chores….what a chore….

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