scrubbing things

I washed a lot of dishes today. What an exercise in embracing futility. I did just fine for a while; I was contemplative, and found my inner zen goddess while standing still and scrubbing. And scrubbing. And scrubbing.

There are some things that just refuse to be scrubbed away.

I ignored all of the eating behind me, the clank and clatter of silverware on the newly dirtied plates and bowls. A mug bounces across the floor, but only after it has been filled with milk.  Never before.  Isn't that just the way it goes.

There can be no mess where there is an absence of medium.

I envy people sometimes who do not cook. It must be so wonderfully easy to throw fish sticks on a tray and to consider ketchup a vegetable. Sometimes I wish I could eat trash like that and feel okay afterward. It would be so much easier.

Tonight's dinner was a bit much, I freely admit that. I had a gallon of milk going south, and some spinach that was not far behind the milk. I made ricotta cheese instead of feeding the milk to the drain, and made a baked pasta dish with the cheese, spinach, and sausage. It was lovely; it was too much.

I wish I had a gauge that had more measurements on it than "just good enough, I suppose" and "epic fail". My perception of myself is so skewed. It makes me wonder if my perception of everything is skewed as well.

Skew, askew, skewer, skewed. 

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