Living with a dishwasher

You may have noticed that the activity here at Living With No Dishwasher has died down considerably in recent weeks. I would apologize for this, but my ninth-grade speech teacher taught me never to start off a speech with an apology. I assume the same goes for blogging as well.

Instead, I'll offer you an explanation. You see, last week I made my annual trip to Texas, where I'm spending the next month celebrating the holidays with my family. Anyone that's ever met anyone from Texas knows that that second anyone thinks Texas is great. I too think Texas is great, as I am represented by that second anyone. The weather here is pleasant. You can buy beer in grocery stores. And I'm pretty sure Texas is the one place that Rick Perry is not during the campaign season. So, bonus points for being topical.

The problem is that I'm staying with my parents. OK, the problem is not that I'm staying with my parents. They're perfectly fine people (My mom's the only person who officially follows my blog). The problem is that my parents have a dishwasher and my mom has plenty of time on her hands. So I never get to do the dishes anymore. In the last week, I think I've washed a cup (plastic, completion time: 1 sec, playlist: silence). While I appreciate the vacation, you, as the reader, deserve more from this blog.

So fear not, my friends, for I* have come up with a solution. Rather than put my dirty dishes in the sink, I've started hiding them in my bedside table. Then, in about a week or so, I'll wait for my parents to leave the house and return to my rightful place as Supreme Dish Washer.

Or, I'll forget about the dishes for a while and leave them in the bedside tablet until my Live-In Girlfriend (LIGF) comes and stays with me in a few weeks. The smell, I assume, should be pretty hilarious.

*Actually, it was my buddy Sam's idea. He's a real ladykiller**.

**Literally