Utopian Utensils

Four words. Kitchenaid Dish Dryer Rack. I think I just saw God.

At this moment I am rummaging through the fridge for snacks that require non-dishwasher-safe tableware. I’m not hungry. I just want to do dishes.

Gage has two grandmothers who go by the same name. There’s Granna who likes to perch Gage on a stool in her kitchen as she giddily flitters from counter to stove to refrigerator and back for hours creating delicious vittles to satiate the hunger she swears exists despite his wide eyed horror and the hand clamped over his mouth as he shakes his head slothily from side to side. Thick slabs of sticky bacon, lard-embellished biscuits, the equivalent of a stick of butter strangely calling to mind the taste of fresh baked cookies, cheesy potatoes – everything listed on the Cardiologists of America’s watch list plus a few things they can’t even fathom exist. Think state fair fare. At the end of this gorge-fest, she efficiently stows the troughs and power tools in the dishwasher and swipes the counters clean.

Then there’s Granna who avoids Mommy and Daddy’s kitchen at all costs. Granted she makes the customary biscuits, apples, and bacon breakfast to earn her room and board, but in comparison to the frenzied glee observed in her own kitchen, her performance in our kitchen is a bit deflated. And you know what? That’s really okay. I will be the first to say that there is not a person on God’s green earth who can hold a ladle to my mom’s epicurean expertise, and my husband would serve me right up as the sacrificial lamb for a strip of her bacon. We just prefer to indulge at her house.

My mom recently told my sister and my sister told me – because that’s what we do in our family…confide in one another and turn around to tell the other…not to get into anyone’s business…just to “give you a heads-up”…”You know Daddy says he hated the gift you gave him. I’m not telling you to hurt your feelings. I just thought that might be helpful information the next time you decide to ‘bake him a cake’” – that our house makes her nervous because of all the rules. Duly noted.

We don’t have a list of rules and regulations per se, but I admit that we are a bit particular. Yes, I said “we.” Lest you believe I’m the only tightly wound critter in this house, meet my husband, Mr. Closet arranged in descending color spectrum - light switches must be in uniform position before leaving a room - dishwasher must be rearranged prior to running - not all dishes belong in the dishwasher husband of mine.

Margaret Wise Brown puts it best in her description of Scuppers the Sailor Dog:

In his ship, Scuppers had a little room. In his room Scuppers had
a hook for his hat and a hook for his rope and a hook for his
handkerchief and a hook for his pants and a hook for his spyglass
and a place for his shoes and a bunk for a bed to put himself in.

At night Scuppers threw the anchor into the sea, and he went down
to his little room. He put his hat on the hook for his hat, and his
rope on the hook for his rope, and his pants on the hook for his
pants, and his spyglass on the hook for his spyglass, and he put
his shoes under the bed and got into his bed, which was a bunk, and
went to sleep.

A place for everything, and everything in its place. And not just any place; the appropriate place. I am deeply indebted to the inventors of such wonders of logic as the little cubby under my steering column that was made solely for the purpose of snuggling my owner’s manual ever so gently and making it a snap to locate in an emergency. Oh, and the guitar case. A case that is shaped just like its contents. Brilliant! You never have to waste time wondering “now where shall I store my guitar?” or “now where did that guitar get to? I can’t remember which box I stuck it in!” I can honestly say that I have likely contributed to the salary of many an employee at the various container stores I have frequented over the years.

After eight years of cohabitation, I have finally mastered the fine art of dishwasher etiquette according to Mr. Rogers - Shane not Fred, though they both have an affinity for shoes. Only dishes, glasses, everyday flatware, butter knives, and my as-seen-on-TV Ginsu knives (i.e., kitchen tools of rapid amputation) are welcome in the dishwasher. In addition to the grown-up knives, pots, pans, wine glasses, Tupperware, plastic cups, cutting boards, and cooking utensils are also registered on the national Do Not Machine Wash list. For the love of God, why do we even have a dishwasher!

Still, because I am vaguely aware that proper attention to dishwashing was finagled into our vows somewhere, I follow orders. I am a woman of my word. We also vowed to simply leave the army of dishwasher averse items on a towel next to the sink to dry until God sends us a miraculous vessel designed for such a task as this.

Enter the candy apple red Kitchenaid Dish Dryer Rack. 6.8 pounds of “heavy duty wire and rugged plastic. Angled drainboard keeps countertops clean. Soft, nonslip feet protect surfaces. The detachable flatware caddy attaches to either side of the dish rack.” A caddy! Just for flatware! EITHER SIDE!!!! Jesus does love me! The meek and the mildy obsessed shall inherit the earth. Let’s just hope by “earth” he means a sanitized, organized parallel universe closely resembling earth.

Mr. Fix It and The Boogie Man

Last night, Gage’s new Mr. Fix It Airplane spent the night on the floor – not in its assigned space on the shelf, not in its original box, not even on a proximal shelf. Mr. Fix It Airplane slept on the floor. On its side. And I don’t even know where the ill-conceived battery powered toddler drill and injury-by-orifice-penetration bits were located.

I know. I know. He’s two. We’re all sleeping. The slobberific boogie man is away on assignment. Don’t hate. I am sure he exists. I imagine him to be a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian, blond and pale with an impish grin much like my friend Serge who bided his working hours terrorizing my every anal retentive moment. It wasn’t his size that put me on edge; when you are 5’ 4” and three quarters, it’s kind of nice to have someone around who can water the plant poised atop your book shelf and fetch the errant projectile that nosedives in the small space between the desk and the window.

No, physically Serge is a gentle giant. It’s the maniacal eyes that accompany that thin-lipped grin. Serge’s nonchalant “hey, how’s it going” would be punctuated by a 3 second silent reign of terror. I would notice one corner of his mouth rise a tad higher than the other side, and the madness would begin. My eyes would be drawn to his translucent orbs as if by magnetic force; despite my greatest efforts, I could not turn away. Then the hypnotic spirals would begin and time would stand still. His x-ray vision would search the most vulnerable area of my brain – the control center – and then it was over. We’d return to the present, and I knew without a doubt that it was on. I would spend the next two hours lost in an I Spy hell searching for the one thing that had been altered whilst I had stepped away for a cup of coffee. A figurine moved 2.5” to the right. One blind raised just a hair higher than the others. A business card turned upside down. If there is indeed a boogie man that preys on the obsessive compulsive, he is most definitely a 7 foot 2 inch Scandinavian.

Aside from Mr. Fit It Airplane, everything else was in its place, so why is this such a monumental occasion? Considering that I had to talk myself into allowing this total diversion of order and government to occur, and I thought about it more than once in the night, this is a big deal.

I am a control freak. We’re not talking June Cleaver – domesticity is not a passion of mine. We’re talking Reese Witherspoon in Election, Adrian Monk, and Monica Geller all mixed together with a generous helping of Type A+ meets OCD on the side. Hmm. I think this character needs a name as to protect my identity. Let’s call this anal retentive persona – as if I have another side that wouldn’t fit under this description – well, what should we call her? What is the most stuffy, constipated, rigid, frigid name that exists in the human language?

Of course! We’ll call her Martha. Aside – My apologies to all of the Martha’s I love. You are truly wonderful women. On the other hand, this might be a good time for a little introspection. Martha as in the Felix Unger of the Biblical odd couple Martha and Mary. As not to bore you with a full sermon, here’s the long and short of it.

Martha and Mary are sisters. Jesus comes to hang out for a while. Martha plays the perfect housekeeper out of respect for Jesus and his boys. She cooks. She cleans. She primps. She polishes. I wasn’t there that day, but I would bet a lot of money – sorry, God – that not one single Mr. Fix It Airplane accessory was out of place. Then again, Martha lived with her sister and was a bit of a spinster. I’m guessing there were not too many kids to worry about, just cats. Lots and lots of hirsute kitties with names like Sampson and Esau. Okay then. There wasn’t a single cat toy in the middle of the floor or in the dust bunnies behind the stone futon. Martha put that other Martha – pre-prison, of course – to shame. She didn’t have a prayer of outdoing the present day Martha once she earned some street cred by donning that shabby chic prison poncho on release day.

As I mentioned, Martha lives with her sister Mary who, quite frankly, was really beginning to chafe on Martha. During Jesus’ stay, Mary groveled at the man’s feet and mooned at him with every word that fell from his mouth.

“God is good.”

“Oh, Jesus, you are so smart.”

“You are the dirt beneath my thonged sandals.”

“Oh, Jesus, tell me more about my sinful existence and my inevitable spiral into hell.” Mary just could not get enough of what this guy was selling.

As any self-loathing shrinking violet is wan to do when her red rose of a sister is acting the fool and getting the attention of every man in the room, Martha seethed. This wasn’t a “woe-is-me, life isn’t fair” kind of seething. This was a “screw you, little harlot. I’m telling!” kind of seething. And so she did. Martha pulled Jesus aside for a little talk. I imagine it went something like this.

“Hello, Master Jesus. I hope you have been enjoying your stay at our home. Rest assured I have done everything within my power to make you feel comfortable.”

“Why yes, Martha. Thank you for the impeccable accommodations. There is nothing like a fresh bar of rose water soap to lighten the load of thinking about my impending death by crucifixion.”

“Yes, well I’m glad you enjoyed it. I could tell you had used it by the wrapping that was left on the floor. No worries though. I picked it up and disposed of it. I mean, your time is far too important to worry about things such as picking up after yourself, you being the Son of God and all.”

“Peace be with you, Martha.”

“Yes, peace. About that. You may have noticed that I’ve been quite busy throughout the duration of your stay. Of course, I’m pleased to do it, but I wish I could say the same for my sister. I’ve noticed she’s been reclining a lot lately and butting in on your conversations. I’m sure you would be more comfortable if she was fulfilling her role of hostess by helping out a little around the house. I know I would be much more at peace. Might you have a word with her?”

You know the rest of the story. Jesus caps Martha with the business about how she is the one in the wrong because she’s too busy to follow God. Blah blah blah. Less neatening; more worshipping. Honestly though? Name one person who enjoys falling prostrate into a face-full of dried cheese crumbs and dusty cat hairballs whilst seeking the will of God.

So in an effort to see the Jesus in everyone and to treat them accordingly, I try to leave every space as it began. If you were able to fall to your knees in prayer three feet due north and two feet to the left of my front door, by God you should feel confident that that precise spot will always be awaiting you in a similar state. If a Scandinavian boogie man cased my house yesterday without tripping over Mr. Fix It Airplane, he should feel confident of having the same luxury when he returns today.