Not that I’d ever share this with anyone but I get a sort of vervey thrill from The Aftermath. It’s like I am Chuck Yeager and it is the sound barrier and I am going to break that mother fucker, with ease.
I go about things in a diabolically organized and mindful way. Overseeing the damage with a calm heart and then deciding where I need to start chipping away, because that is where all the rest of it will follow—digging each dessert plate our from under giant platters.
The layers of dishes and napkins and water pitchers and silverware and plates are simply remnants and reminders that my guests had fun. So, as I dive in with my serious cleaning face on, I dismember each and every pile that has been created, remembering that NO MATTER HOW MUCH LAST MINUTE MARTHA STEWART STEPHEN HAWKING PLANNING YOU DO everything goes to hell in a hand basket in the last four minutes before the feast is served. There is no way around this.
And so, as I gird my loins for the battle that I am about to fight, I like to whisper in my ear that it’s all done for a good cause and as the warm water flows over my shriveled up hands I say a little prayer that the mountain of The Aftermath just represents the amount of fun all the players had.
Keep On Scrubbin’
Deidre the Dishwasher