We'll Call it "The Paper Plate Rebellion"
So I was getting ready to transfer dinner from cooking pots/pans into bowls for the table yesterday. I searched frantically for the bowls I usually use for this particular meal, forgetting that Hubba-hubba had broken one. I was running a little late with the dinner, and wanted to get things started, stat.
So I looked at my cupboard and saw some perfectly good mixing bowls sitting there. Clean, perfectly sized. Ready for me to use.
But some weird, recessive anal gene refused to allow me to use mixing bowls for the table.
Instead I called Hubba-hubba over to reach some bowls that were a little high, and wound up having to clean them out since I don't use them that often.
As I sat eating dinner, I wondered why the hell I couldn't have just used the mixing bowls. What was wrong with me? I am actually the type of person who, if I had my druthers, would use paper plates all the time because I hate rinsing and putting away dishes. That's exactly how lazy I am, my friends. I'm not even referring to actually washing the dishes, since we have a perfectly capable dishwasher.
Even worse? The dishes are not normally my chore, that is one of Hubba-hubba's things he doesn't mind doing. Or that I just force him into doing, you decide. So here I am rebelling at a task I don't even do. You know me, I'm just empathetic that way.
But for some reason I chose the nice bowls, a very pretty deep blue with swirly patterns which Hubba-hubba had to laboriously rinse out when we were done. I am not a person who makes a big production out of the "table" for meals. No lit candles, usually no flower arrangements, I'm just happy if the table is clean. I wonder exactly where that voice comes from that gently chides you into not allowing your children to grow up thinking it is proper to use paper plates and plastic forks during dinner.
But really, says who?
So I looked at my cupboard and saw some perfectly good mixing bowls sitting there. Clean, perfectly sized. Ready for me to use.
But some weird, recessive anal gene refused to allow me to use mixing bowls for the table.
Instead I called Hubba-hubba over to reach some bowls that were a little high, and wound up having to clean them out since I don't use them that often.
As I sat eating dinner, I wondered why the hell I couldn't have just used the mixing bowls. What was wrong with me? I am actually the type of person who, if I had my druthers, would use paper plates all the time because I hate rinsing and putting away dishes. That's exactly how lazy I am, my friends. I'm not even referring to actually washing the dishes, since we have a perfectly capable dishwasher.
Even worse? The dishes are not normally my chore, that is one of Hubba-hubba's things he doesn't mind doing. Or that I just force him into doing, you decide. So here I am rebelling at a task I don't even do. You know me, I'm just empathetic that way.
But for some reason I chose the nice bowls, a very pretty deep blue with swirly patterns which Hubba-hubba had to laboriously rinse out when we were done. I am not a person who makes a big production out of the "table" for meals. No lit candles, usually no flower arrangements, I'm just happy if the table is clean. I wonder exactly where that voice comes from that gently chides you into not allowing your children to grow up thinking it is proper to use paper plates and plastic forks during dinner.
But really, says who?
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