Housewifery

On Sunday morning I texted my good friend Donna, the obsessive clean freak, the following: 'Can I put any of the following in the dishwasher: Toilet brush, plastic dustpan, non-slip rubbery shower thingy. If not, how does one wash these things?'



Donna promptly rang me back, mainly because she was too hungover to text, and told me that no, noooo, I could not put any of these things in the dishwasher. They would melt, and cause grievous damage to the dishwasher, she said. "Things have to be dishwasher safe to go in the dishwasher," she pointed out, "hence the existence of the phrase 'dishwasher safe'."



"But the scrubbing brushes never melt when I put them in!" I complained. "Similarly, squeegee things are grand, as are flip-flops!"

"... Lucy, don't put any of those things in the dishwasher again" she told me. "Toilet brushes in the dishwasher? With dishes? That is seriously gross."

"Where should one wash one's shoes then, huh? You tell me that, Mrs smart arse!"
"Why do you need to wash your shoes? Shouldn't they, uh, just wipe clean?"
"Well, you tell me how I should get cow shit out of three-year old sandals then!"
With that zinger I hung up on the negative bitch. I don't need nobody telling me how to run my house.



I weighed things up for a little bit, realised I was running late, and fucked the dustpan in the dishwasher along with my scrubbing brushes and portable washing basin, which is handy for a range of things such as cleaning floors, washing me feets, sticking under the chins of inebriated house guests when they look a bit green, and sluicing away dog mess from the front lawn. I fucked the nasty, non-slip, rubbery shower mat in the wheelie bin and put the toilet brush where I couldn't see it, behind the toilet. Then I put three pairs of shoes in the washing machine and got the hell outta the house. If anyone asks, you know nothing about how those things got there, right? JOB DONE.