My Nemesi

I remember saying it at least once, to a friend, family member or stranger, “I love doing dishes!” As I roll up my sleeves and wage war against the haphazard, unsteady stacks in front of me, I wonder…was this a sentiment I once truly felt or was I simply trying to impress someone with my domestic affections?

In the last two weeks, while I’ve grown battle-worn from adventures in the classroom, my kitchen has become overrun by insurgent mugs and rebel forks, knives and spoons. The bowls have strategically pushed past the line of scrimmage, beyond the limitations of their stainless steel corridors, and into my general living territory. My counter is being held prisoner of war, and glasses balance precariously around the edges of my sink, leaning against pots and lids messy from last week’s chili. Yes, my dishes made advancements that I’m ashamed to report or reveal.

But now, tired as I am, I’m ready to do battle and am determined to take back my kitchen! I crank the volume on my old CD player and begin my campaign to the warbling voices of the Dixie Chicks, my longtime dishwashing companions.

And slowly, slowly, I make progress.

My hands become prunes. Puddles across the kitchen floor corroborate my efforts. And suddenly, I’m no longer grimacing. I’m cleaning my kitchen so that I can dirty it again with more nasty, crusted-over dishes. But tomorrow, the dishes will be welcome. They will be evidence of time with family and friends, of good food, of belly-aching laughter and of tears and hugs of sympathy and joy. Food is love. And to make food, one must also make dirty dishes. Simply a necessary evil.

As I scrub the last plate and knife, relief seeps into my back and soap-soaked arms. Quietly I admit, tomorrow, I will love dirty dishes.

First Kiss

Last fall, City Parks and Recreation drained a lake at Washington Park in hopes of catching a rare species of crocodile whose presence had been repeatedly reported. No creature was ever trapped. Some residents regard the event as a hoax.

As his hands encase her face,
she eagerly moves closer to meet his embrace.

My little brothers have a gecko named Amanda. She doesn’t move much. Her diet is composed primarily of small, brown crickets coated in calcium powder.

Eyes closed and lips poised. Waiting. Waiting.
Soft, warm, tender kitten kisses swirl in her head
preparing to savor the sweet succulence of her beau.

Pam Schmidt, 8th grade science teacher at Thunder Ridge Middle School was named teacher of the year for her efforts to integrate snakes into her biological studies classes. Every spring, her class wanders the fields on rattle snake round-ups catching neighboring snakes for relocation to safer habitats.

Cold, rough clamminess awakens her from the love-spun stupor.
Surprise and anxiety force her eyes open.
Before her, prince has turned frog.
No. Not amphibian. Worse. Reptile.
No choice but to succumb to the lizard’s bite.

Members of the reptilian and amphibian families are renowned for their faculties in camouflage.