By the time this column comes out, I may be arm-deep in toilet water, making my first genuine batch of prison wine in my shiny new cell.
Actually, I plan to trade cigarettes for oranges to make prison sangria. Why?! Sangria is delicious, dummy.
Oh you meant why am I gonna be in the Big House? Because someone keeps leaving gross dishes in the sink "to soak" and like many folks I know, unnecessary soaking makes me wanna kill.
Unless the dish was used to bake something for hours in the oven, or it's a two week-old bowl of cereal recently discovered from under the bed, there's no reason to soak a dish ever. Use a dish, wash the dish, put the dish in the dishwasher, the end.
The question isn't a Hamlet-esque, "To soak or not to soak." It's always NOT TO SOAK. NEVER TO SOAK! THERE IS NO OK IN SOAK! (Editor's Note: Actually there is...nevermind.)
One morning I Frankensteined my way to the coffee maker and went to the sink with my coffee-makin' bucket to fetch some water. But no: staring up at my red, sleep-encrusted eyes was a huge bowl of what looked like fresh throw up. After a few moments of dry heave-filled reflection, I recognized the offending item as a bowl of water-logged guacamole. Not baked-on cheese, not CrazyGlue, guaca-mother-effing-mole. Left in the sink overnight. To soak.
Like any reasonable woman, I remembered the other times I'd had this discussion with the man-friend — involving the pre-move-in what-irksome-habits-should-each-of-us-avoid conversation, calm face-to-face discussions, gently-worded notes, and snippy early morning texts — realized nothing had worked, and promptly flew into the kind of rage that can only happen when frustration and coffee levels are at their most disparate and dangerous.
I've not yet reached maximum fury over this divisive issue. There's still: 1. Pouring the soaking bowl of spew on the person as they lay sleeping; 2. Soaking the offending person's head in the toilet to see if all the dumb comes offp; and 3. Leaving a pumpkin by the sink with a knife stuck in it holding a note that reads, "YOU," (a la the great Jack Handy.) The only place to go from there is 4. Murder, but since the soaking dishes keep turning up, it appears murder's the case he's gonna give me.
And that's fine. Maybe I'll get a job in the jailhouse kitchen, where unnecessarily soaking dishes gets you a week in solitary. The kitchen boss will love me; I'll wash dishes before they've had a chance to get nasty, I'll fill and empty the dishwasher swiftly, and I will never, ever soak. Not even the toilet tank after the sangria's finished.