In one sentence I have been relieved of doing dishes.

"The sink is broken."

Ha! Take that! I cannot scrub pots or rinse bowls even if I wanted to, which I don't. The dishwasher is connected in some unobtrusive way to the drain so I am banned from loading that as well. 

All guilt spills off my back as I walk past the mounting piles, and start cooking pasta in one of the remaining pans. Which are getting harder to find.

What is even better is the unspoken agreement between John and me that plumbing is nowhere on my personal resume. Even if I offered, which I won't, he would not agree to me trying my hand at chalking. If it were made of fabric all would be different but PVC pipe and I are not friends.  Never have been.

Ignoring the grimy dishware has its perks. Eat with abandon. Use two cups in one meal. Bring out the wine glasses usually reserved for company. Find out how many mugs we actually own. A lot.

But there is a small possibility that these benefits will lose their sparkle. You know, after a week or two. And a nursery rhyme about someone named Hubbard starts to rattle in my brain. 

Washing dishes works best when it happens frequently. Not like Hercules and the Augean Stables, which had been neglected for a lifetime. 

So too with personal clean up. Wiping off the snarky comments, rinsing away the sarcasm in our voice. Three times a day is good. 

But only if you aspire to have people who will sit with you at the table.