How I Ended Up Doing the Dishes

So the other day I came home from work.  It had been long, hot day and work had been full of grumpy customers. I started the usual routine I go through when I find that the husband is not home yet. I dropped the constant, ridiculous pile of junk I am always carrying from the car and zombied over to the computer to indulge in the mindless entertainment of Reddit and FB.

I began cooling off from the long day and just as I started to relax I thought I would like a snack. This reminded me of the mountain of dishes in the kitchen. Defeated by that thought I kept facebooking.

Somehow I came across a video about this really dedicated wife whose husband had been in a  tragic accident and she cared for him even when he now can no longer walk or communicate in the same way.

This inspired me and I decided that if she can work and take care of her husband I can BUCK UP and tackle the dishes!
Just when I was going to get up, my mind took one of its regular tangents on the meaning or origins of phrases. What on earth does BUCK UP even mean?

Does is mean you become like a buck and be all tough and stuff?

Or do you get tough enough to lift a buck?

Or do you just get skin tough like a buck?

The thought of how doing dishes would make me need to look like I had buckskin suddenly irritated me. A crippling word slipped into my thoughts:

That was all I needed. An all-out pity party was at hand. I thought of how awful life is going to be with having buckskin. How all the hours of work I have to do is making me wrinkly and soon I will be just hideous, and how all the buck-uping will wear me down. That I was all alone in my bucking up and that no-one else has to put up with as many hours of work as I do and then come home to dishes. And how terrible heavy bucks are.

After wallowing in my self-pity for who knows how long, I was still hungry (which I felt very sorry for myself about). I somehow crawled to the kitchen despite my fear of those wrinkle causing dishes. 

I paused for a long time discouraged (and yet feeling more justified in my pity party) about the large pile of dishes.

Still thinking all my woeful thoughts, I began hunting for food.    


While sad about not finding "anything" to eat, I spotted a piece of paper with my husband's handwriting.

"Dear Lindsay, I was not sure what time you would be home, but I made you dinner. Check the fridge..." The note included all the nice things about love and stuff that I needed to hear. In the fridge was an entire dinner with salad included. Nothing like someone who is actually just as busy as you doing something loving to snap you out of a self-pity attack.
And that is how I ended up cleaning the entire kitchen after a long day of work.