My mom came in and helped me move this weekend. Moving is a pain, which is why I do it as little as possible. I’m hardly a neat freak, as any of my coworkers can attest to, which makes it harder.
But Mom told me a story.
Not long after she met my Dad, she helped him move. She came over to his apartment, and he handed her two boxes. One was a small box, slightly bigger than a shoebox. The other was a really big box. She pointed over to the box my 19″ monitor came in, and said the box he handed her was bigger than that one.
“Put the clean dishes in the small box, and the dirty dishes in the big box,” he told her.
She opened the cabinet and found a couple of dishes. She put them in the small box. She found a few dirty dishes in the sink.
“But there aren’t that many dirty dishes,” she said.
“Hold on,” he said. He opened the dishwasher. It was bursting. Then he walked over and opened up the oven. More dirty dishes. “And I think there are some in here too,” he said, opening up the freezer. There were.
“David, your dad was a slob,” Mom said.
Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about those times I waited until all my dishes were dirty before I washed them. I’ve never had to resort to putting dirty dishes in the oven and freezer.