There are some things that I do not do. I do not iron, for one. Granted, there are a few things in my wardrobe that could use a good pressing, but tough beans! Anything that comes out of the dryer that is not ready-to-wear goes to one of the local thrift shops. Number two, I do not gas up my car. That is what grandsons are for, bless their hearts. And I do not do dishes at night.
Of course, I put away the food and rinse everything off and stack it neatly in the sink, but the actual dish-washing takes place in the morning. I guess I picked this up from my mother, who, unlike me, was a bundle of energy who woke with the dawn and worked until dark and then called it a day. She preferred to face a sink full of dirty dishes in the morning when she was fresh, than at the end of the day when she was pooped. Me, too.
Back then, children, there were no dishwashers, no garbage disposals (no garbage collection for that matter, all the left-over scraps went to the pigs or chickens.) Fill up the dishpan with hot soapy water (heated on the stove, no hot running water) and plunge in. My father sometimes did the drying, which was kind of unusual for a man in those days. He was quite cavalier about it, often wiping off little traces of food that the person washing the dishes had missed. "'Tis a puir dishdryer wha' canna get a wee bit o' dirt off on the towel", he would say in his soft Scottish burr. None us ever suffered any ill effects from these casual hygienic practices.
As for the ironing, I would be willing, although it has never been my favorite thing and I was always behind with it. I remember once sighing with relief that I had reached the bottom of the ironing basket and Erika popping up to say the she didn't know that basket even had a bottom. Not long ago, I put up the ironing board and got out the expensive new steam iron that I bought last year (what was I thinking?!?) and thought I would iron some pants. You should have heard the commotion! NO! NO! WE WON'T! WE WON'T! YOU CAN'T MAKE US!! yelled my hip, my back and my knee. I think some of the other joints joined in, too, just to show solidarity. So I put it all away, and it's wash and wear from now on.
Not long ago, I was introduced to a YouTube segment called the "Sarah Palin Battle Hymn." It is a paean to Sarah set to the music of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic", long a favorite of mine. It extols Sarah's folksy, downhome approach to the problems of our society. Given my political views I found it kind of halfway between pathetic and hilarious, but the singers weren't bad and everybody has a right to their own opinions. But at the end, the singer said this, "I dedicate this to the Tea Party and all the patriots." This got my dander up. Plainly, given my slant on things, I would not be included in his group of "patriots". But what makes that man think he is a better patriot than me? The definition of patriot in my dictionary is, "A person who loves, defends and supports his country." Well, I love, defend and support my country. This is America, the beloved homeland. The purple mountain majesties, the fruited plain! My home. My grandmother could trace her lineage back to Governor Bradford of the Plymouth Colony. (No doubt many of our population with English forbears can do the same, but still......) Nobody is going to claim that they love and support this beautiful, troubled, wonderful, befuddled, exciting beacon of hope for the world more than me. The nerve!
And next time make up your own tune.