When my chicas return to home base ~ an occurrence that that is becoming increasingly rare around La Casita Scribe ~ we always sound the same theme. Pick up the dirty clothes strewn across the floor, do something other than watch endless hours of cable bridal shows ~ you know the drill.
The bane of my existence, though, as far as my kids are concerned, is the lowly diswasher. Over the years, I've given up on getting the full trash can down to the curb or the empty one back to the garage ~ or removing the sticky ice cream bowls from the table near the TV ~ but I'm eternally optimistic when it comes to getting the automatically scoured forks, plates and the warped plastic blue cups back into the kitchen recesses where they belong.
After this last Christmas visit, however, I'm beginning to think that my gals have forgotten Judy Garland's mantra, "There's no place like home."
The drama began with the youngest, of course. I returned from the salt mines one afternoon, only to discover the trash can still down at the curb, the sticky bowls still residing in the vicinity of the television, and the diswasher still jammed with the detritus of the "clean" cycle.
I mumbled, I muttered, I threatened. Ella Numera Dos looked up from "David Tutera's My Fair Wedding" long enough to say, and I quote, "I'll get to it tomorrow, Mom, if I remember."
I thought things would improve when Ella Numera Una returned to keep the home fires burning. She is older, if only by three years. She's legal, as she reminds me often. I anticipated that domestic bliss would finally be within my grasp.
Until, that is, the lovely Una emptied the dishwasher. On her own. Totally unbidden. I was, needless to say, thrilled. Well, for about 10 minutes, at any rate.
Let's just say that the state of my clean cutlery presented me with a curious conundrum. How to ask Ella Numera Una to cease and desist ~ at least when it came to putting away the dishes.
Two weeks later, I'm still trying to find the deep baking dish. And the tablespoons are nested with the can opener, for some reason. Plus the corkscrew has gone permanently missing (it's not even an item that goes in the dishwasher. Go figure).
Was she sending me a message, or has she truly forgotten where we store the stonewear? She's moving on, I suppose. And someday, I'll find my favorite egg skillet.