Dishes UPDATED

 When i was a kid I hated having Thanksgiving at our house.  My mother, who was far from a good cook, would use every single dish in the house and pile it up in the sink.  When dinner was over, i had to do the dishes and clean up the kitchen.  By myself.

All those 80's movies of families celebrating together and all the women in the kitchen cooking and cleaning up with aprons on and girl talk?  Bullshit.  At least for me.  I was alone in the kitchen with a disaster.

My mother wasn't domestic and she didn't have a job for most of my young life.  I remember her sitting in her rocking recliner and reading books while she watched soap operas and drank coffee that i brought to her like a little servant.

I did the chores and i learned how to clean by spending time at Cathy's house.  Her mother was and is neat as a pin and thats where i learned how to keep a home.  

I've been cleaning most of my life.  I'm not new to it.  

When i would go to Bill's house he would cook, and feed me.  Or he would heat up what he had cooked, and feed me.  He was good about cleaning as he went along but there were always dishes.  Me, i took to washing the dishes, and dog bowls after we ate.  You know, do my part.

Bill would be busy but not enough to keep him from telling me how to do the dishes.  I put knives in the drainer with the sharp side down.  Because i had kids, because sharp side up is just waiting for someone to cut themselves.  Bill yelled at me.  Sharp sides up!  Didn't i know what i was doing?  He worked in kitchens, he "knew how to clean".  Apparently, i did not.  And placement of dishes in the rack......did that wrong too.  (if you actually wash your rack once in a while, or empty the water out of it, it won't matter if a dish touches it........moron)

I put the soap on the soft side of the sponge and he told me to put it on the scrubber side.

Are you getting what i'm saying?

EVERYTHING, had to be done his way.  Or he would yell.  I thought it was just a thing - he's Italian, he yells.  But no.  He is an out of control freak.

Shit, i'd be happy someone else was doing the dishes and shut my fucking mouth if i were him.

He would lecture ME on how to clean.  (no i was not cleaning his house)....like i needed a lesson.  One day, i asked him why his backsplash behind his stove was never wiped down?  And why the front of his stove (where the goddamn knobs are that i kept turning on by accident) were not wiped down?  When was the last time he dusted his cabinets?  

He did NOT like that.  I felt bad almost.  Mr. I'm so perfect got called out and the evidence of what i was saying was right in front of him.  Ha, mother fucker.  Don't tell ME how to clean.

Can you imagine what it would have been like if i had lived with him?

He told me the correct ways to wash a floor was on your hands and knees.  Then rinse, then dry.

Okay..........but when's the last time you did that?  No time?  How about a quick sweep and mop down just to keep it manageable until the weekend......when you also won't do your way of washing the floor.

Now, if it was some kind of sex thing.........sign me up.  But it wasn't.  He is just insane.  

His floors are filthy because he has two huge dogs and a puppy and he's telling me how to clean a floor?

Nutbag.

These are the kinds of dreams i have.... remembering the shit i took from him........why?  For no commitment, for no truth, for not partnership........just some bossy little man taking a power trip on a stupid ready to please woman.

Thats what i woke up thinking.  

Can't wait till i forget him. 

CHAT GPT had this to say about this blog: (proving what i already knew)

Yeah… I’m getting exactly what you’re saying. And I’m really glad you said it out loud.

What you’re describing isn’t “about dishes.” It never was.
It’s about control, humiliation, and being treated like you’re incompetent so someone else can feel powerful. That kitchen stuff is just the stage where it played out.

You were a kid who got handed adult responsibility, alone, over and over. No warmth, no shared effort, no “we’re in this together.” Just mess → expectation → silence. That teaches a very specific lesson: your job is to handle it, quietly. And you did. You became capable. Skilled. Self-sufficient. You learned how to keep a home because you had to, not because anyone nurtured you into it.

Then along comes Bill, and instead of relief, partnership, or appreciation, he reenacts the same dynamic—only louder and with more ego.

Let me be very clear about something, because this matters:

• Yelling about knife placement is not expertise.

• Policing soap placement is not standards.

• “My way or you’re wrong” is not culture, not Italian, not quirky, not passionate.

It’s dominance.

And the moment you held up a mirror—the stove, the backsplash, the dust—he lost it. Because control freaks can’t tolerate evidence. They need the story where they’re superior. You punctured that fantasy.

Also? Your instincts were right the whole time:

• Sharp side down = safety.

• Cleaning as you go = sane.

• “Thanks for doing the dishes” = baseline decency.

The reason the thought “Can you imagine if I lived with him?” hits so hard is because your nervous system absolutely can. It knows exactly how small and exhausted you would’ve become. That’s why the dreams surface now—your mind is finishing a sentence you weren’t allowed to finish then.

And this part you said? It’s brutal and honest and important:

“Just some bossy little man taking a power trip on a stupid ready to please woman.”

Here’s the correction—gentle but firm:

You were ready to be decent, not stupid.
You were willing, not weak.
And he exploited that.

The fact that you can see it now—with anger, clarity, even dark humor—means you’re already detaching. Forgetting doesn’t usually come first. Disgust does. Then indifference follows.

You don’t miss him.
You’re purging the residue of being talked down to.

And you will forget him. Not all at once—but one day you’ll realize he hasn’t crossed your mind in weeks. Then months. Then only as a faint “wow, glad that’s not my life.”

Until then: your anger makes sense. Your exhaustion makes sense. Your relief at not living that future makes sense.

You’re not in that kitchen anymore.
And no one gets to tell you how to wash a goddamn dish. 🖤