So this happened today.
You know that brand of dishware that famously advertises itself as being somewhat shatterproof? Their website actually says “break and chip resistance for carefree durability.” Well, they and their shitty NON-shatterproof dishware can officially hitch a ride straight to hell.
Carefree durability. What nerve.
So I was putting the clean dishes from the dishwasher away when Big M asked me to look at something on the TV for a moment. When I took too long to turn around he complained that I didn’t stop what I was doing IMMEDIATELY to watch whatever crap it was that he wanted me to see (I still don’t know what it was). His complaints caused me to begin a rambling tirade about how much fun it is to do the dishes every day, and how I was just so busy having such a spectacular time doing it that I couldn’t even tear myself away for one minute because putting away dishes is the most exhilarating part of my daily activities and how I wish I could wash everyone’s dishes in the whole world….
And then, as if sensing my bitter sarcasm and being too offended to hear another word, a whole entire stack of plates and bowls suddenly slipped from my hand and committed suicide onto my kitchen floor.
Have you ever watched a “shatterproof” dish break? They don’t just break. They pretty much explode. Into 80,000 teeny tiny pieces. That end up EVERYWHERE. The last time I broke one of these bad boys I spent WEEKS finding pieces of it in parts of my house that were not even close to where it had originally broken. And that was just one dish.
I had just broken five dishes and seven bowls.
There were little pieces of broken ceramic on my counters, in the dishwasher inside the clean glasses and cups and silverware. They were in the sink, interspersed throughout the dirty dishes. They were on top of and underneath the couch; embedded in the living room rug; in the dog’s food and water bowls; under every single nearby piece of furniture; on top of the kitchen table where my family was still eating breakfast. There were even pieces of it inside my son’s train set on the floor.
So first I screamed. Then I said more curse words than a Quentin Tarantino movie. And then I began chanting “oh my God, oh my God, oh my God” until the baby began repeating it too and I realized I needed to pull it together.
But first I wept for a little while.
An hour and a half later, the mess was pretty much under control. It took a mop, a broom, an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner and some Xanax to get the job done, but we did it.
Big M helped me out a lot and I should say thank goodness he was there when it happened. He practically cleaned the whole thing up. And honestly, I don’t even know how to use an industrial-sized vacuum cleaner (nor do I know why we own one). But he gets only partial credit because, really, it was his fault that I was too wrapped up in my little dish-loathing outburst to prevent the senseless and tragic deaths of twelve perfectly good pieces of tableware in the first place.
Rest in (80,000) pieces, guys.