Love and Dirty Dishes
My whimsically romantic first-love story began over dirty dishes. Eight months after graduating from college, I met my future husband at a dinner party when he invited me to help him with the post-meal cleanup. We were standing in our mutual friend Brooke’s Washington, DC apartment studying the explosion of dirty dishes piled precariously on every surface in her tiny kitchen. Well, technically I guess we met-met an hour earlier when Brook introduced me to the blue-eyed boy she’s been gushing over all week. But this was the first chance I’d gotten to talk to him alone.
“First, we need to clear enough room for the stages of the sanitation process,” Geoff smiled at me as he rolled the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt up to his elbows and dug his hand under the pile of dishes in the sink to put a stopper in the bottom. I considered rolling up the sleeves of my white eyelet blouse, the snug one that made me look my tannest. But the sleeves wouldn’t roll, so I just watched Geoff.
“I take dish washing very seriously,” Geoff laughed as he spoke. I assumed this was flirtation. No one takes dish washing seriously.
He handed me a plate with food still piled on top.
“Start by scraping this into the trash,” he instructed as he looked around the closet-sized kitchen for a garbage can. He found a bucket under the sink, but when he pulled it out, we both peered in to find something green and fuzzy growing on the bottom. It smelled like sour garlic.
“No, thanks.” I held my free hand up, careful not to spill the pile of cheesy pasta in my other. I walked over to the edge of the counter and one handedly pulled three 2-liter jugs of diet coke out of a plastic grocery bag and set them on the floor.
“This is better,” I explained shaking the bag out and delicately sliding the lump of food in, hoping nothing seeped out the bottom before I rested it in the moldy bucket. I made a mental note to buy Brooke some real trash bags.
Geoff turned the sink knobs on full throttle and grabbed the three-squirts-away-from-empty plastic container of dish soap. He tossed the hollow bottle into the air, flipping it twice and catching it behind his back. I was flattered by the show he was putting on, though I’d learn later he would compulsively toss every solo cup, water bottle and stick of deodorant he encountered into the air, performing some acrobatic feat before catching it in the other hand.
Rather than try to squeeze the minuscule amount of soap from the Palmolive bottle, he unscrewed the top, filled the bottom half, shook it ceremoniously, spin tossed it over the sink and caught it just in time to dump the sudsy contents into the sink.
“No soap wasted,” he bragged.
I felt guilty doing this dishes dance with Geoff knowing Brooke was likely eager for us to join her and the rest of the dinner party guests in the next room. I contemplated quickly darting in to check on her, her neighbor, another of his friends and the boy she had intended to be setting me up with. But I was having too much fun at the dish party.
“Next we need space for the clean dishes,” Geoff smiled as I cautiously slid plates into his sudsy water. He took a stack of dirty serving bowls from the space to the right of the sink and piled them perilously on top of the bread pan and dirty glasses on the left side. He started pulling drawers open until he found two mismatched dish towels, spreading one on the cleared space to his right and handing me the other.
“You’re on drying duty.”
I was grateful for the easy role. Spending most of my life as a faculty kid on the campus of a boarding school, my dish washing experience was limited to piling my plate and silverware onto a plastic tray and sliding it through a hole in the wall to the professional dishwashers on the other side.
Geoff turned the faucet off as the sink was now full of sudsy water and tiny floating pieces of grated cheese and parsley flakes. I was glad not to be putting my hands in that murky brown water, but Geoff gleefully pulled out a dish at a time, scrubbed off any stuck-on muck and resubmerged it into the gunk.
“No water wasted,” he bragged again.
“Gross,” I countered as he dove his arm up to the elbow in dirty water to pull the plug out. We watched for the water to shrink down in the sink, but it did not budge.
“Well, that’s a problem.” He grinned at me pleadingly. I held my hands tightly together behind my back.
He raised his arms aloft, as if preparing to perform surgery. He rolled the now soaking wet sleeve cuffs up to his shoulders and exaggeratedly launched his hands on both sides of the sink, pretending to wrestle the splashing muddy water until he could get his hands to the bottom.
“Still gross.” I could not help but laugh.
He pulled a small round saucer out from under the stack of dishes and we watched the water gurgle and slurp and slowly start to ebb down the sink.
“Rinse time.”
“Thank God.” I unclasped my hands from behind my back in relief.
Geoff water-blasted the remaining dregs of food off the piles of plates and stacked them neatly on the now wet dishcloth lying on the counter. I tried to keep up with my toweling duties but was running out of places to stack the clean, dry dishes. Geoff grabbed the giant pasta pot, the last of the grimy cookware from the dirty pile. He gleefully pulled the plastic sprayer from the side of the faucet and extended it as far as it would go. He sprayed water on all sides of the sticky pot, covering himself, me, and my pile of dry dishes with the backsplash. He turned the pot upside down and placed it back on the sink to dry, no room left on the counter since I had stacked the clean dishes there. He found a roll of paper towels under the cabinet and wiped the inside of the sink to clean out the stubborn cheese crumbs and pasta goo still stuck there.
Geoff turned to me and yanked the now soggy dish towel off my shoulder to wipe his dripping face, his hands and under his armpits.
“Great job. You can be my wingman anytime.”
I laughed at the show this playful man had just put on. No talk of politics or who went to which elite boarding school or college or who worked at the more impressive low-paying starter job. Just giggles and dishes and a hope for another dinner soon. And another and another and another.
“First, we need to clear enough room for the stages of the sanitation process,” Geoff smiled at me as he rolled the sleeves of his blue oxford shirt up to his elbows and dug his hand under the pile of dishes in the sink to put a stopper in the bottom. I considered rolling up the sleeves of my white eyelet blouse, the snug one that made me look my tannest. But the sleeves wouldn’t roll, so I just watched Geoff.
“I take dish washing very seriously,” Geoff laughed as he spoke. I assumed this was flirtation. No one takes dish washing seriously.
He handed me a plate with food still piled on top.
“Start by scraping this into the trash,” he instructed as he looked around the closet-sized kitchen for a garbage can. He found a bucket under the sink, but when he pulled it out, we both peered in to find something green and fuzzy growing on the bottom. It smelled like sour garlic.
“No, thanks.” I held my free hand up, careful not to spill the pile of cheesy pasta in my other. I walked over to the edge of the counter and one handedly pulled three 2-liter jugs of diet coke out of a plastic grocery bag and set them on the floor.
“This is better,” I explained shaking the bag out and delicately sliding the lump of food in, hoping nothing seeped out the bottom before I rested it in the moldy bucket. I made a mental note to buy Brooke some real trash bags.
Geoff turned the sink knobs on full throttle and grabbed the three-squirts-away-from-empty plastic container of dish soap. He tossed the hollow bottle into the air, flipping it twice and catching it behind his back. I was flattered by the show he was putting on, though I’d learn later he would compulsively toss every solo cup, water bottle and stick of deodorant he encountered into the air, performing some acrobatic feat before catching it in the other hand.
Rather than try to squeeze the minuscule amount of soap from the Palmolive bottle, he unscrewed the top, filled the bottom half, shook it ceremoniously, spin tossed it over the sink and caught it just in time to dump the sudsy contents into the sink.
“No soap wasted,” he bragged.
I felt guilty doing this dishes dance with Geoff knowing Brooke was likely eager for us to join her and the rest of the dinner party guests in the next room. I contemplated quickly darting in to check on her, her neighbor, another of his friends and the boy she had intended to be setting me up with. But I was having too much fun at the dish party.
“Next we need space for the clean dishes,” Geoff smiled as I cautiously slid plates into his sudsy water. He took a stack of dirty serving bowls from the space to the right of the sink and piled them perilously on top of the bread pan and dirty glasses on the left side. He started pulling drawers open until he found two mismatched dish towels, spreading one on the cleared space to his right and handing me the other.
“You’re on drying duty.”
I was grateful for the easy role. Spending most of my life as a faculty kid on the campus of a boarding school, my dish washing experience was limited to piling my plate and silverware onto a plastic tray and sliding it through a hole in the wall to the professional dishwashers on the other side.
Geoff turned the faucet off as the sink was now full of sudsy water and tiny floating pieces of grated cheese and parsley flakes. I was glad not to be putting my hands in that murky brown water, but Geoff gleefully pulled out a dish at a time, scrubbed off any stuck-on muck and resubmerged it into the gunk.
“No water wasted,” he bragged again.
“Gross,” I countered as he dove his arm up to the elbow in dirty water to pull the plug out. We watched for the water to shrink down in the sink, but it did not budge.
“Well, that’s a problem.” He grinned at me pleadingly. I held my hands tightly together behind my back.
He raised his arms aloft, as if preparing to perform surgery. He rolled the now soaking wet sleeve cuffs up to his shoulders and exaggeratedly launched his hands on both sides of the sink, pretending to wrestle the splashing muddy water until he could get his hands to the bottom.
“Still gross.” I could not help but laugh.
He pulled a small round saucer out from under the stack of dishes and we watched the water gurgle and slurp and slowly start to ebb down the sink.
“Rinse time.”
“Thank God.” I unclasped my hands from behind my back in relief.
Geoff water-blasted the remaining dregs of food off the piles of plates and stacked them neatly on the now wet dishcloth lying on the counter. I tried to keep up with my toweling duties but was running out of places to stack the clean, dry dishes. Geoff grabbed the giant pasta pot, the last of the grimy cookware from the dirty pile. He gleefully pulled the plastic sprayer from the side of the faucet and extended it as far as it would go. He sprayed water on all sides of the sticky pot, covering himself, me, and my pile of dry dishes with the backsplash. He turned the pot upside down and placed it back on the sink to dry, no room left on the counter since I had stacked the clean dishes there. He found a roll of paper towels under the cabinet and wiped the inside of the sink to clean out the stubborn cheese crumbs and pasta goo still stuck there.
Geoff turned to me and yanked the now soggy dish towel off my shoulder to wipe his dripping face, his hands and under his armpits.
“Great job. You can be my wingman anytime.”
I laughed at the show this playful man had just put on. No talk of politics or who went to which elite boarding school or college or who worked at the more impressive low-paying starter job. Just giggles and dishes and a hope for another dinner soon. And another and another and another.
This essay is an excerpt from my work-in-progress memoir. I am writing this memoir to share my journey beside the delightful Geoff O'Hara for twenty seven years. I am grateful for the life we lived together and hopeful that my story will help others who struggle with the bewildering confusion that is loving someone who self-destructs.