Ig·nor·phins

(ig nôr' finz) n.pl. 1. A group of chemicals secreted in the brain and nervous system that counteract sadness and annoyance in the face of something you'd rather didn't exist.

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For the past seven or eight months there has come a time every week when I start to enjoy the time I spend in the kitchen less. I love to cook, but after a couple of days the plate, fork and cup sitting in the sink start to get to me. Then they're joined by a half-empty Tupperware, a frying pan and another cup. The dishes look less lonely, but they're starting to have a smelly, ooky party. After a week or ten days (or thereabouts), we arrive at the fiesta you see above. Things start to infringe on the other, usable, side of the sink. Smells develop nuances heretofore known only to French cheesemakers. There are no clean bowls in the cupboard.

I've hinted about the dirty dishes. I've gotten so fed up that I've done sinkfuls myself. I've even told her, politely, that I feel it's inconvenient to have to wash my own paring knife before I can use it (she prefers to use her own set of knives, but when they're all dirty...) -- plus I know that she dislikes the cockroach problem in this building as much as I do, so surely she agrees that having a clean, dry sink each night is a good thing. To no avail.

I've noticed infuriating subtleties to the way she doesn't do the dishes (and to the way she does them when she finally does) that probably point to an unhealthy fixation on the issue. And it might be worse to have a roommate who has angry, shouting phone conversations all the time, or who always demands a heart-to-heart about how this guy was mean to her and is she a bad person? But I really don't want to dig around in the china slag heap so I can have soup tonight.