Rice is nice

I'm a confusing person to live with. I come with rules. Systems. "If this...then that"s. And for the life of him, Rob can't figure out my dishcloth system. You know, the system that has rules like "only use the kitchen dishcloth for food-related things" and "you must rinse and hang the dishcloth after using it as (for some strange, unknown reason) it won't dry when left in a soaked heap in the corner of the sink."

It is a mystifying and confusing system.

So we end up having conversations like this:
 Rob: I'm never sure...what do you want me to clean my elliptical with? The dishcloth?
Cob: [stony silence]....really?....

Rob: Don't get mad, but should I use the dishcloth to wash down the car floor mats?
Cob: [stony silence]....really?....

Rob: I don't get your rules - can I use the dishcloth to wipe up the cat throw up?
Cob: [stony silence]....really?....

So here I am, getting ready to rinse cereal out of bowls this morning, and I look closely at the wadded-up (still soaking in a corner of the sink) dishrag, and I start huffing about how Rob didn't rinse any of the rice out of the rag the last time he used it the night before.

I mean, it was chalk FULL of rice. Gross. And to top it off, the sink was caked with bloated little rice bits, too.

So I rinse and rinse...and there's not a lot of rice coming off. So of course I get more huffy and smush it all with my hands harder and harder under the faucet.

And then I stop for a moment, because I suddenly realize I haven't made rice in weeks.

With horrified dread, I slowly look around the counters, my eyes coming to rest on a porch light innocently sitting three feet away. A porch light Rob had removed the previous night in order to change a light bulb. A porch light that had been recently rinsed.

I think my heart might have actually stopped for a moment.

Not daring to breathe, I peer closely at the dishcloth and realize the rice grains caking the entire thing have eyes. Yes, eyes.

New rule to the dishcloth system, Rob: no insect larvae.