As the lights blinked crazily on the dishwasher panel, a sinking feeling started at the top of my head and ended in my nether regions. I knew the thing was broke. That would have been bad enough, but due to an amateur flooring job (performed by me) it is going to be awful trying to get the old dishwasher out and a new one installed.
“How will we ever survive without a dishwasher?” I wept quietly into a foul-smelling dish rag. I don’t remember the last time we had to do dishes by hand. That’s not that surprising because recently I don’t remember a lot. I have a vague recollection that it was unpleasant. “The Help” movie flashed through my mind. I don’t know exactly why.
I acted pretty courageously, under the circumstances. I started washing everything in sight, knowing somehow that if I could keep the dirties from becoming a stack, I could lick this satanic evil. We do, after all, struggle not against caked on macaroni and cheese but against principalities, etc.
I discovered some very strange things. I kind of like doing dishes by hand. I guess I’m a “hands-on” kind of guy. There is a deep sense of satisfaction involved. Trust me. Our kitchen is cleaner than ever, remembering, of course, that my memory ain’t so good. I realize that I hated loading and unloading the dishwasher more than washing the dishes.
In what other ways have the moderns robbed us of ego building tasks like dishwashing? Are fancy vacuums really necessary? Don’t they still make mops and brooms? I wonder where I could find one of those old fashion laundry tubs.
Do we really need cell phones? Okay, I have to stop. I’m talking crazy here. Thanksgiving is in two days. That’s the Olympics of dishwashing. If I can get through the football games on Friday without a dish pile up, I think I’ve got this whipped. If not, I’m sure there must be some kind of way to get that dishwasher replaced short of a total kitchen makeover.
Please put me on the prayer list either way.
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