I actively avoid leaving dirty dishes in the sink or anywhere in the house, it borders on obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I can’t help myself. A dirty kitchen makes me anxious. It could be my mother’s voice scolding me in my head or the fear of cockroaches, but clearly, I abhor a disordered kitchen, and that includes dirty dishes that have gone astray. I count (now that’s an interesting statement).
I’ve been engaged in a love-hate relationship with the dishwasher since the day it was installed five, long, arduous years ago. It does a lousy job cleaning the dishes, it slants down so the bottom drawer tends to slide off the rail and crash onto the floor, and it leaves huge water spots on my glasses. Mary recommended a lime additive but honestly, I resent the additional step.
The adult children living in my home (one returnee, one never left, and one neighbor kid whom we adore) are more than aware of my aversion to messy kitchens and dirty eating utensils but for some reason, this seems to work against me. They actively enjoy leaving empty wine glasses around the house, bowls of congealed Mac N Cheese in their room, and I’m sure there is a variety of food encrusted flatware under their beds. The word ‘lazy’ comes to mind but it’s more like they’ve suffered from “I don’t give a shit” syndrome.
So as luck would have it, my dishwasher is on strike. It won’t work and neither will I. We are in a complete on the standoff, Larry is the first to cave, and he calls a repairman. The appliance guy comes out and decides we need to replace the main circuit board. (Is it only obvious to me that this machine has gone stark raving mad?) So the guy gives my disturbed dishwasher a brain implant and tells me I’m back in business?
The dreaded machine is back online and once again my kitchen is under my control. It cleaned one damn load before going back on strike! This is when the voices in my head start getting louder and louder, until I relent, and wash all the dishes by hand. My nails look atrocious but the kitchen is restored. One of my returnee kids took pity on me and helped dry. Brought tears to my eyes because he put everything in the wrong cupboard! Baby steps, baby steps.
It is moments like these when I am forced to step back from the ensuing battle and consider what is really going on? See I believe in symbolism and I know my lessons in life would be shamefully obvious if I could just break the code. So metaphorically speaking, the dishwasher is slacking, it has these power surges which randomly blow the circuit, it never finishes the cycle so it retains water, and the bottom drawer crashes to the floor for no apparent reason. OMG… My dishwasher is middle-aged and going through menopause.
How ironic.
And no, we will not be replacing her with a newer model!
We will be eating out until she is herself again.
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Originally published on Living in the Gap
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