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Broke Wife, Big City
Did I mention I
hate my dishwasher
By Aprill Brandon
I hate you, dishwasher. I hate you so much.
Seriously, so much. Like, if you were on fire and screaming in pain and
I really had to pee, I’d still use the toilet. Because you know what?
The toilet doesn’t constantly remind me what a failure at housekeeping
I am. Sure, it starts to murmur something after too many weeks of
neglect but you…oooooh…YOU.
There you are, every day, just sitting there. Needing something. You
always need something. Need emptied. Need filled. Need the gunk from
your bottom scraped out because someone (FINE! ME!) was too lazy to
scrape the dishes beforehand.
Oh. OH! And don’t even get me started on your job performance. You
literally have one job to do. Hell, it’s in your very name!
Dish. Washer.
And yet, it never fails. I pull a supposedly clean glass out of you
only to discover the fruits of your labor have left behind a weird
crust on the bottom of it. Or I pull a plate out only to find you were
too lazy to get ALL the ketchup off. Oh, and my personal favorite, the
pan you decided to completely ignore even though I soaked it in hot
water and soap for two hours beforehand to try and help you out.
I just don’t get it, dishwasher. What did I ever do to you to deserve
this? The Great Thanksgiving Overload Incident of 2011 notwithstanding
(WHICH I apologized profusely for already). I mean, none of my other
appliances are nearly as needy and underachieving as you are. For
example, your cousins, the washer and dryer, do their jobs incredibly
well, even going above and beyond on those rare (and/or weekly)
occasions when I happen to spill wine on myself.
Your nemesis, the stove, doesn’t constantly remind me it needs
attention with a giant pile of dirty dishes overflowing from the sink.
The fridge? Only needs emptied and refilled with actual edible food
when out-of town guests are coming over (and then only if I really like
them). The TV? Well, that glorious machine…no, you know what? That’s
not even close to a fair comparison. The TV is pretty much my soul mate
with my husband coming in at a distance second, so let’s not even go
there.
But the point remains, you are the appliance equivalent of a juvenile
delinquent. Your whole purpose in life is apparently to make my life a
living hell, a situation I end up blaming myself for because it’s
simply your nature.
And you know the worst part of all of this? I’ll never not need you,
dishwasher. My only two alternatives are to start washing dishes by
hand and/or stop eating altogether. And I refuse to do the one because
it’s wicked gross and I refuse to do the other because modern food
science has given us frozen mozzarella sticks you can now make from
home.
So, where do we go from here, dishwasher? Huh? HUH? It’s not like I can
ignore you and give you the cold shoulder until someone else
(cough…Ryan…cough) notices you need attention. The last time I tried
that, we ended up eating cold soup out of some frisbees.
I guess the only other thing I can hope for is that this column wins me
a Pulitzer and consequently I become a filthy rich and famous writer
who can finally afford to pay someone else to deal with you.
Fingers crossed.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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