We could all stand to lose a bit of weight
June 23, 2006
I would not have made good Pilgrim. Aside from the fashion aspect of wearing those grey colored clothes and brass buckled shoes, I don’t like hardship. I don’t like to get dirty. And above all else, I don’t like to be sweaty.
Whatever hearty pioneer spirit the early American settler’s had, I have none of it. If I had lived back then they probably would have thrown me overboard into the Atlantic when I proclaimed one too many times, “This sucks!”
Today my dishwasher broke. It just stopped working. Though it’s apparent demise did not stop it from continuing to make a noise that rivaled that of a jet engine preparing for take off. Which, by the way, is normal for our antiquated model.
So I had no idea that anything was amiss until several hours later when I opened the door and was greeted by a pungent musty smell. All the dishes were still dirty and there was a pool of water in the bottom of the dishwasher that threatened to spill out unless I shut the door very quickly. Which I did.
I turned the dishwasher on again, just in case I had turned it on wrong before. I don’t know how I would have turned it on wrong. No need for rational thought. This is a crisis, people. A crisis which calls for much wailing, swearing, and shaking my fist at the sky while crying, “Why me?!?”
So I was hopeful. I turned the dishwasher on very carefully, and gently, with lots of love.
The kind of loving touch that says, ‘I’m sorry I took you for granted. I will cherish you always from this moment on. I love you deeply and can not go on without you.’
When nothing happened I tried to fix the dishwasher myself.
If by “fix” we mean kick repeatedly.
Then I told Rob. And he asked, “Well how much does a new one cost? $100?” And when I laughed he accused me of wanting some fancy hoity toity dishwasher. I know, me and my extravagant tastes in household appliances.
And then he said, “Well we have a sink. It won’t kill anyone to wash them by hand”
We all know that the anyone he was referring to was me. But it turns out he was wrong. It would kill someone. Him.
He is dead now.
And I am planning meals that require no dishes. I think a perfectly acceptable meal is dried cereal poured over the kitchen table, eaten by hand. Don’t you?
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