The Magic Dishwasher

Growing up, I was expected to do chores around the house. I was responsible for either doing the dishes, or, emptying the dishwasher. No big deal, it’s a pretty mindless task and frankly, my personality isn’t suited for mowing the lawn or other manual labors. Call me old fashioned.  

Since we’ve gotten married, and after extensive training, Bobby helps out around the house, which I so appreciate. He does the yard work, and takes out the trash on Wednesday morning. I’ll let him vacuum even though he claims it takes him an hour and a half.  When he realizes (and when I’m passive aggressive and retaliating) that there is no silverware, he’ll empty the dishwasher.

“Doing” the actual dishes, now that’s a different story.

Not sure how the word “dishwasher” and the idea of “magic” got mixed up in Bobby’s head, but somehow they did. I’m sure it was in between thinking of the true meaning of the infield fly rule and what’s for dinner.  Somewhere, it has been deeply rooted in his thought process that this machine is clearly the answer to everyone’s prayers. It’s magic. It does everything. There is no work, to putting a dirty dish into the dishwasher.

WRONG.

Earlier in the year I was convinced that our dishwasher was broken. It was starting to smell after the dishes were “clean” to the point of gagging when you walked into the kitchen. It was leaving particles of food left on the plate. I had resorted to hand washing the dishes because frankly, I don’t like my clean dishes smelling like dead trout.

It was then that out of process of elimination, white vinegar, cups of bleach and baking soda that I figured out the problem.

I set up for my experiment one night after a messy meal of spaghetti and meat sauce, and a house salad with thick, creamy, garlic-y dressing.

Bobby took our plates and walked them over to our sink.

I watched, curiously sipping a glass of my pinot grigo, at this mammal in his most unnatural habitat.

The room stood still, Barley asleep at my feet when the dishwasher door opened. There was a quiet tinkering of the forks dancing as they made their way into the small plastic basket.

And then, the plates came.

Dirty plates.

One by one placed in the bottom rack, next to each other, festering in their own mess.  A combination of leftover noodle, hamburger, and spicy ranch dressing, swirled and mixed together on a beautiful gray and white plate from Crate and Barrel. It was like I could hear them screaming “Please, don’t let him do this to us”.

I watched as each plate was loaded. I felt bad for the plates, a life of never being clean. Talk about a horrible way to go through life. The plates, as our humble servants, really only want one thing in return in this life, and that is to be clean.

If I’ve learned one thing about being married so far, it’s that men don’t like nagging. Men are nagged as children, so when they grow up, the last thing they want to do is hear about how they don’t do the dishes right from their wife. I let this kind of stuff slide. And I just bitch it out on the internet. And then I come up with a clever plan.

First off, the dish, must be cleaned, with soap, water and a dish brush before put into the dishwasher.

This goes also for all utensils.

I know that some people have really fancy dishwashers that do all the work for them, including helping out with taxes and spewing out winning lotto numbers on their screen. But we don’t have this kind of dishwasher. Whoever came up with the nasty rumor that the dishwasher washes your dishes without any effort, is a bonehead.

Guess what happens when you leave food on the dish in the dishwasher?

Have you ever cleaned a dishwasher filter?

I googled it, thinking it would solve my problems. The blog I found suggested that you breathe out of your nose and get some sturdy gloves before you start. It also mentioned that sometimes small rodents find their way under the dishwasher and choose that as their final resting place.

I’m a firm believer in classical conditioning. Once something negative happens, you are reluctant to do it again.

One of our chores this month is to tackle the dishwasher filter and you better believe it will be on a Saturday that Bobby doesn’t have to work.

Ask me next month how Bobby does the dishes.