I Love My Dishwasher

So we're getting everything set up, and the fella got a parking ticket for parking facing traffic. At 2:30 AM. I don't think the El Cerrito PD has enough to do.

Anyway, I love the dishwasher. I've never had a dishwasher before. It's very small, and has an alarming tendency to occasionally spit up things I didn't put in it--a half-inch long fragment of pottery painted green and yellow today. I can't match it to anything we own.

But it's fabulous anyway. You should understand that dishes have been a major hassle in my life for years now. I am the default dishwasher in my relationship. The fella will wash dishes. Occasionally. If he is feeling very loving, or very guilty, or there are actually no forks at all left. But mostly it has been my task, and I have resented the hell out of it.

I don't like dishwashing. It's endless, and thankless, and I am not good at it. I drip water down the front of my shirts trying to get in close to the dishes. I glare over my shoulder at the fella, who is settled happily in front of the TV. And, most importantly, I also go through long periods where the dishes get away from me, and I just can't handle it any more. Sometimes dishes have piled up for, literally days and weeks, while I'm going through a rough patch at work. Then I spend all weekend trying to catch up, and sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't.

Did I mention that the sink at the San Francisco house had a sloooooow drain?

So now I have the dishwasher, and WOW it is lovely. The first evening we were in the new house, I loaded it, and put in the soap, and turned it on to 'Normal Wash', and I went into the living room, sat down next to the fella, put up my feet, and picked up a book. I felt quite loving and contented. And life was very, very good.