Apparently the sickly iPod was contagious
I got home from work and ran the dishwasher while I was making dinner. By the time dinner was ready, the dishwasher had run, but for the second day in a row, there was water in the bottom of it. This time, the water filled the entire bottom of the dishwasher to a depth of 10 to 15 cm.
So I hauled out our trusty home repair book, and even found the owner's manual for the dishwasher, neither of which were helpful. I called for a service appointment, because despite my pretentions otherwise, what do I know from appliance repair? To their credit, they are able to come by tomorrow, the only day of the week Beloved is home with the boys.
But the real indignity is that I still had a dinner's worth of dishes to wash. By hand. Oh, the humanity.
I haven't washed dishes by hand for a good four years. Washing dishes was one of my jobs from the time I was about eight years old, and man how I hated washing dishes. Washing dishes by hand is for chumps.
And to make matters worse, I made bake-permanent-sticky-sauce-to-the-dish chicken and burn-the-bottom-of-the-pot risotto for dinner. I even used a collander, for the love of god. A collander! Had I known I would be washing the dishes by hand, we would have ordered pizza and eaten it from the cardboard box.
I even had (brace yourself) an apron on. Me, the domestic anti-goddess, in an apron washing dishes by hand. Surely it's one of the eight signs of the apocalypse.
Civilized homes should not be without functioning dishwashers. I would give up the oven and the clothes dryer before I gave up the dishwasher - and maybe the microwave, seeing as how Tristan doesn't eat food any warmer than room temperature anyway. But for the love of all things holy, don't mess with my dishwasher.
Labels: Rants and rambles