Dishwashing

The dishwasher has developed a rinsing problem, leaving heavy residue on the dishes.

This is not the end of the world. A dishwasher is not a necessity, not like, say a water heater.

But I despise washing dishes. I would rather clean the toilet.

Some of my friends greatly enjoy washing dishes, and own no dishwasher. They apparently love to stand by the sink, their hands growing wrinkly, while they play in filthy water contaminated with the dregs of their dinner.

It is not my thing.

I began washing dishes before I was five. My mother would stack books on a chair and then place me on top of the books with orders to wash the dishes.

My memories of doing this are rather painful.

I recall once, before I was six, my father had purchased some kind of reel-to-reel recording device. He had it in the kitchen, and I was instructed to be very quiet while I washed the dishes. Of course halfway through his song, I dropped the silverware. He knocked me off the chair.

Later, when I was about 9, my brother, three years my junior, "helped" by dumping the macaroni salad into the dishwater in the sink instead of into the trash. He vanished, and my mother came in as I tried to fish out the macaroni. She flew into a rage and, after making me empty the dishwasher and clean the sink, she proceeded to empty the cabinets of every dish in the place and forced me to stand there and wash each piece. I remember watching my tears splash into the dishwater.

And another time, when I was 9 or 10, I ended up staying alone in the house for what seemed like a very long while my parents and brother went fishing, because I had not finished the dishes in a timely manner. I remember being absolutely terrified at being alone.

So as you can see, washing the dishes is not something I have been very happy doing.

Which means that unless my husband can fix this dishwasher, which is a Whirlpool we purchased in 2003, I will be getting a new dishwasher pretty soon.