September 24, 2003
Bachelor

Attack of the Killer Dishwasher Detergent 

     Ah the bachelor life.  Great in theory.  No more than okay in fact.
     Jan went over the hill, to the Front Range, for three days of babysitting granddaughters.  You all know just how badly I wanted to accompany her, me being so enthralled with babies, the crying, the changing, and their having absolutely nothing to do with me because I’m neither their mother, their father nor their grandma. As much as I wanted to go, there were important things to do here at home.  Like golf games to play, bike rides to enjoy, Audubon Trail runs to experience and lunches to mooch.  How could I take time to visit family in Denver?  It wasn’t like either the Rockies or the Bronco’s were in town.

     So off Jan went leaving me behind with a minimum of instructions.  Quoting my bride, “Just because you’ve been married for thirty-eight years is no reason you can’t function for three days by yourself.”  Oh yeah, well I can think of plenty of reasons.

     Not everything about batching it for three days is a downer.  When you’re alone and awake at three in the morning and head for the computer to read TJ Simers columns on LA Times.com you can do just exactly that without a sleepy voice mumbling, “Are you out of your mind it’s three o’clock in the morning.”  And if your ideal breakfast is leftover mashed potatoes, peach yogurt, peanut butter on sourdough toast, a cold slice of anchovy pizza and a glass of chocolate flavored whey well just go ahead and enjoy without someone, I wonder who, exclaiming, ”Have you no functioning taste buds?”  What’s more if that breakfast tastes better being wolfed down while one is solely attired in one’s favorite jockey shorts, the pair with holes everywhere, nobody is across the table being picky and finding fault with your morning attire.

   When living by yourself for a few days it’s possible to sit back and glow in the bliss that can only be experienced by a red blooded American male in a toilet seats always up, drink milk straight from the bottle, have the TV turned to ESPN twenty four hours a day, leave the toothbrush and toothpaste on the bathroom counter for all three days, pass gas anywhere, anytime, world.

    But a guy really does need a wife around for the tough jobs.  Like running the dishwasher.  First off, it wasn’t my fault.  She’s the one who left for Denver with the box of Cascade dishwashing detergent completely empty.  It’s ten o’clock at night and the dishwasher is full to the gills with dirty dishes.  What’s a person to do?  Well if the liquid stuff works on dishes in the sink shouldn’t it do the job in a dishwasher?  That’s what I thought as I uncapped the lid and squirted some on the dirty plates in the dishwasher.  And I squirted some more on the silverware, and on the glasses, and on the cups and then threw in an extra “good measure” squirt.

    With the dishwasher rumbling away I returned to “Baseball Tonight” and was deep into “Web Gems” when out of the corner of my eye, in what appeared to be a sci-fi movie coming to life, a white mountain of detergent was oozing its way across the kitchen tile, relentlessly advancing onto the living room carpet.  The unending sea of foam seemed to grow taller and more threatening as it silently moved menacingly in my direction.

     Quickly dashing into the laundry room I saw a stack of neatly folded bath towels waiting to be transported to the bathroom.  I grabbed the towels and started soaking up suds.  Within three minutes the towels were a soppy mess but the foam was gone.  Then the dishwasher changed cycles and here it came again.  More towels were needed until the fight was over and I triumphed.  Or so I thought.  But upon depositing the super soaked glop of towels in the clothes washer when the agitator cycled ”Hello déjà vu,” as the living, breathing mass of detergent foam began oozing through the washer lid.  Finally the fight was over, the battle won, taking over an hour to subdue the dishwasher liquid from hell.

     When Jan arrived home the house was spic, span and as clean as the proverbial whistle.  This was accomplished by working my fingers to the bone.   And the fact the cleaning lady was there for four hours.  Speaking of which, I know this is a woman thing that men never understand, but why are husbands left instructions to “Be sure and make sure the house is squared away before the cleaning lady comes.”  Isn’t that what the cleaning lady is supposed to do?