July 26, 2006
How many husbands does it take to load a dishwasher?

Untrainable.  There’s no other possible explanation.  After almost 42 years of marriage, the point is still brought home daily that the skills necessary to properly load a dishwasher are not in my possession.  It matters not how much resolve, angst or perspiration go into, “This time I’ll get it right,” when trying to achieve dirty dish placement perfection and receive a kitchen commendation from the one I promised to “love, honor and rinse the Melmac before it’s placed in the Kenmore”. But just as sure as Barbara Walters makes her celebrity guests cry, it’s only a matter of minutes after I close the dishwasher until the kitchen warden, our household’s answer to Sheriff Buford T. Pusser, aka the law east of Redlands Parkway, has opened the dishwasher and is re-arranging what I thought was a near perfect effort. 

“So what’s wrong?” is a question continually asked without trying sound defensive. “Oh nothing, it could just be a little more efficient.  By re-arranging I could get another dozen or so pots, pans and spatulas washed.” 

Efficient?  We’re talking about the day’s dirty dishes not the assembly line in a River Rouge car plant.  And when did the eleventh commandment become, “Thou shall not run the dishwasher until it’s as stuffed as a Thanksgiving turkey”? While our dishwasher is far from top of the line, it’s definitely up to the strain of as many as two whole washes within twenty-four hours.

Speaking of the mysteries in the dishwasher world, what wizard dictated dishwashers only do their thing just before bedtime?  Just what rule of etiquette is broken by washing dishes at four in the afternoon or ten in the morning? But no, “There’s a time and a place for everything and the dishwasher’s time is just before bed after all meals including your ten o’ clock news bowl of cereal are out of the way.” 

Hey, I’ m not trying to get out of dish duty.  Fifty/fifty works for me, and those who cook shouldn’t also be required to also pull KP after the evening meal.  Others, trying out the role of amateur marriage counselor, have suggested we trade and let me take over the food preparation role but my wife isn’t that fond of scrambled eggs and toast.  At least not seven nights a week.  True, I can prepare other things, well one other, a bowl of Crispy Wheats n’ Raisins, but after that the culinary repertoire is more than a wee bit limited.  

Fair’s fair; I don’t wait until the evening casserole has been popped in the oven and then sneak behind her back to add ingredients. Why won’t she leave my dishwasher loading efforts alone?  True, the one time I was left to my own devices a small number of knives and forks plus a few plates and a colander emerged from the forty-minute wash cycle with a slightly “crusty” appearance.  But that unforeseen circumstance hasn’t occurred in years, somewhere back around the last time she absent-mindedly forgot to re-visit the dishwasher before its nightly exercise.  

It’s also possible my wife is worried that should she neglect checking out how the dishes are stacked before the “on” switch is pushed, I’ll start believing I’m omnipotent and capable of any household task.  Like putting clean sheets on the bed without her even checking, and re-tucking, the bottom corners on the top sheet.