If you had asked me a week ago whether or not I suffered an inordinate attachment to material goods, I would have told you No. I wear sensible clothing; I drive a big ole van; I frequently “make do” or do without. That’s what I would have told you.
But that was before my dishwasher broke.
And it was then that my grieving began. Oh, how I loved that appliance! The quiet way it went about its business, diligently and untiringly, even after the rest of the house had gone to sleep. The reliable way it delivered cleanliness when offered only filth — it was one of the few relationships in my life that actually worked that way. I loved it. I needed it. I would die without it.
We tried to fix it, but our “tinkering” got ugly rather quickly. There was pleading and punching, kicking and crying. But no start. And then tonight, after an entire day of washing by hand, Dan pushed the start button and … it started. Just like that! As if sweet little Ms. Maytag had never been difficult or ornery at all.
Oh please. Nobody is buying it. But if she gets this load done, I just might find it my heart to forgive her. But just in case she’s messing with us, are you in love with your dishwasher? Was it reasonably priced? What brand?