Ode to a dishwasher

Burly, smoky men have arrived to install my new dishwasher. I love capable men who lift shiny, new appliances with ease and prattle on about grounding and drilling and electrical boxes and such. Oh, dearheart, I don’t give one Cascade pellet about all of that. Just get on with your sexy wiring and plumbing feats of wonderment!

Bristling excitement over a new dishwasher says many things about this girl. The first is, evidently, that actual, bristling excitement may be lacking in my everyday. But merely whisper, “Bosch!” to any French toast slinging mom and you’ll hear breathy sounds of encouragement normally reserved for other rooms of the house. And although the chief boast of this appliance is its ability to scrub a load of filthy dishes with all of the racket of a butterfly alighting on a cotton ball, it will just be sort of nice not to have an entire rack of coffee cups land on my toes, or not to be sliced by the jagged edge of the part that wasn’t ever screwed in properly, or not to retrieve the melted wheels that prevent the machine from vomiting pans across the granite floor. These things will be nice, indeed.

Now that Mr. Clean is installed and burly men have absconded with my old, reviled torture tank of pot-vomiting terror, I still can’t go anywhere. I have to take a few, flattering photos of this handsome fella, and then find dirty dishes to feed him, and then sit around status updating about how I can’t hear my dishwasher running.

Hello, handsome.

Hello, handsome.

The obvious drawback to the awesomeness of Mr. Clean, here, is that now I want everything shiny and new and cabinets that are that greige color and a ‘fridge that can accommodate both a turkey and a sheet cake whist still promising to crisp kale and delivering me sparkling soda on demand. I want a cooktop without a single can’t-scrape-that-shit-off spot, and knobs that stay on, and one of those giant, decorative islands that house enormous cookbooks and mortars and pestles and other accouterments of culinary glory. Mr. Clean deserves these quality bedfellows. But because Mr. Clean cost as much as a bauble in a blue be-ribboned box, it might be a while before he acquires more sophisticated companions.

In the meantime, Mr. Clean is my saucy saucer washer, my dish-doing devotee, my power-rinsing raison d’être. Happy early Mother’s Day to me! Excuse me now as I dirty all of the plates for the joy of not hearing them get clean. And God bless burly, smoky men everywhere—men who know how to install pluggy-inny things, and who pretend not to notice that I might have no idea how to make Mr. Clean do anything other than sit there looking handsome.