The F@#$%&g Dishwasher Story Again

Here's the dishwasher story...again. This is going to be my 'Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer'...


My wife Susan and I have been very lucky in that we've been married for almost six years and we still actually like each other. We're very open in our marriage. I should probably stress that I don't mean this in the Gene Simmons 'I Love You, But I'm Still Gonna Have Sex With Other People' sense of the word; rather, we feel that we can discuss differences of opinion with each other in a rational, mature manner. Take this loving exchange from last week:


Sue: You stink!

Gary: No, you stink!

The matter in question was our dishwasher. Ever since we started dating, this matter has aroused more passionate debate than, for example, the war in Iraq. I realize that most of my female readers (if not both of them) may jump to the conclusion that I, representing the stereotypical male, was probably asked to load the dishwasher and declined because I was busy watching football or crushing beer cans on my forehead or whatever. But the catalyst for this argument was my strict policy of rinsing the dishes before I load the dishwasher. I learned this on (since we're talking about male stereotypes) Home Improvement.

Sue's argument is that A). It takes too long, and B). it's like washing the same dishes twice. My argument basically amounts to the fact that 1). She's forgetting that I'm actually washing the dishes, and 2). I should be recognized as a pioneer because I may be the first male in history to voluntarily do a domestic chore.

Perhaps I am in the wrong here (as I often am; she is quite a bit more intelligent than I am), but I actually have another theory about this. I'll bet that at some point in her life she had access to a dishwasher that actually worked. It probably wasn't in college; there isn't a dorm in this country that has enough area for even a decent sized sink, and most colleges don't like to just hand out luxury items like dishwashers (or post Eisenhower era heating systems, but I digress). It was probably at home. Perhaps her memories of Mom Karen's trusty Hotpoint blasting the paisley prints off the coffee cups gives her a vague sense of hope, like a heroin addict during their umpteenth fix, hoping to reexperience that first cherry rush.

Or perhaps not; it's a dishwasher, for god's sake.

I have had access to maybe six dishwashers in my entire life, none of which I would trust to launder old baseball caps. Hell, I didn't even know dishwashers were suppoused to work. I thought people just bought them because they matched other appliances, like they were really expensive window treatments. Sue claims that some of them do work. For some reason, she has unrelenting faith in ours, despite the fact that the dishes seem to come out dirtier than they went in.

And so, I reluctantly believe her. After all, her unrelenting faith in me has done a lot of good.

I was hoping to write a lengthy discourse on the differences between men and women (leaving the toilet seat up, how Porky's will outlast Steel Magnolias, etc.), but Sue loaded the dishwasher last and I have to get back to scraping the plates.

Thanks For Listening-G.P.