We understood that dishwashers can be purchased. But the houses in this city are old. And if a house didn't already have a dishwasher, there was a good chance that adding one would require some sort of circus freakery where you store the appliance in a pantry and wheel it into the kitchen like its a grandfather at his last birthday party, attach hoses (again with the grandfather metaphor), run it. Wheel it back to the pantry two hours later.
This sounded like a good way to end up with a kitchen that doubled as a science lab.
So our house has a dishwasher. It also has central air for whatever reason, and a dimmer light in the same bathroom where the water pressure allows for a shower that trickles like a urinary tract infection. Someday when you're older, I'll tell you about the mural.
We hadn't even unpacked all of the dishes when the dishwasher earned the unique award of being the first thing in the house to break.
This has been a ugly, ugly time for us. Or, more specifically, our kitchen. I don't mind doing dishes that much. I can build up a frothy lather to my elbows and write all sorts of "Little House on the Prairie" fan fiction in my head. So I did dishes about every three days until I got bored with it, then took a week off from it. Fire up the dawn for another go-round. Break time.
It became so taxing that the litter box wouldn't be cleaned, the clothes wouldn't get washed. Actually call someone to fix it? Couldn't. I was crushed beneath the weight of glassware. Finally I manned up and called appliance fixers, who gave me the universal advice that goes with all things that require power: Turn off the power. Turn it back on.
Thank God that didn't work, or I probably would have just stuck my head in there and set it on pots and pans.
Now, as I reach the climax of the story, I realize that it isn't very interesting at all. A repair man came, wiped off a wire, popped it back in and the dishwasher worked. I guess the real moral of the story is that now I'm a house blogger.