Was I swept off my feet by a fanboy with VIP Comic-Con passes? Did Husband meet an outdoorsy vixen a la Christopher Stone in The Howling? (Spoiler - she's a werewolf, dude. Watch out!) Does one of us harbor a secret more atrocious than the Melrose Place-scar concealing wig? What nearly brought the Pope-pourri marriage to it's knees?
Well, it was the dishwasher.
The dishwasher broke and, for a series of banal reasons, it could not be replaced until we had our kitchen cabinets and counter replaced. We were staring at approximately 8 weeks without a functionable kitchen - no dishwasher, stove, countertop, sink. No cabinetry. Just a microwave and oven.
Once upon a time, in an apartment far, far away, we lived the life of the dishwasher-free. That apartment was decidedly, flagrantly sans dishwasher. For three years we prospered without a machine to cleanse the Target plates, the Ikea utensils.
But somehow, staring two months of dish duty full in the face terrorized us. Like Flowers for Algernon, we could not go back. I think it's probably because, back in the apartment, we had a) more disposable income for takeout and b) more sex to offset the disgust of dish cleansing.
And, if we're going to get honest here, none of us - myself, Husband, Daughter, Son - is good with change. Daughter, having produced from my loins exclusively with my DNA, is probably the best with change. Change can be categorized.
There is change that is just deplorable, like Spartacus getting canceled or The West Wing moving from Wednesday to Thursday.
There's change that's agreeable. Daredevil laying the groundwork for The Defenders comes to mind.
But then there's change that's somewhere in the middle. I am of the Mr. Miyagi school. Wax on/wax off is a life philosophy and when you walk in the middle of the road you get squished like a grape.
Change that walks in the middle of the road is no exception. That jazz will sweep your knee and laugh in your face while Bobby calls for a body bag.
Middle Change, if you will, demands that you keep your eye on the prize - the trip is lousy, but the destination is grand. Early in our journey, Daughter noted our grand destination - we would have a pretty unfortunate kitchen gorgeously updated. We could, she felt, endure the change for the greater good. She never stopped believing. I made a conscious effort to follow her example. It was the mental equivalent of The Crane Technique.
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| Eww...old kitchen. |
Now, while we were in the planning stages of the kitchen makeover, we still had a nonfunctioning dishwasher. And this is where my marriage began to erode like sand dunes in a hurricane.
I am what some derogatorily call compulsively neat. I call myself compulsively perfect. And as such, I know I am right when I group like items together. Dirty dishes go in the sink. The sink is a receptacle made for containing dirty dishes. In this deity-decreed container, dirty dishes may be corraled and washed, then placed to the left of the sink to dry.
Husband is perfect in many ways of his own. Dishwashing isn't one of them. The way he loads a dishwasher almost cripples the compulsive perfectionist in me. Naturally, it follows that the way he doesn't load a dishwasher is an abhorrence of nature.
Day after day, he persisted, insisted, on placing dirty dishes to the right of the sink. Not in the sink. To the right of the sink. The right! Who does that? Clearly, The Videotape Incident, his failure to appreciate Star Trek, his dismissal of The Closet Monster's existence - these were all signs that I had ignored. Signs that I had married a to-the-right-of-the-sink-placing savage.
But I love him, so just as he tolerates my "frequent" - his words - references to Mommie Dearest, I tolerated his savagery. Quietly, subversively, I would slip those dishes into the sink. I kept the peace. Or so I thought.
One day, as the heat of summer crept around us and the loss of counters and cabinetry loomed large, Husband felt the need to correct me. Me! Apparently, he agrees with my stats professor. I am not perfect.
Look, Husband sighed, clearly aggrieved. This is the "staging area" - he pointed to the right of the sink. This is the "cleaning area" - he pointed to the sink. And this - pointing to the left of the sink - is the "drying area."
Never tell an avowed neat freak that they clean incorrectly. It's war.
That, I said to him, is insane.
He was incredulous at my allegation.
Surely I don't need to explain to you get why his edict was insane. It was deranged. Irrational! In what world order are dirty dishes placed in a staging area to the right of the sink?! Certainly not a world I want to populate with my orderly countenance. I have children to consider.
Things only dissolved further when the counters and cabinets were torn out. Let's just say that, through a rare error on my part, Husband wound up emptying the cabinets after 10 hours at his job while I laid by the pool in Cape May surreptitiously drinking a margarita given to me by fellow hotel tenants who empathized with my week of single parenthood.
I'm not proud. But in my defense, have you read that blog?
After my return from Cape May, disconnection of gas and water lines temporarily knocked out the pilot on our hot water heater. No hot water for showers. Husband called me that night from his 24 hour shift. I broke the news gently. Why? Because Son produced from my loins with little of my DNA. His meltdown about our bare kitchen and cold water portended his father's reaction. All Son wanted was SPAGHETTI and he couldn't have SPAGHETTI without a stove and it had been so long since he'd had SPAGHETTI that he was forgetting what SPAGHETTI tasted like and why he couldn't he just have SPAGHETTI?!
Husband was not pleased. He laid out his plan for the following day: finish work, hit the gym, get breakfast from Starbucks. He was annoyed that we didn't have any HOT WATER and whoever heard of losing HOT WATER due to a kitchen remodel but the gym has HOT WATER so he will get a shower with HOT WATER there and how long will we be without HOT WATER?!
And what, he wanted to know, were my plans?
I didn't tell him that the kids and I had eaten a delectable dinner because one of my school mom friends had taken pity on me. She and her family had conjured up some hot dogs, mussels, and orange creamsicles at the pool that evening, and, knowing my plight, insisted we join.
I also didn't tell him that orange creamsicles aren't Popsicles but a charming alcoholic beverage that releases you from caring about hot water, absent counter tops, and even errant staging areas. And I really didn't tell him that I was procuring my daily breakfast smoothie from the cafe down the street. I even failed to mention that I wasn't bathing kids who had spent the day in chlorine because really, how much cleaner could they be after spending the day in a germ-annihilating chemical? And really, for me, having endured showers at the cabin, a cold shower in my beautiful bathroom was a piece of cake.
I did tell him that Son was getting his SPAGHETTI for lunch at camp the next day because School Mom Friend ran the camp and declared she was going to end Son's suffering by bringing him a SPAGHETTI lunch.
Now, while I can certainly condemn Husband's approach to dishwashing, I could not condemn his distress. He had just paid for a vacation he couldn't attend and a new kitchen he didn't feel we needed. While I drank orange creamsicles, he had what we'll call a horrific night at work.
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| I can do tricks with spoons. I just can't wash them. |
What was it that had carried us through the apartment years without a dishwasher? Oh yeah, takeout and sex. It was time to go back to the apartment years. I arranged for takeout, to be consumed after the kids were in bed. I picked up beer - lovely bottles that could be enjoyed without generating dishes to wash. I offered my, um, services.
I even consented to a few evenings outdoors, on our deck. So much television to watch, but I sat with my outdoorsman in the wilds of Bucks County.
No werewolf was going to steal my man.
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| Glorious brand new kitchen. So pretty! |
Now, this will be the hardest part to read. It's such an insult to order and establishment, what is right and what is wrong. But I lived it, so you can read it.
I washed Husband's work thermos. Without a sink or dishwasher, I was forced to fill my Dutch oven with water from our laundry room utility sink. I carefully arranged my assembly line at the kitchen table.
Dirty thermos on the right, in the staging area. Dutch oven in the middle, the cleaning area. Towel on the left, the drying area.
Man. I am a good wife.
But I may need to live with one of you after Husband reads this.
The Binge
A departure from television and celluloid, this week's Binge is all audio and all available through the Podcast app.
Here's The Thing. An interview show hosted by Alec Baldwin (yep, the Alec Baldwin) is surprisingly, amazingly compelling. Mr. Baldwin asks insightful, even probing, questions. Never arrogant, you wouldn't know it was Alec Baldwin if it weren't for the voice and occasional acting references. Talking with everyone from Penn Jillette to the documentarians behind Making a Murderer, you won't want the interviews to end. Here's The Thing.
Preston & Steve. Our beloved Philadelphia morning show, P&S are, quite simply, awesome. Notorious good guys, the show has a great rhythm and hilarity that will make you laugh all day. They're also incredibly fan friendly. There's nothing worse than when famous people you love are d***s in real life. But I got to be in-studio last year and they could not have been nicer. P&S.
The Joe Rogan Experience. The actor/comedian's interview show that allows Rogan's diversity to shine. Rogan.
The West Wing Weekly. A weekly offering hosted by Josh Malina and Hrishikesh Hirway. Each episode dissects, in chronological order, an episode of The West Wing. Insider information, show trivia, and pure fandom make the days in between Wednesday offerings of the podcast long and dreary. It's a joy for any Wingnut. The West Wing Weekly.
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