I've always been a champion of the underdog. Maybe it all began when I had Charlotte's Web read to me, and listened to Fern save the runt piglet from the axe. Wilbur turned out to be a pretty fantastic pig. I remember applying some of Fern's life-saving tactics on my mom when our cat had pre-term kittens. Mom let me keep them in a box inside, but it didn't end well.
I'm also one to save little bits of things, finding a use for them later. Construction paper scraps, fabric scraps, the bottom of the ketchup bottle, stale bread crusts. I try to avoid wasting something I bought or made.
When we moved to this 30-year old house, we were faced with the dilemma of the original kitchen appliances. Grandpas took their new fridge with them, so that replacement was a no-brainer. We had to buy a microwave too, to be installed over the 2-year-old range. We decided to spray-paint the old oven and dishwasher doors, and get as much use out of the dinosaurs that we could. I was happy with this restorative solution, and set about discovering and working with the quirks of my old appliances.
I have previously testified about my oven. I have not said anything about the dishwasher. Until now. The very first time I used it, I ran to the living room window and looked out to see who was driving the tractor out to which field. I saw only grass waving in the breeze and empty sky. I was mistaken. It was the dishwasher, loudly washing its dirty load. The thing was so noisy, we couldn't carry on conversations in the kitchen. If the phone rang, I had to take it to another room--far away. Even then, the person on the other end would ask, "WHAT is THAT?!" If I would have to run it when we had company over, undoubtedly our guests would perk up their heads with puzzled looks during its ear-shattering screeches. It really did sound like a jet engine. Jason and I developed our own interpretations of its sounds, and sometimes sat around imitating it, just for kicks. It washed my dishes fairly well, when I used it. I attributed the sometimes resulting dirty dishes to my own fault of cramming every last article I could into the beast. Black residue of some kind would appear over all the inside, and I had to scrub it off with a toothbrush. Then lately, it ceased to drain properly. After each wash, I had water standing in the bottom of the tub. Foul-smelling, backed-up-drain water. I told the Mr. about it.
I had a doctor's appointment on Friday, and when I came home, I saw that the Mr. had replaced it with a new Whirlpool! At first I was sad for my little friend, since it had held my sympathies for so long and had embodied my ideals of making the most out of our resources. When I recovered from my shock, I asked him what changed his mind. "When I opened it last night and smelled poop!" he said.
I used the Whirlpool once. Twice. Three times. I couldn't believe how clean my dishes got. Squeaky clean! I couldn't believe how quiet it was. I could hear myself think.
Jason cleaned out the drain last night. It was a very gross job.
I've decided I've got myself a great dishwasher, and a great man!