Our old dishwasher, whom we shall call Morty, was a sinister type.
Mom says I should call him Stalin instead. Or Adolf.
Morty presented himself as a compact, clean, efficient sort of fellow.
I'll just squeeze into this little corner of the kitchen, he said.
Don't mind me.
But he wasn't happy in his corner. He wanted to spread.
Claim his territory. Alpha male style.
Every time we ran a load of dishes, he started to leak.
A treacherous puddle turned into a lake.
Waiting for an unsuspecting family member to slip and fall.
And when they did, Morty would stare stonily down at them.
What? He'd say. I didn't do anything. I'm just washing dishes...
But he didn't even do that well.
Morty, mom would say, these dishes aren't clean! They look the same as when they went in!
But mom, Morty would say, I washed them! I did my best! What more can you ask of me?
If whining didn't work
the next tactic was oh, but I'm so very tired...
Morty, you're 3 years old. You're not allowed to be tired.
Finally, Morty was sent away.
But our hearts had been hurt. We had opened our home to that dishwasher, and he had spurned us. And our dishes. Could we trust another dishwasher?
That was a year ago.
And we have finally decided that yes, we can.
Today we are welcoming Esmerelda into our home.
Hopefully she fares better.
But if she doesn't, we'll survive.
I actually got pretty attached to my therapeutic dishwashing time.
And mom is sad that cleaning the kitchen won't take as long.
She won't get through nearly as many books on tape.
