No, your dishwasher hasn’t been talking about you behind your back; tattling about how many helpings of meatloaf you had last night. I promise.
Whispers to dishwasher, “It’ll be our little secret.”
But serious. No really.
This weekend I was fortunate enough to have some guests over. These well intentioned guests are the type who insist on helping by doing chores while visiting. Ultimately, I do not like that as, being a control freak, I have a certain way of doing things, which I do not like hindered. But, they are guests and I let them help because that’s what they wanted.
Now, I won’t name any names or throw anyone under the bus here in the event said guest winds up reading this blog. (If you do, I’m sorry Cindy.)
Anyway, said guest left me a dishwasher full of dishes, which I had until today neglected to wash (read: flip a switch). Naturally, I examined the contents of the washer before initiating any cycle. What I found was not some horribly encrusted food stuff. No, rather, the sight which met my eyes looked something more akin to a scene from the Iliad. I love the Iliad, but not when portrayed by my dishes.
Dishes strewn about in chaotic display.
Then it hit me. What does your dishwasher say about you? Specifically, the way you load it.
The slain upon the field of battle.
Then it hit me. I must be really disparate for blog material.
Having let that line of thought run through my mind, I proceeded to set things in order, to right wrongs long wrought (thumbs up for iambic pentameter).
Ah, order restored.
So, what does my dishwasher say about me? Probably, that I am indeed a control freak; that I’m super anal (retentive).
So, what’s my point? Hmm, not sure I have one. This blog post sounded a lot better in my head. I guess the point is I’m really picky about how my dishwasher is loaded. Don’t touch!