Dishing the dirt

The next time you are in the market for a major appliance, I highly recommend you enlist my wife’s help. Do this, and you can make your entire appliance shopping time about 11 seconds.
I found this out recently when we decided to buy a dishwasher. Our dishwasher was not so much a washer of dishes anymore. It was more of a dishwetter. Plus, the springs that make the door open and close slowly snapped a while back, so whenever you opened it, if you weren’t careful the door would come crashing down on you, which would then make you say things that you wish you had not when children were in earshot.
The dishwasher was an older model, one from the 1820s, by my guess. I am fairly certain that the dishwasher was placed at the site of the house years ago, and the house was later built around it.
We have wanted a new dishwasher since we moved into the house. Somehow, we got distracted with things like raising children and forgot that our dishwasher was terrible. It finally came to a head one evening when my wife opened the dishwasher and discovered several previous meals.
“Did you run the dishwasher?” she asked.
Indeed, I had.
“Did you rinse off the plates?”
Indeed, I had not.
To me, a dishwasher has one singular purpose, and that is to clean my dishes. If I have to clean the dishes ahead of time, I am doing part of the dishwasher’s job. Where is a dishwasher’s self worth if I assist it with its sole purpose for being? Basically, if I put a live chicken in a dishwasher, I expect to be able to run a cycle and open it up to find shiny bones inside.
So we decided it was time. I shopped the way that I normally do for large appliances, which was to read advertisements and find one that looked cool. I pointed several of these out to my wife. She began asking questions. At that point, I said, “I think it looks cool and that’s really all I know. Perhaps you should take over the research.”
Armed with my criteria (looks cool, can blast dried lasagna out of a casserole dish), my wife embarked on her research. Several days later, she emerged from her Research Chamber (we also call it the playroom/office) with exactly what we were going to get. This sucker had adjustable shelves, a quiet purr when it was operating, and the equivalent of a gas-powered pressure washer to blast gunk off of dishes. It also had a delayed start, for those times when you’re just not quite ready to clean your dishes.
And then we waited. Again, this is where my wife came in handy. She had noticed that during my advertisement searches, there were occasionally deals on installation. (It was never even remotely a consideration that I install it. If I did try it, there would be a good chance rescue personnel would be summoned to extract me from the behind the dishwasher.)
Finally, the offer was on. Time to go buying.
We walked into the store and headed over to the dishwashers. My wife began surveying the selection, as though she were viewing a police lineup. She had armed me with exactly what I needed to know. No more, no less.
After a few minutes, a salesperson approached us. This is where my wife’s research and my subsequent training came into play. “Can I help you find something?”
“If you have the Whirlpool Gold with a black front in stock, we’ll take it,” I said.
A look of pride overcame my wife, who was most likely expecting me to have an appliance store spas-fit and blurt, “I want a flat-screen TV!!!!”
The salesperson gave me a quizzical look, probably not knowing what to do when a customer cut directly to the chase. “Uh....lemme check.”
In no time, we were heading out of the store, the wallet a little lighter but the dishwasher just days from being installed. Had I done this myself, I would have probably spent several hours in the store, and eventually found something that looked cool and I really, really hoped cleaned well.
When it was installed, I was excited about its inaugural run. I wanted to put it to the test right away. If it was a dirty dish, I was throwing it in, often to the cries of, “Hey, I’m still eating!”
As the first cycle was finishing, I stood by in nervous anticipation, illustrating perfectly how ragingly boring my life is. When it was done, I opened it and was pleased to find shiny, shiny bones.
Kidding. I don’t even know where to get a live chicken. (I tried, with no luck.) But I did find clean plates and bowls and cups and forks and knives and everything else. Shiny. No streaks. No stains. It was like, well, it was like my dishes had actually been washed.
So the appliance hunt is over, and I am thrilled with our new purchase. It’s nice to have a functioning appliance, and it was through my wife’s diligent research that it was so quick and painless. Now if I can just get her working on the flat screen TV.