The new dishwasher comes tomorrow.
To say I am excited is, perhaps, an understatement.
Of course, seeing those words in print makes me cringe a tiny bit inside, because, well, it doesn't seem normal to be excited about a new dishwasher. Still, perhaps you'll understand a bit better from the following conversation this morning.
I go downstairs and, after coffee, open said dishwasher to unload and reload (because no one reuses dishes around here I guess? I don't know. I just know the sink is always full.) And I'm greeted with a clearly dirty dish right there in the middle of other dishes that are clean (ish) and exclaim, "It's like you're not even trying."
Hubby says, "Me?"
"No. The dishwasher."
He laughs. "It's not that bad."
I point to the dishes and quirk a brow.
"Oh. Well, new one tomorrow."
And then I commence re-writing Tomorrow (a la Little Orphan Annie) to be about the demise of the dishwasher.
I'll run it one more time tonight (because no one ever reuses a dish and it's better to start out with clean for the day when possible) and then I will tap dance on its corpse when they haul it out from under the counter.
(Well, I won't. But I will want to.)
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