When we first moved into Casa Maven there was no built-in dishwasher. There wasn't even a spot under the counter for a dishwasher. What the house did come with, however, was a portable machine that the previous owner was more than happy to give away. She said it was a little tricky to get going and showed us how to attach the hose to the tap in just the right way. Right. Got it.

I decided to try it the very next day. I did exactly what she told me: I set the draught glass she left us upside down in the sink. Then I precariously balanced the bottom of the hose on the glass and screwed the top of it into the faucet. I put soap in the loaded dishwasher, turned it on and switched on the taps.

Water came shooting out of the hose where it met the faucet, the force of which was enough to send the hose flying through the air spraying everything in sight. At the same time, the beer glass flipped over and smashed in the sink. Soaking wet, I fought my way through our new indoor sprinkler system and turned off its water source.

I then unceremoniously hauled the dishwasher into the garage.

Stupid dishwasher.

But, you know, it wasn't so bad doing the dishes by hand. Casa Maven is situated on a half acre in a lovely, almost cottagey area. Although we're in the suburbs it feels quite rustic in our old fixer-upper home surrounded by 60-year-old trees. I didn't mind getting my hands soapy while baby Spawnling played happily on the floor with whatever he could find in our half-unpacked boxes. Doing the dishes by hand three times per day felt old fashioned and simple. I smiled and hummed as I listened to the splish-splash of the sudsy water.

That lasted about three weeks. Then the wet dishrag of reality snapped me in the eye.

It was really nice while it lasted, though.

By the end of those three weeks I had a hard time not breaking dishes as I slammed them into one another on the dishtray. Dishes three times a day? Who the hell did this family think I was, some kind of Cinderella? Surely they realized I had more to do in life than washing dried ketchup off of plastic Buzz Lightyear plates. If I had to stick my finger into the bottom of one more cup to scrape off two-day-old milk I was going to stick my head into the lavender-smelling water and quietly drown myself.

Not only had we just moved into our home, but we also had a ton of renovations going on. The downstairs bathroom was being gutted (the one that contains our washer and dryer, which were sitting in the dining room, unusable), a wall had just been built between the playroom and livingroom, and the entire house was being painted room by room. All of these renos were being done by Geekster and I. Well, mostly Geekster. Being the household manager, I feel it's best I delegate and focus on my primary task of motivating everyone while eating chocolate. It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it.

Geekster looked like a demon risen from the ashes of a hardware store. His clothes were covered in (very nice coloured) paint, his hands cut and oily, his goatee greedily hanging on to bits of insulation. He was so hot.

Hot like in body temperature, I mean. He's a sexy beast, but only after he showers.

In one of my greatest moments of empathy I politely told Geekster that if he would not build a dishwasher into the kitchen I would probably have to divorce him, as I was certain getting dishpan hands and a sore back were grounds for such a thing.

He understood, but explained that we had used up all our savings on the other house repairs and couldn't possibly afford one right now.

It's probably best I don't repeat what I said after that, lest I shock those who believe me to be quiet and respectful.

(... What? Nobody? I'm so hurt.)

It goes without saying that within a few days I had a brand new kitchen island and a (free, secondhand) dishwasher, all custom-built and installed by Geekster. Impressive and, most importantly, efficient. I welcomed laziness back into my life with open arms.

How I enjoyed having a dishwasher. It was noisy and made clunk-clunk-ROWR-wown-wown-wown sounds, but my dishes (mostly) came out clean. Life was good and I was a happy Maven.

***

Today my free secondhand diswasher broke. Isn't that wonderful? We're broke and it's right after Christmas, so the timing is perfect!

Sigh.

I feel like we just lost a family member. A noisy, unstable, and rather ugly family member, but that's beside the point. For 18 months Clunk-a-Dunk has been helping me maintain order in the busiest place in our house.

No, not the bedroom, you sly dog, the kitchen. Teehee.

I'm understandably stressed out. There is no happy baby Spawnling to play merrily in the now non-existent boxes while I scrub the stupid pots and pans. He's been replaced by a toddler who loves to get all up in my face at every opportunity. In order to do the dishes I'll have to fill the sink next to me full of water so he can splash it all over the floor and wet my socks. My alternative is to let him scream as he clings to my pants.

Oh, joy of joys!

I can hardly wait.

I'm brimming with excitement at the prospect.

Geekster thinks he might be able to repair the broken dishwasher. I certainly hope that it's not only repairable, but quick to fix. Because it goes without saying how much staying home to clean dishes will affect my social life.

Priorities, you know?