I’ve always been pretty organized. I’m not exactly an OCD person, but I am qualified to stand in for one. I keep my clothes neatly hung in my closet slacks to the left, shirts to the right. I have my dresser drawers arranged so I know what is in which drawer before I open it. I even keep socks and underwear sorted so they all get about the equal amount of wear. All my bills and financial information are easy to access.
But all the above is just my personal thing. I’ve always believe in laissez-faire when it comes to other folk’s methods of handling their daily affairs. It’s not up to me to interfere with how they want to do things. However, there is one exception. I’ve never met a dishwasher that I couldn’t do a better job arranging.
Exactly when this devilish machine took over my soul I couldn’t say. I do know my obsession reached therapy level after we purchased a state of the art model a couple of years ago.
This gem is so spacious and well-conceived that with proper load supervision (mine, of course) it could probably wash a week’s worth of dishes in one running. Make no mistake, loading a dishwasher is an art. No willy-nilly, slapdash effort will make sound use of the finely engineered racks and cubbyholes that adorn this baby.
My dear wife, Patty, does most of the cooking for us. She excels in that endeavor. I always do the after meal cleanup. She thinks I am just pitching in with my share of the work. What naivety. Actually, I’m trying to keep her away from the dishwasher! But sometimes I can’t be there when she is loading it. I once held a dishwasher instruction seminar with her to explain proper technique. Sadly, it was to no avail.
Add to this the fact that we have two guests with us this summer. My oldest granddaughter and her college friend are staying with us and earning college money waitressing at a local bistro. They are two sweet, lovely girls and terrific house guests. But with one major failing. That’s right, they too are dishwasher impaired! Obviously their parents didn’t teach them this mundane but important task at a young age when their brains were fine-tuned to learning good habits. Imagine the horror of trying to rearrange a load when three, count em’, three others are thwarting your best efforts.
Let me try to illustrate my angst: 1. The silverware all over-stuffed into two of the six designated compartments, some of them upside down, while the other four go begging. 2. Plates put in the upper level which is strictly reserved for glasses, cups and small bowls. 3. Large plates in the small plate slots and vice versa. 4. Dishes positioned diagonally. Oh, the humanity!
I just couldn’t keep up! I became withdrawn. Just the other afternoon my wife came in the bedroom and found me with the covers over my head, curled in a fetal position, sucking my thumb.
So why am I just now writing about this? Simple, my therapist suggested I journal as an outlet for this built-up negative emotion. He also mentioned there were support groups specifically for this affliction. So thank you for reading and understanding. For those of you who would like show support; remember, in the back row, it’s dinner plates only, bottoms facing left, smaller plates in the front, all with serving side facing the back.
Thanks, I feel better already.