Washed Up

There’s a good reason for my unexpected blogging hiatus.  But I don’t want to bore you with tales of luxurious warm days flashing my six-pack abs in a HAWT white bikini on the Cote d’Azure or lull you to sleep with anecdotes of decadent nights hobnobbing with the Hollywood elite.  No, we’ll just pretend that I spent Spring Break conducting important science experiments about mass and inertia: 

How many Peeps can one consume before someone who hasn’t run in two weeks swells up to Violet Beauregard proportions?

I also pondered the great questions of math and logic:

How long does it take to grade 59 papers, 62 Mid-Terms, and 57 writing exercises when Real Housewives and The Millionaire Matchmaker have back to back marathons?

Then, there was the Great Dishwasher Debacle.  The email from Marian the Librarian was unexpected.  “We’re moving and we no longer need our portable dishwasher.  Do you want it?” I know if I were a good friend my first thoughts should have been, where are you moving to?  When?  Do you need help?  But no, my first thought was DISHWASHER!  Mr. Dingo was startled at the tears that sprang to my eyes.  He asked if I was okay and between sobs I informed him that we were getting a dishwasher.  I may have even jumped up and down and mimed spiking a football before propelling myself across the apartment in a Charlies Angel’s roll in celebration. 

I love, love, love a clean house.  Many a night when I can’t sleep I drool over the interior decorating porn on Apartment Therapy and Desire to Inspire.  The airy, bright living rooms, spotless tubs, the mystery of “where in the hell did they store all their clothes?” and the crisp, pet-hair free couches make me swoon.  I just don’t have the time to make the apartment look like those photos.  Sure, sometimes cleaning can be therapeutic.  Like when I finally move the couch to vacuum and find a wayward Oxycontin tablet.  Those turn out to be lovely afternoons.  Just me, the tingly feelings, and pretty colors. 

Anyway, the dishwasher was like winning the lotto.  It was beautiful.  I named her Bianca.  I also let the dishes pile up for days.  I would use one spoon to scoop the sugar into my tea and a different one to stir it.  When I was feeling wild and reckless I took plates from the cupboards and licked them thoroughly before placing them on the counter next to the sink — because I HAD A DISHWASHER!  The day finally came to let Bianca do what she was born to do.  I loaded the dishwasher, hit Start, and the gentle swishing of water fell upon my ears like the dulcet tones of angels.  And then it all went black.  Pitch black.  I called to Dingo Girl hoping she would act as a seeing eye dog and lead me to my bed where I could cry myself to sleep, but she cleared out when the first cries of “Shitfuckgoddamnmutherfucker!” bounced off the walls. 

Apparently, our apartment is a holdover from the Middle Ages and the fuses can’t cope with the demands made by a dishwasher.  Bianca requires more power than the gear and pulley system attached to the hamster wheel in the fuse box is able to muster.  So, this weekend, we listed Bianca on freecycle.com and placed her on the curb for some lucky person to pick up.  I taped a sign to her door:  WILL WORK FOR FUSE.

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