It's the final episode of the dishwasher trilogy. As soon as I mentioned to my wife that I was getting tired of the endless mess created by not having a dishwasher available to us, she jumped at the chance to buy us a new one. She didn't, however, jump at the chance to pay more than a hundred dollars to have it installed for us. Instead, she decided to leave that to her eminently capable, utterly experienced handyman of a husband. You could say that this is my theme song:
Okay, maybe that's not quite the way things work. Being handy has never been my thing. I'm not a girlyman or anything, and I know my way around a hammer and saw (I mean, I've never once cut my finger off, which is more than some people can say), but I'm more of an artsy, creative type than the tool-owning, mister-fix-it type. So, every time something like this comes up, it's nearly as painful as a root canal for me.
The dishwasher installation was no exception to the rule. Starting Thursday evening and continuing all the way through Saturday morning, I spent all my spare time flailing my way through acquiring the necessary knowledge required to install a dishwasher. It may have taken ten times the amount of time that an installer from Home Depot would have taken, but I succeeded. Saturday morning, my wife loaded up the dishwasher and ran the first load of kitchenware since July.
Tears filled her eyes as the dishwasher began its swishing and spraying noises to effortlessly clean and sanitize those dishes for their next use. Relief filled my eyes when the electricity didn't short out or cause a fire, and no puddles steadily formed on the tile in front of the dishwasher. I suppose I really am just so handy.
Aargh, what's that puddle? Looks like I spoke too soon.
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