Hey there. Sorry it’s taken me so long to write, but you know how it is; I have my jobs to do, you yours.
When we moved in, you weren’t exactly a selling feature of the house. The curve in our dishes don’t fit precisely in your racks, and they tend to clatter and chip. I’ve never been able to figure out why they didn’t build you to accommodate stemware. And let’s not even start on the incident of the glass in the motor!
Still, you’ve performed well enough, some might even say admirably, given the circumstances. You’ve taken us from bottles to sippy cups seamlessly. Even when I rush and throw plastic plates onto the bottom rack, you don’t complain. And I really am appreciative that you don’t make me scrub every last ort of food off our dishes before “cleaning” them. Believe me, I know I’m lucky.
But, dishwasher, I just gotta say: Man up! (Or, maybe, Woman Up!) You think I wouldn’t like to give away under the pressures of my job, too? Send all my burdens careening across the kitchen floor, while I lie there, gaping stupidly? Sounds like a dream! But, you and I are made of sterner stuff. We are the doers, the fixers, the keep-it-togetherers.
Dishwasher, I’m counting on you. Thanks, pal.