Dishwasher

My husband takes great pride in his family tradition of thriftiness. I have to admit, that can wonderful. We have genuine antique glass door knobs throughout the house, salvaged from alleys throughout the city. I can always find a twist tie or small piece of string when I need them. Our bank account is healthy.

But sometimes frugal crosses the line into stingy.

When I was pregnant with our first child, my husband remodeled our kitchen. It was tiny before, and not much bigger afterward – maybe 125 square feet – but when he was finished I had drawers to store things, shelves to store more things, and he had somehow made room for a dishwasher. It wasn't quite top-of-the-line, but a generous gift from my Aunt P made it possible for us to buy a really nice machine. It had a disposer in the bottom so stray food particles would be ground up and washed away. The top rack was adjustable. The flatware basket was in the door and could be removed for easy emptying. Boy did I love it! Bottles, high chair parts, daily dishes – my miracle machine could handle anything. So when we moved to our next house five years later, there was no question: we brought the dishwasher with us.

Two years ago I started noticing a little grime on my dishes. I took the dishwasher apart (thank goodness for internet DIY instructions) and found a couple pieces of broken glass and some bone bits in the bottom. I emptied a clogged filter then put everything back together. Sure, the (now eight year old) dishwasher was a little noisier than when we first got it, but considering how often we ran the thing, it was doing pretty well. Except, it wasn't. Gunk started building up. I was having to rinse glasses before I put them away. I took it apart again but found nothing.

We spent $100 to have an appliance repairman take a look. He found nothing.

My mom learned that dishwashing soaps had been reformulated to remove phosphates. I switched brands, then I switched again. Noisier, dirtier. Over time the top rack broke, and we jerry-rigged a repair. Some of the rubber coating on the racks peeled off. We tried a second appliance repair place. Another $100, glasses still grimy, plates not quite clean.

I started making noises about replacing the dishwasher. I began reading reviews, assessing features. DH finally heard and in May I came home from work to find a gaping hole where the dishwasher had been.

There were three salvaged machines on the back porch.

He installed the first one in June. It didn't work. After three days of tinkering it was returned to the back porch. The second didn't work, either. The third turned on and filled, but wouldn't drain.

The kids learned how to manually wash up. I did a lot of grilling to minimize dishes.

Mid-July I brought in Ken. Our favorite repair guy, he'd fixed our fridge when a stray magnet caused the motor to burn out. Ken came out, tinkered and futzed with number three. He left and came back to replace the mother board. He checked the plumbing. He visited three times (for only $175 total), but never could get it to work. In the end it was exiled to the back porch with the other two.

Two months had passed. DH was out of used dishwashers. He offered our original troublemaker to Ken in trade. Ken agreed. He came back one more time, with a low-end machine of his own. He installed it, plumbed it, ran it. No matter that there was no sanitize cycle. Who cared about a pre-rinse stage. We had a dishwasher!

The kids and I had gotten into a routine. We continued to wash the dishes by hand, afraid to jinx ourselves. Finally, realizing that school was about to start, I decided to switch back to mechanized cleanliness. DH was not happy. Before I could wash the first load, he asked when Ken was going to have the original dishwasher repaired and installed.

I gaped. Why, I asked, if we were just having the original repaired, would we have gone through all that nonsense with the other four? I was fine with the bare-bones box under the counter. It washed, it drained, it was installed. DH would have none of it. He thought I wanted our first dishwasher. By mid August Old Faithful was back in place. Ken had taken it apart as best he could, cleaned out the filters and washed the hoses. I sadly gave Ken a final check for $75 and fearfully loaded it up. My fears were justified.

So now, for the low, low price of $450 in repairs I have my ten-year-old dishwasher back under the counter. Sure, it's a little ghetto with the zipties holding the top rack together, and the rust streaks where the protective rubber is gone. And yeah, we have to rinse the dishes both before and after we run the machine. But we're a thrifty family, and I'm not putting any more money into this. Although I might spend $25 on a good counter-top dish rack. Doing the dishes by hand builds character. Right kids?

A conundrum

I think, if conservatives really stand for marriage, they ought to support health care bills that cover mental health, including marriage counseling.

On Marriage

I have been pondering marriage a great deal lately, mostly because I fear mine has fractured like a bone china cup, still intact but crazed by fault lines, any of which could cause the whole to collapse into pieces. We have been married ten years, together for nearly thirteen. We have moved across country, bought and sold houses, invested, had two children, acquired a new car, adopted a dog. We have, in short, lived the american reality, if not the dream. We are married. But what does that mean? I have a dear friend whose support of “traditional marriage” makes me unspeakably sad, especially since right now I don't even know what marriage means, except that my gay friends and acquaintances long for it as a near unattainable dream.

Thinking across the various stories of marriage that have built the idea in my head, marriage was never about sex, or children, or even love, but about alliances. Us versus them. United we stand. Think about it – Disney princes rescue their unknown ladies (Snow White had never even met her prince) from poverty, evil, enchantment, all by offering a shield against these things. In return, they get a kiss. Isn't that what wedding vows promise? Not “I will love you” but “I will take care of you even if you're sick or poor”. A couple might as well write a legal contract specifying individual obligations. That is traditional marriage. It doesn't sound so romantic when you realize it's a negotiated bargain, sealed with a ring.

Historically, traditionally, marriages were bulwarks against warfare, destitution, the neighbors. The kings and queens of Europe didn't fall in love, they negotiated for the most advantageous match. And that bargaining wasn't limited to nobility. Even peasants had dowries, and girls with more goods were more desireable. If they could breed well, all the better. Many healthy children meant more swords in a fight. Lots of workers meant a better retirement for the elders.

The mythology of marriage is that it begins with love. I don't agree. Love is what happens quietly after years of marriage. After fighting and making up, after traveling and staying in, grieving and celebrating. Love is not just wanting to share the good with your partner. It is cleaning up bedpans and vomit; dealing with annoying habits that you never can embrace; seeing the beauty inside the ugly. Only when you know the whole of a person – beginning to end – can you truly love. I say marriage begins with sympathetic resonance, a sense that this one person will stand with you against all foes, and will help you achieve the highest heights.

My college roommate was married last spring. In attendance was a gay man I know and his partner of fifteen or so years. They are comfortable with each other in the way that long-married people are; I was warmed by their affectionate smiles and eye-rolling at each other's foibles. At the very beginning of their relationship they weathered the storm of a life-threatening illness that still must be managed on a daily basis, and they told me a little about how that affects their long-term plans together. For them, that future is an unquestionable fact. The strength of their union is awe-inspiring. I think often about my morning spent with them and what a marvelous example they are of what a marriage should be. It's ironic that at a “traditional” ceremony, the two people united hope to have a relationship as strong, loving, and long as that of our gay friends – two men who still had to be careful not to touch or say anything publicly that might indicate their relationship to an outsider.

My husband and I are stuck in silence right now. Looking back, I see the flaws in our earliest alliance, and wonder why we ever walked down the aisle together. I have leaned heavily on my friends for consolation, and they, in turn, have given me absolution for whatever decisions I might make. For now, I am searching for solutions. I owe that to myself and my family. And by doing so I hope I honor my many gay friends who have shown me what marriage truly means.

Blue February

As I walked this morning I heard so many birds singing that I was reassured of the arrival of spring; the thought brought a (relieved) smile to my face. Later, however, I slipped back into a blue funk that has haunted me for days now. I don't know if it's February doldrums, or something hormonal, or maybe it's altogether unrelated to any of that. I do know that I am restless and frustrated, and I have been thinking poisonous thoughts about my children and husband in the wake of the slightest infraction. I just want to crawl into my bed and be ALONE, with no demands or expectations, no whining or complaining, and no responsibilities. I did get four errands run this morning, and three loads of laundry, and tonight I will sleep in clean sheets. Perhaps that will be enough to bring me out of it. Or maybe I just need a good cry. Until then, I think I'll ignore the laundry that needs folding, go take a shower and lose myself in a cheesy gothic romance novel.