Terror at 150 Degrees

Dishwashers get pretty hot. I know this because my wife prefers to run ours when we're either not at home or about to go to bed, in order to avoid having to deal with the miserable heat. I also know this because it really, really hurts when you pick up a plate out of the dishwasher immediately after it has finished its cycle. Not that I did that...this time.

Last night, as I was beginning to feel the icy grip of sleep reaching out for my softly beating heart, I noticed a curious inverse relationship between the number of dishes in the sink and those in the dishwasher. My wife, in her eternal wisdom, had left the dishwasher open, blocking my path, to better remind me of its existence. After bumping into it for the eighth time, I determined that, seeing as I was about to slam the silk, I might as well load and run the dishwasher. It'd be an adventure! A strange exploration of foreign concepts and space, replete with discoveries and achievements. I was so wrong!

Envisioning myself loading the dishwasher, I saw a gentleman, whom you would be correct to describe as both intrepid and dynamic, daintily tossing plate after utensil after glass into the dishwasher, each article landing perfectly in its assigned place. His fitted leisure suit unblemished by the worst excesses of leftover comestible splurge spattering against the parched machine's innards, he casually pours powdery-fine detergent into the tray from a height of about five feet, not missing a mote, then deftly closes the contraption with a kick, flips the switch to "ON," and commences to enjoy a favorite broadcast program in the meantime. Friends, this is not how dishwashers really work!

As I surveyed the device that would soon transform a piece of my tranquil kitchen into a deceptively watery hellscape, I realized that I had no idea where to start. Was I supposed to load the top or the bottom first? Although I was able to find a site with step-by-step instructions on loading a dishwasher, including advice on the order in which you should unload the racks, there was no clue about where to start! I decided my best bet would be to start with bottom (less chance of collapse), and then alternate between the top and bottom to guarantee an even weight distribution. Just think of the disaster potential in an uncalibrated dishwasher!

Lucky that a quick rinse had taken care of the major food particles, I loaded a fork and then double-checked that site I'd looked at earlier. What's that? "Be warned: how one does or does not put silverware in the dishwasher can break up a beautiful friendship or marriage!"

"Oh no!" I thought. "My marriage is beautiful! And temporarily physically broken up, in terms of us not sharing the same physical space!" I was poorly served by the site's extremely ambiguous advice, which merely offered the possibility of the utter destruction of my marriage if I did it wrong -- despite the fact that I had no idea what was wrong in this case. Obviously, I knew my wife has a system, but lacking any way of discovering it, I was on my own -- a decision that could end my marriage forever was in my hands.

After mulling it over for a few hours, I came to the conclusion that I could just load the silverware however I wanted; as long as I remembered to empty the whole thing before she got back, she would never be the wiser! She would simply assume that I hadn't run the dishwasher at all in the time she was gone, and our marriage would continue peacefully.

I'm a genius.

After getting over my terror at the prospect of permanent bachelorhood, I managed to load the rest of the...front...of the dishwasher. There was still the matter of the back part of each rack, the part you have to roll the racks out to get to. I had a bad experience in my childhood moving a dishwasher rack; I won't go into it here, but let's just say that the family cat was never quite the same afterward. After a few stiff shots of pomegranate juice, I felt adequately enabled to face my demons, and pulled the racks forward.

What confronted me was like the worst of my nightmares distilled into a pure manifestation of madness. The geography in the back of that dishwasher borders on the non-Euclidean. Where the front of each rack features nice, orderly rows between which you'd slide each dish, the back is filled with pincers, pokers, swivels, trays and other miscellany that could apparently be used for either hosting a barbecue or violating the Geneva Conventions, but never for storing dishes safely.

After recovering from the massive psychological trauma I suffered from gazing into the abyss, I shoved my leftover dishes anywhere they would fit. In some places they were leaning against each other perilously; in others, they were simply stacked one atop the other. I know that's a major violation of your so-called "dishwasher etiquette," but what choice did I have?? Before too long, all of my dishes were more-or-less ensconced within the soon-to-be-warm bosom of that wicked machine. Only one step remained -- the soap.

For reasons too numerous to explore right now, soap and I have a troubled history together. In form of bar, gel, liquid, foam, powder, or otherwise, I basically can tolerate soap only minimally better than I can tolerate smelling terrible. And here, this hideously powerful soap -- this detergent -- taunted me with is very existence, an embodiment of causticity that every moment threatened to dissolve its meager cardboard packaging and move on to devour my flesh. I held my breath and the box at arm's length as I poured a tiny amount into the dishwasher's tray. Having finished the job safely, I allowed myself to breathe in deeply out of relief. What a terrible mistake! Small particles of soap still floated in the air, and every one was pulled deep into my nasal canal. If you've never accidentally inhaled dishwasher detergent, take my word for it that it will quickly drive you insane with agony.

In my soap-induced, near-blind flailings, I somehow managed to activate the dishwasher -- hopefully at the right setting -- and staggered into my bedroom. I collapsed onto my bed, smashing a fist into my sinuses over and over again in a hilariously vain effort to expel the tiny pieces of detergent that seemed determined to clean my very brain of the struggling consciousness polluting its folds. In my last moment of lucidity, I heard the dishwasher kicking into life, the sound of powerful jets of water accompanied by various clanks and shrieks which could only be my dishes grinding in protest at their unnatural orientation to each other.

I awoke this morning in a pool of sweat, somehow having managed to survive my grueling ordeal with hardly a scar on my exterior. My nose was somewhat sore, and I had a headache, but it was no worse than any other morning. Better yet, the dishwasher had done its duty remarkably well, without a single break. I breathed another sigh of relief (breathing out this time), and went about my morning ablutions with newly clean dishes. For today, at least, both my flatware and my marriage remain intact.