I put on some profile thing somewhere or another (probably under my “job skills” on LinkedIn)(no, I can’t believe that I bothered with a LinkedIn profile either – the only way I’ll land a job is if I change my name) that I “can use the microwave.”

Generally, that’s true.

Okay, if I’m being honest, sometimes the things I microwave turn into a hard lump of ash, but I figure nitrates are good for you (don’t you go disproving this one, Pranksters).

I’ve spent years trying to work coffee maker and while I haven’t quite mastered it, I feel confident that someday, SOMEDAY, my grown-ass self will be able to brew coffee, too. Until then, I will live with cold coffee or chunky coffee.

ANYWAY.

My history with kitchen appliances is not stellar. Actually, my history is not stellar. I once broke a toe making a sandwich. I also broke a door carrying a diet Coke, but that’s neither here nor there.

Tom Jones wrote “She’s a Lady” about me. He was being sarcastic.

The dishwasher, however, I like to think of as my BFF. Not because it’s particularly good at cleaning my dishes (it’s not), but because I’m holding onto a vain hope that I will one day be able to teach it to sing Christmas carols.

(again, don’t ruin this for me, Pranksters)

The dishes SOMETIMES come out clean, especially if I’ve washed them ahead of time, but I’m trying to gently talk my dishwasher into working a little bit more efficiently. The best part of the dishwasher – bar none – is I get to line up the dishes in a certain way, which satisfies my OCD in the same way owning 8475 things of handsoap does. If there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, I will TOTALLY have clean hands. And a well-organized dishwasher.

Jazz hands!

Saturday night found me not sunbathing with hot french models on a luxury yacht, but sitting at my computer writing a resource page about puberty, brainstorming other words for “erection,” for Band Back Together (we have nearly 500 resource pages)(Thanks for that nursing degree, Mom!) But if you tell anyone I write resource pages and NOT hang with hot French models, I will cut you.

There I was, happily ensconced in some research. I’d just loaded the dishwasher, finally done making an Oreo Cake for Mother’s Day, the kids snuggled up in their wee beds*, The Daver off playing some nerdy card game that involved copious amounts of scotch (I’m not entirely convinced it wasn’t strip poker) while the Guy On My Couch ran to the store to get stuff to make us some fondue.

As I was sitting there, giggling about boners, I began to smell…something. Initially I wrote it off. My neighbors are always throwing wild parties that involve margarita balls, bonfires and cooking shit on their grill, so I’ve learned to tune out most of the weird smells that float through my window. Besides, my cats shit on a schedule, which ensures that most of what fills my nostrils is the scent of their bung.

I’m considering sewing up their bungholes, but that’s neither here nor there.

As I continued giggling about the term “woody,” I noted that the smell – sorta like burnt plastic – was getting stronger. I assumed that it was merely the margarita ball on fire or something similar. There are always teenagers milling about and while I, as an adult, would consider that to be alcohol abuse, teens are less protective of their margarita balls.

Still giggling about the word, “boner,” I got off my ample ass and wandered into the kitchen to find my iPad and make sure my Tiny Tower was well-stocked. When I turned the corner, I saw that the kitchen was, in fact, filling up with a thick acrid smoke.

Fuck.

The electrical wiring in my house made it clear that SOMEONE in the Daley administration was paid off. Pranksters, if you don’t hear from me awhile and learn that a St. Charles, IL family was burned to death while they slept, please tell the Fire Marshall that it was not, in fact arson, but was, in fact, a feature of my abject laziness and inability to fork out zillions of dollars in order to rewire a house. Also mention that I busted both ankles using a pickaxe, just to drive the point home that I should never, ever, be involved in anything to do with “electricity,” “power tools,” “kitchen appliances,” and once burned by bed with a heating pad.

My first thought was that I’d probably left a candle burning directly next to a pile of papers, something I’ve done before and will do again. When that didn’t seem to be the case, I looked at the light fixture in the kitchen, which is so fug that it may lead to blindness if stared at too long. I remembered that it had blown a fuse the week before when I’d had the audacity to turn it on.

The light was not smoking. Phew. That’d have been awkward to explain. “Yes, Mr. Fireman, my kitchen light picked up a nasty smoking habit – Marlboro Reds.”

I didn’t have either of the dudes home to help me, so I ran around a bit, yelling, “BITCH, GIT ME CHICKEN,” before I saw it.

The dishwasher.

The very same dishwasher that cannot sing “Silent Night” OR “Jingle Bells,” (but can do a passing version of “Good King Wenceslas”). The same dishwasher I’ve been lovingly crooning to. The same dishwasher I spend hours upon hours filling, then refilling, then refilling again until it’s perfect.

(Yes there IS a wrong way to load a dishwasher)

It was…smoking.

Not a Marlboro Red or even one of those hippie American Spirit cigarettes. But like real, acrid smoke.

Fuck me sideways.

I opened the thing, which was still cycling, and was nearly bowled over by the acrid stench of burning plastic and steam.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I pulled out the trays and saw it.

My ancient pizza cutter. The one that’s so rusty and decrepit that we’re probably all dying from lead paint poisoning or scurvy. Or dysentery. Or something exotic. The pizza cutter I should’ve replaced nine years ago.

It was there, nicely snuggled in beside the heating element at the bottom of the dishwasher, the plastic handle melting every-fucking-where.

I pulled it out, not actually considering that if the plastic was melting, it was probably fucking hot. So I scorched the tips of my fingers with melted plastic that remains so firmly attached to the tips of my fingers I may actually coat my whole hands in plastic so I can FINALLY start on my long-held resolution of “become bionic woman.”

(the Not Becoming Lil Wayne resolution is going well, by the by, although The Twitter keeps informing me I should “follow him”)

As I was trying (in vain) to remove melty plastic from the bottom of the dishwasher, The Guy On My Couch came home. When he saw me squatting on the floor, covered in bits of melty plastic, he couldn’t help himself – he laughed himself to tears. I growled at him.

The Guy On My Couch: “What…(gigglesnort) happened?”

Aunt Becky (through gritted teeth): “I. don’t. want. to. talk. about. it.”

The Guy On My Couch: “Bwahahahahahahaha!”

Aunt Becky (stands up, swiftly kicks him in the shins): “I hate you.”

Kitchen Appliances: 1

Aunt Becky: 0

I’m still hoping that the dishwasher will master “Silent Night” before December. That is, if it’s not broken. I don’t want to retrain ANOTHER dishwasher to sing Christmas carols, and the coffee maker simply sneers at me.

*throwing things around their bedroom laughing like maniacs

————–

How was your weekend, Pranksters? Did you break any appliances?

Comments = full of the awesome. Like gravy. I can haz an RSS RSS feed .

21 Responses to Saturday Night’s All Right For Fighting (With A Dishwasher)

  • Scroogy says:

    Aunt Becky… this has happened to me more times than I’d like to admit. In my case it was a couple of sippy cup lids that fell to their deaths on the dastardly dishwasher heating elements. It’s amazing to me that even the second time, I didn’t right away recognize the smell.

  • Brittany says:

    Oh dear god Becky!!! That is hilariously sucky! Lol tell ya what, we’ll get a resource page for kitchen appliance operational dysfunction disorder put u on BBT just for you!

    You poor, poor thing…

  • Cindy says:

    Been there. On a fairly regular basis, actually. I make my kids load and unload the dishwasher, so the dishes are sort of thrown in there haphazardly. We’ve lost many a cup and tupperware to the nasty heating element. The stink! Oh, the stink! We’ve pretty much gotten used to it now. (Clearly my CDO does not apply to the dishes.)

  • Mayor Gia says:

    Eeek! I’ve never had that happen! I’ll have to keep my eye out for self destructing dishwashers…

  • Oh my I feel your pain. Usually I melt the straws and lids that go with those big ass cups that house my frozen alcoholic concoctions.

  • Grace says:

    No dishwasher at my house, and I haven’t broken any appliances lately. But I can tell you about my latest dumb thing I did. My husband melts things on the stove on a fairly regular basis. I give him a hard time about it. And then I melted my cake pan lid – that I’ve only used ONCE! Grrrrr… At least he doesn’t burn brand new stuff!

  • Siren says:

    The last appliance I broke was my coffee maker, and that was a couple of weeks ago. Thank the Gods I had two extras standing by.

    ALSO, I am so glad to hear that I’m not the only one anal about how my dishes go in the dishwasher. I don’t let anyone else load it because no matter how much tinge I trying trying to train them, they just can’t seem to do it right.

  • nikkiana says:

    I’ve had something similar happen to me… You know those George Foreman grills? You know how they come with this little tray to put under the front to catch the grease? Well, I had put one of those in the dishwasher to clean it, and somewhere in the course of the wash cycle, it got knocked loose and landed on top of the heating element and melted into two pieces and stank up the place for days.

  • JodieGirl says:

    Oh Aunt Becky!! I’ve read your blog for a few months now (LOVE IT!!) and felt compelled to leave you a post… Actually, it’s like reading something I wrote! YES, there is indeed a correct way to load the dishwasher. If Mr. B ever trys to load the dishwasher (like that ever happens!) It’s wrong. Then I have to do it the right way. My cats shit on schedule, and I broke my nose sleepwalking last year, but I digress. Anywho, I loaded mine up this morning, including my ancient pizza cutter thingie and put the timer on. I am now so paranoid to go home and find a big pile of what was once my home. You totally made me laugh…and want some (a lot) vodka. I’m glad you guys are ok. If my house is burnt to the ground can we bunk in your basement? I know the couch is taken. :)

  • Pete In Az says:

    You can sunbath at night?

  • Becca says:

    We had this problem twice with the dishwasher before I started putting spoons/knives, etc. On the top tray of the machine. Also, the asshats who installed said stupid machine forgot to put the screws in the top of the machine, so every time we unloaded the stupid machine it tipped out sideways and tried to break my toes. I hated that machine…

  • Jeri says:

    I wish I had a dishwasher, but you know else stinks? When some litter-pig throws a plastic bag on the street and it gets melted to the hot underside of your car and the toxic fumes fill up the car so you totally freak out and speed to the nearest gas station where they charge you a bucket of money to tell you there’s nothing wrong with your car. Multi-level stink.

  • Devan says:

    This post is so freaking hilarious and full of the awesome, I shall share….
    BITCH, GIT ME CHICKEN – LOL, hysterical! I love your writing AB!

  • Cindy says:

    Ha – boner and dysentery in the same post. Anyhoo – I’ve lost my favorite spatula, several sippy cups and straws, a couple of plastic lids. Why? Because my husband doesn’t know how to properly load a dishwasher. He doesn’t get there there is a PRECISE system to it and that you just don’t stick things in because they’ll fit. Order is necessary!

  • Megaboo says:

    AB, I fucking love you!

    There is a right way to load the dishwasher. Improper dishwasher loading makes me want to cut people.

    Thank you for the laughs. Life sucks at the moment. I needed that.

  • Mrs. One Day says:

    I haven’t broken an appliance in awhile, but it has certainly been known to happen. I fucking love you, Becks.

  • chrisinphx says:

    I currently have a smoking dishwasher, Ive repetedly asked it to stop being so damn dramatic and just wash the damn dishes but it refuses! So, now its just used as a giant drying rack.

  • Chelle says:

    We’ve replaced the dishwasher once and the new one doesn’t always cooperate either.

    Our icemaker is now me because it’s $450 to replace that part on the refrigerator and I spent it on a Dyson to vacuum up the loose puppies floating around my house that my dogs are shedding.

    This may be a stupid question (although what I’ve heard is the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask – but I think that’s totally wrong). Who is “the guy on my couch?” I’ve been assuming “the Daver” is your husband. Do you have a ghost living on your house or a relative or an out of luck friend? Sorry. Curiosity got the better of me. i promise I’m not stalking you. But if I did, I would totally bring you vodka.

    • JodieGirl says:

      Yeah!! Me too! Who is The Guy On The Couch???? Inquiring minds want to know…

      • PBP Designs says:

        I know! I know!
        Breakfastmeats is The Guy On The Couch!

        P
        And, yes, I’ve destroyed many things in the dishwasher. But they weren’t as bad as the time I set the bed on fire because I was sneak reading in bed under the covers after I was supposed to be asleep.
        Love you Aunt Becky!!!
        =)

  • Ewokmama
    Twitter: ewokmama
    says:

    I keep smelling a burny smell in my car…I can’t seem to locate the origin, though.

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