Batching it for three days was not a bad experience. So what if Her Ladyship was in Chicago shopping with her friends while I had to go to work every day. It’s what happened when she got home that skewered my ego.
If only to show that I was not a helpless male, I was determined to keep the house standing tall. Yeah, sure, she might be better than me with a screw driver (all right, with most tools), but at least I knew how to keep my quarters squared away. After all, at dear old Fort Leonard Wood, no drill sergeant had ever turned my mattress upside down.
It was that stupid dish washer that caused the trouble. Why can’t women wash dishes the old fashioned way? Technology is getting out of hand. Next thing you know they’ll have kitchen tables that wipe themselves off.
Anyway, all went well during my brief tenure as lord of the manor. I made the bed every day. I watered the flowers in the house. I scrubbed the kitchen table and put all my dishes in the washer. The living room was picked up so that even Martha Stewart would have gushed her approval.
But every time I tried to close the dishwasher the door stopped short about four inches from the closed position. I knelt down and studied the inner workings. This I could handle, I thought. You don’t need an engineering degree to figure out something like this. Something had slipped off track, and all I had to do is jiggle the basket-tray so that it slip back into position.
When that didn’t work I knew there must be something at the back of the washer that was blocking things. Either that or the slide mechanism on which the basket-tray rode was bent or otherwise damaged. I might not be able to fix it, but at least I could identify the problem and we could call a repairman. If I couldn’t fix it, clearly only a factory representative could do it.
Then she came home. As soon as she got in the house I mentioned the dishwasher problem. Without even shedding her coat, she headed for the kitchen with that welcome-the-challenge gleam in her eye. It is not my favorite look.
Two steps into the kitchen she stopped and giggled at the sight of the still open door of the dishwasher 10 feet away.
“Well, I can see from right here what’s wrong,” she said. “There’s a cup handle sticking out the side of the basket.” She walked over and moved the cup and closed the door. At least she didn’t look at my dismay and say, “Oh come on, take it like a woman.”
I grinned and bore it. Nothing else I could really do except fake gratitude and change the subject.
If she asks how that new skirt or dress from Chicago looks on her, I think I will tell her that it makes her look fat.