I can’t believe how much better I feel having made a frickin’ decision already! The dishwasher is humming along and sanitizing the four glasses that didn’t break with all of Lucy’s box toppling. Mt. McCardboard is now more of a mound and we even bought a new vacuum. Holy cow are we getting shit done.
Chemo brain seems to be contagious, however. After the delivery dudes dropped off the designated dishwasher, we had to schlep to Home Depot to purchase the parts we needed to actually make the damn thing go. Of course, Rocco already owned at least three of each of the items we needed…they were just in storage. While I am a ridiculously cheap bitch, there was no way I was letting another random box sit idly in my kitchen while I was in a box cutter wielding frenzy. So I was willing to take the gamble that I could keep Rocco away from the power tools while we purchased only the things that we actually needed. I was half right…we spent a solid thirty minutes drooling over some ratchet set, but I managed to limit his purchase to a simple crescent wrench.
The boy clearly had something to prove and we spent a ridiculously lengthy period of time trying to find the correct ninety-degree connector for the hose thingy. He was wise enough to bring the actual hose with us, so we opened package after package trying to find one that would fit. Eventually he conceded and allowed me to go find an orange-aproned whiz kid to select the correct piece. Boy Wonder picked the single piece that met our needs from the wall of brass connectors and we were in business.
So we cruised on to self check-out. Here’s the words of wisdom for the day, Internet. Don’t self check-out if your time weighs less than a ton. It won’t register in the bag area. If your basket is full of single washers or right angle connector thingees, abandon all hope. Just go get in the line that’s seventeen people deep. You’ll still get out of there faster. Every single item needed “associate help.” Scan item. Associate needed. Scan next item. Stab yourself in the eye. Associate needed. Scan next item. We both were foaming at the mouth before the process was over. With much stomping and huffing, I deposited the cart outside and we jumped in Beauregard and headed to Target.
After many adventures, we found a parking space in the ‘boken and schlepped our materials upstairs. “Where’s the manual, Babe?” Rocco asked as he unpacked the paraphernalia.
“What manual?” I answered.
“The dishwasher manual,” Rocco answered. “It was with the hot water hose.”
“Oh shit, you mean the one’s that were in the cart? We needed those?”
“Um, yes. If you want to wash the dishes with hot water…or install the damn thing.”
And we were back in the car, cruising down Route 3, then systematically searching through the rows of empty orange shopping carts. After that proved pointless, it was on to the various trashcans. While it would have been lovely for me to have realized those were necessary items in advance of all the drama, I’m pretty sure that’s beyond a realistic expectation for the crippled cabeza that is my head. That didn’t stop me from feeling like an incompetent fuck-up as the pointless search continued. Fortunately we found our materials in a relatively empty and clean can, completely devoid of ketchup or coffee stains.
An hour, a roll of Teflontape, and four washcloths later we had a functioning, non-leaking installation in place. Too bad I hadn’t paid much attention to the dimensions. Width was easy. I mean, that seems to be pretty standard. If it’s not full-sized, it’s eighteen inches. The end. Apparently there’s a little more variety when it comes to depth. I suppose smaller but reliable is more desirable than bigger and sketchy in the dishwasher department. I just didn’t realize it was possible to have even less capacity in a dishwasher than the doozy I had previously. Apparently it’s very possible. Probable, even…when ordered by yours truly.