My wife loads the dishwasher like a drunken mental patient. One would be forgiven for thinking that she stands at the bottom of the garden and shot-puts the spoons in from there; that she drunkenly bowls the plates in overarm.
After my betrothed has drop-kicked all the tea things in, the inside of my dishwasher looks like a cross between a food smeared game of Jenga and a piss poor Britain’s Got Talent novelty act.
God only knows what goes through her mind whilst she’s loading the fecking thing? 240 volts of electricity one assumes from the aftermath.
Every time I’m unfortunate enough to have to open the dishwasher, filthy lukewarm water cascades out from one of the many misplaced bowls and horrendously waterfalls all over my bare feet inciting me to murderous thinking.
Seriously, every time, I swear…. in more ways than one.
As I fury-splodge across the kitchen floor, looking for a mop and a divorce lawyer, I wonder why? WHY?
It really is beyond me….. Why can’t she put things in properly not improperly?
I’ve asked her literally hundreds of times to do me a solid and load the dishwasher like she isn’t a flaming anarchist and yet often I stand with wet feet. Again and again. And again.
Dishwasher help is at hand
On many occasions, I’ve offered to give her a dishwasher loading tutorial. But when I do, she looks at me in such a way as to suggest that she’d rather me totally f*ck right off. Like totally.
If I could go back in time (to 11 years tomorrow) I’d have appropriate dishwasher loading written into our marriage vows.
Or I’d be gay. I bet the gays can load a dishwasher properly; like gentlemen.
Happy anniversary Toni! At least after 11 years of marriage, I’m consistent. A consistent nob head. You know where you are with a consistent nob…. you can set your watch by one.
© 2017 Man in His Pyjamas. All rights reserved. www.maninhispyjamas.com