It all comes out in the wash

"You put that in the wrong way," I said to my husband as I stood over him, watching as he loaded the dishwasher.

"Are you backseat dishwasher-loading?" he asked me.

"It's not a big deal," I said. "It's just that all the dinner plates should be loaded on the bottom, in the front, facing the same way."

He shook his head, wiped his hands on a dish towel and walked away.

"I'm filing a complaint with the husbands' union," he said as he left. "I can't work this way."

I frowned and left the dishwasher loading zone. In the grand scheme of things, how one loads the dishwasher is probably not on the same level as, say, world peace. And of course, I was grateful that my husband did the dishes every night after I made dinner. But since I am a perfectionist, I wanted him to do it the right way. And by right way, I meant my way.

You would think after 29 years of marriage, my husband would get this. But alas, just like his inability to bring the dirty laundry down from the top of the stairs, put his shoes back in the closet or take out the garbage when it's sitting by the door, he seemed to have Household Chore Blindness, a common ailment that could afflict anyone with a Y chromosome.

We had gone through a similar challenge in our marriage some years ago when I discovered that he suffered from toilet paper dysfunction. After leaving a new roll next to the empty roll he had left on the dispenser, and seeing it remain there for a week, I realized he had an acute case of Inability to Change the Empty Toilet Paper Roll-itis. This is associated with a related ailment, Inability to Hang the Toilet Paper Roll the Right Way Syndrome. And by right way, I mean my way, which is over, not under.

My husband, of course, thinks I am ridiculous, but he still tries to accommodate me. Or at least he did, until this Great Dishwasher War of 2021. I could see years from now when they would teach about this in social studies, young, impressionable minds might think I was a lunatic, and I didn't want to be remembered in the annals of history as the Dishwasher Whacko of Suburbia.

I decided I didn't want how the plates were stacked in the dishwasher to be the reason we ended our marriage. Not making hospital corners on the bed, yes. But dishwasher stuff, probably not.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, I decided to take a chance and go outside my comfort zone. I filled the dishwasher with soap, closed the door and turned it on. Two minutes later it turned itself off. I turned it back on. And then it turned itself off again. While I tried a third time my husband walked in.

"Are you running the dishwasher?" he said.

"Yes."

"The way I loaded it?"

"Yes," I said.

"Good for you honey," he said. "So, what did you learn?"

"It doesn't really matter how you load the dishwasher," I said.

"And why is that?"

I frowned. "Because the dishwasher is broken."

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