Recently, my dishwasher passed away. We held a small funeral; immediate family members only. It was a sad day, but as I'm not one to dwell, I put on my big girl pants and started shopping for a replacement. Sounds callous, I know, but I think wherever old Dishy Mcdisherson is, she understands.
It didn't take long to find the "one". She was perfect. Gleaming stainless steel with a heavy load capacity. She even had a food disposer, which is great for us because my children think pre-scraping is something that happens right before they start a fight with one another.
I was in love, or at the very least, willing to stop seeing other dishwashers.
I purchased her and brought her to her new forever home. Weird how I refer to her as a her . . . Perhaps because doing the dishes is a woman's job . . . Said no woman ever. I just put that in there to see if you were paying attention.
Anyhow, back to my story.
I was so excited. I couldn't wait to have her moved in so she could begin making my dishes sparkle and my silverware shine. I called my husband and told him to strap on his work belt, charge up his power tools and channel his inner handyman.
When I arrived home my hubby and I brought her in and carefully carried her up the stairs and into our kitchen. I should qualify the word "carefully". We may have hit a wall or two on the way up, which will probably require a smidge or so of dry wall repair and a dab of paint but luckily, she came through unscathed.
At that point, feeling I had done my part, I left to share the big news with my Facebook friends. Just as I was about to send my exciting status update, however, I heard my husband express himself in the most colourful way. Judging by his tone and his preference for words that rhyme "truck “and "spit”, I immediately knew that something was amiss.
I called out, asked him what was the matter. He then said three words to me that I will never forget.
"It doesn't fit." Just like me in high school, she was too tall.
I couldn't believe it. How was this possible? I had done all the research, asked all the right questions. I had even stared into the salesman's eyes and asked him, "Is that your best price?" This situation was unacceptable. I told my husband to take the wheels off and any other non-essential parts; make it fit. Sadly, he had already thought of that.
So I walked away. I needed time to think and my husband was starting to become poor company to be around. It wasn't five minutes later that I heard the sound. It didn't make sense at first; it was just this loud buzzing and grinding noise.
I followed the sound into the kitchen and it was there I found the source. My husband was wielding a jigsaw like Jason from Friday the 13th, minus the hockey mask. It seemed that he had concluded, in his infinite wisdom, to cut our kitchen counter in half and slide her into place. When I asked him how he had come to this decision he said, “It didn't fit...so I made it fit." While I did argue the method I really couldn't fight the simplicity of his logic.
So what began as an innocent quest for cleaner dishes ended up as a rather extensive and expensive kitchen renovation.
You might be wondering what the moral of this story is, and that, my friends, is surprisingly simple.
Measure twice ....cut NEVER!!!