Washed Up

 "Something there is that doesn't love a wall..." - Robert Frost

Having been born in, and having spent my youth rambling around, New England, where Mr. Frost noticed this phenomenon and then wrote about it, I can attest to the fact that, indeed, something there is that doesn't love a wall.  Nature up yonder, at least when I was roaming through the woods with the smilodons, has mood swings.  The onset of cold weather brings an onslaught of frost heaves, which cause havoc on roads and other pavement, and on anything stacked that isn't also stuck together with cement or grout or old toothpaste (don't tell ME about how sticky it is) or good intentions (some of the very stickiest stuff in existence).

I'm not writing about walls, today, despite the promising beginning of this post.

I'm writing about my dishwasher.  Wait, what?  That's a leap.

Something there is that doesn't love a dishwasher.  Especially at Casa de Crazy.  Dishwashers just...lose their will to live.  Oh, they try.  They put up a good fight.  They groan and grind and sometimes whine a little, and they do lots of whooshing and shushing and, not to put too fine a point on it, washing, but sooner rather than later?  They up and die.

Entropy is inevitable.  Things with moving parts will break down.  Heck, things without moving parts will break down.  We will all eventually slide with cold-syrupy slowness into the long, lingering, heat death of the Universe.  Don't panic, you have plenty of time to press your good trousers and tidy up your hair.  Chugging along in all its entropic glory, the end isn't so much nigh as it is a few minutes off.

My dishwashers, though, seem to want to get a jump on things.

I am well aware that they need occasional cleaning out and perhaps a gentle pat and "Good job, well done you" to help them last.  I know about pre-rinsing as an aid to longevity, and about not overloading.  I try not to run the thing more than once a day, and will often go two days between runs.  I run the hot water to the sink, first, to prime the pipes.  I chant the incantations at the proper hour and make offerings quarterly as prescribed by the manual.

They die anyway.

The current fancy drying rack didn't make it two years.  Two.  Years.

The one before it went for about five, I think, before melting to itself on the inside.

I can't recall if there was one before the one before this one, I've lost track.  I do know I am pretty good at almost keeping up with the washing by hand, and that a defunct dishwasher makes a fine drying rack but you have to leave it open with the drawers?  Baskets?  Slide-y out-y thingies? out, which may lead to barked shins if one is careless about where they place said shins in the dark.  Also, it's a good idea to wipe down the inside of the dishwasher door and maybe the tub as well every now and then because despite it being clean dishes hanging out in there to dry, there will be a buildup of schmutz.

The inner workings of the dish machine are a mystery, to me.  Honestly, it could be trolls or golems in there, and I wouldn't know.  Pretty sure it isn't pixies or imps, though.  Repairing the things is well beyond me.  I'll have to have someone in to do it.  Eventually.  For now, I stand t the sink a few times a day, wash a handful of things, then wander off to do whatever it is I do when I wander off.

It's not exactly a pressing matter, and if I have it repaired or get a new one, it'll just break down as soon as the warrantee is up, so why be in a hurry?

Something there is that doesn't love a dishwasher, at least around here.