You guessed it. I still abhore them. In fact, we've moved, and I found out the first day of living here, that we have the same dishwasher as the last house, and guess what? It died, the same way the last dishwasher died. (Or...it doesn't clean, I should say.) So what does that mean for me and my miserable brothers?
The mountains of dishes stacked and spread around the kitchen's surface area engulfs our sensitive feelings. We immediately feel discouraged and brought down by the somber sight of those food-encrusted plates, and those drink-stained spoons that lie in heaps across the stained WHITE countertops. The sink is small, the drain stopper leaks. The rags are left over night, and smell in the morning. The ice box has fingerprints all over its white surface, as does the stove along its buttons, and the handle-less microwave.
How is one to handle all this labor and depression? You don't. You are like a slave, entrusted to creating a clean atmosphere, only to see it disappear with the next meal cooked. Is it all for nothing?
The biggest problem, say, is that you have an OCD problem. It means when you start cleaning, you can't stop until the kitchen is sparkling white. That's me. Unfortunately. I have to wash every surface, every dish, every silverware, appliance, and all that's applicable. I must sweep the floors, sometimes sweeping last night's mess when my brother was supposed to sweep it. They do a half-baked job. What more can I expect?
So why do I bother to write about this? It's a simple answer. In fact, it's too easy. Obviously my dislike for the heinous chore of dishes comes full circle. It hasn't changed. It won't ever. It wasn't even fun when we had a dishwasher before.
I will forever be sentenced to dishes. Forever.