By Lorry Myers
Supper was over and the dishwasher was loaded and I was ready for a quiet night at home. I needed to run the dishes, but was out of dishwasher soap so I thought I would use a bit of liquid dish detergent and get the real stuff tomorrow.
“You shouldn’t do that,” my husband said, looking over my shoulder.
I have heard those words many times before and they always seem to make me more determined. I know you can’t fill the dishwasher dispenser full of liquid detergent, I just needed to adjust the amount and go about my business.
Randy was in the family room, about to enter the place men go when their recliner is back and they swear they are not asleep. My teenage daughter had a friend over so the television was on and MTV turned up. The dishwasher was humming, the kitchen was clean and all was right with the world.
Until I heard a strangled voice from the kitchen. “Mom. Something is wrong with the dishwasher.”
“It’s OK,” I replied. “I put in different soap and it just sounds funny.”
“No, Mom, you need to get in here.”
I casually strolled into the kitchen and had to cover my mouth so a squeal would not slip out. There was something definitely wrong with the dishwasher.
Half the kitchen floor was covered with soapsuds and the flow from the machine was not slowing down. I had to clean this up before my husband climbed out of his recliner and said, “I told you so”.
My daughter and her friend, Andrea, were watching, so as I turned off the dishwasher, I decided to use this moment as a life lesson.
“Girls, we need to get this cleaned up before the man in the recliner sees this.”
I sent Andrea sneaking into the bathroom for towels while I laid on the floor with spread arms and legs trying to control the flow of the suds. When Andrea came back, she threw me the towels, I sopped up water and relayed them to my daughter who squeezed them out and handed them back.
There are no words exchanged and no explanation needed. Andrea and Mariah had been friends since before kindergarten so Andrea had been to our house many times. She knew without being told, that a woman’s dignity was at stake.
The little dignity I had left, anyway.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.