Yes, I load the dishwasher like I’d imagine a sociopath would, and no, I have no intention of changing that.
When Barton loads the dishwasher, it is an extremely stressful process for me. It’s actually very hard to watch because it’s tedious and slow and absurdly efficient, which is the complete opposite of my dishwasher strategy.
When Barton loads the dishwasher, he takes on the mannerisms of a REALLY anal brain surgeon (the worst kind, you know?). He first thoroughly rinses every single molecule of food off each dish, even the nano-molecules that cannot be seen by the naked eye or probably even by the world’s most powerful microscope. (Not a scientist here! Just a girl who has a pretty good handle on the efficacy of powerful microscopes. It’s a weird niche, I know, but definitely comes in handy more times than you’d think.)
Next, he meticulously loads the already-sparkling-clean-dishes into the machine with gentle yet skilled hands, placing each dish in the exact correct spot and making sure not to waste any room or bump into any other dishes in the process. It’s like watching a really slow, really boring, really well-done game of Tetris. When he’s finally finished, everything is neatly organized AND the dishwasher door actually closes without him having to thrust his bodyweight against it and possibly break a glass or three in the process. He simply closes the door gently and it shuts, no issues whatsoever. And all this time I literally thought the only way TO shut a dishwasher door was by using your entire torso?
He wouldn’t dare put his dirty clothes in the hamper and he sure as heck won’t ever lock any door in our house (keep that on the DL from the robbers please), but he WILL keep our household running on all cylinders by making certain that the dishwasher is handled by a mature, responsible adult.
On the other, more reasonable hand, when I load the dishwasher, it’s a quick, reckless, thrilling and sometimes (read: most times) dangerous endeavor. For starters, I cannot say in good conscience that I rinse the dishes with the same vigor and care as Barton. Some ketchup here? No biggie. A little dried yogurt there? It’s all good, guys. An entire vat of mashed potatoes crusted over onto the Tupperware bowl? Into the machine you goooo! Doing the dishwasher’s work FOR the dishwasher is teaching my kids a terrible life lesson and I won’t be responsible for instilling that in them at such a young and impressionable age.
If not rinsing off the dishes first is a problem, then the way I load said dishes is a whole damn dilemma. My strategy is simple: get the dish things into the machine thing as quickly as humanly possible and in any way possible, because there are approximately 3 kids needing 17 other things out of me, and then I have an additional 47 things to get done after that. Also, I just hate loading the dishwasher, so the sooner I’m out of my misery the better.
I’m a pretty efficient lady in most areas of my life, but the way I load the dishwasher is incredibly inefficient, and I make no apologies about it. Plates are lying completely horizontal on top of other bowls, kids’ cup lids and straws are jutting out of the wire baskets and causing a scene, things are perpendicular when they CLEARLY should’ve been parallel and, Barton’s absolute favorite: nice cutting knives are thrown haphazardly in the utensil basket. Apparently it’s detrimental to the quality of the knife to run it in the dishwasher, it can cause rust, maybe even corrosion, yada yada. The point is, if you want to see a grown man who’s in love with his wife seriously question that love, grab the popcorn and watch Barton when he realizes I’ve once again put a nice, expensive, sharp cutting knife into the dishwasher.
Now I don’t want to give myself a bad rap regarding my household skills; I’m really good at cleaning literally everything, I can make a bed with the best of ‘em, and I have an unexpected propensity for fixing things and putting things together. (I single-handedly assembled our first dining room table from World Market in 2013, and Barton’s been spoiled ever since. My hands have the callouses and his are as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Seriously, he has beautiful, freakishly smooth hands to the point where he garners a lot of attention for them. Let your hands linger a little next time you shake his hand and you’ll feel those satin stunners for yourself.)
I guess what I’m trying to say here is: my dishwasher loading techniques, my biznass. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go fish out broken shards of wine glass from the bottom of our dishwasher and sharpen all of our nice knives before Barton gets home.