Dishwashing Babe

Our dishwasher is broken.

Last week I noticed that the springs on the door had gone, so that if you opened it the door would fall ALL the way open instead of nicely staying where you put it. You had to lower it all the way each time unless you wanted to risk it falling on your toes, or a child's head, or the dog.

It got that way from Nick climbing on the open door attempting to get INTO the dishwasher and obtain the sharp and pointy knives. Also, there were sip cups in there that he could SEE, but that I kept refusing to give him, because they were empty and dirty and for all I knew covered with mold, but what did I know?

On Saturday I went to open the dishwasher and realized I couldn't. It wasn't stuck, exactly. The handle had broken. The part you usually push up to undo whatever latch is in there had snapped, and there was no way to fix it without opening the dishwasher door... which of course we couldn't do... you see our problem, Dear Liza, Dear Liza?

Eventually Steve took a crowbar and pried it open so that we could get our old dishes out. But now the front of the dishwasher is off, the thing will not open once latched, and the door is actually a leathal weapon in disguise. So I am washing all our dishes by hand until we can get our acts together and purchase a new one. Which better be soon, because we go through 17 sip cups a day, not to mention little parts to bottles, breast pumps, and the 45 dishes that I alone manage to produce each day.

OH - The picture is of my cat, Puck, who is too beatiful to be touched, but who reminds us all of his existance by leaving tufts of white hair EVERYWHERE, especially after the vacuum has been run for longer than 20 seconds.