I should mention here what I neglected to say yesterday — when, as is so often the case, I was interrupted by my waking child before I could properly finish my post:
I truly, adamantly believe that, were there a competition for oldest functioning dishwasher, ours would win it. And this gives me some small sense of pride. I can tack few superlatives to the list of my accomplishments in life. I am certainly not the best mom, the most organized homemaker, or the most likely to be featured in her own reality TV show. Clearly–judging by my recent two-month disappearance– I am an unreliable blogger at best. I studied Latin for four years as an adult, yes, which could have rendered me the stay-at-home mom most adept at a dead language. Except that, three years later, I remember virtually nothing. The Latin I have at my command could fit on the side of a teabag. If you had a permanent marker. And a lot of patience.
Compared to Thomas Jefferson, then, I am pathetic. (Yes, I’m reading the biography. Sue me. Literarily speaking, I’m a lemming. And yes, I know that’s all a myth.) I do feel rather superior to his wife, though, who insisted, on her deathbed, that he never remarry. He was thirty-nine. A single father. It was a crappy move on her part. Still, “more selfless than Patty Jefferson” doesn’t get me to the top of any list worth being on. Plus, Patty sounds silly. Perhaps if her name had been Elspeth…
Anyway. “The owner of the oldest extant working dishwasher?” This is something I can be proud of.
You have to take it where you can get it. So, even if we had the money? Screw the Bosch. Who needs excellence when you can have a world record?