From fire to flood . . .

We never wanted a dishwasher. I mean it. My husband and I are practically Amish in that we eschew the modern technology of dish washing with electricity - notwithstanding the fact that even sinks require electricity if you want hot water. . . I digress . I am a convert to the practice of hand washing dishes. During law school and even growing up, we always had a dishwasher. Needless to say, I have never seen any harm in allowing Cascade to take care of lasagna pans. Anyway, our landlords, whom we adore, offered/encouraged/informed us that we were getting a dishwasher, to be installed last Tuesday. The only catch was that the installer could only come at night. It wasn't really a huge deal until he was 45 minutes late and didn't arrive until nearly 9:15. The dishwasher was delivered earlier in the day but remained conspicuously housed in brown cardboard until Mr. Fix-it arrived. We had finished dinner and were sort of sitting around the way you do when you know company is coming but that there is nothing left to clean. He unwrapped the dishwasher. It was green. Avocado green. 80s bathtub green. Not good. D and I did not discuss this with one another. The afternoon had already been a little crazy, seeing as our street still smelled like an ottoman barbecue. Our favorite neighborhood furniture store - literally around the corner- burned to the ground. The entire neighborhood smelled like a factory fire and the trains, which run along the back side of the store were all stopped/diverted away from our stop. Thus, not only were we grieving the loss of our favorite Saturday afternoon haunt, but we were also bemoaning the addition of an unwelcome swamp-green fixture to our red and white kitchen. Christmas, anyone?! I walked the three miles home from work and was prepared to ignore the installation of Shrek with some Real Housewives and a magazine on the couch. Then, something funny happened. . . It got really quiet and Mr. Fix-It asked for a towel "just in case." I probably would have asked what he meant by that, but he didn't ask ME for the towel. The next thing I hear is a little creak and a big GUSH!!!!!!! Steam was rising to the ceiling and a string of expletives rained along with it - I was sitting out of sight on the couch but I was pretty certain that we didn't have any towels big enough for this situation. However, knowing what it's like to want people to leave you to your business, I left him alone. (D jumped up after the splashing didn't immediately stop.) This was the scene greeting me when I peered over the pass through. Ps: don't the hot pink gloves look like they're screaming for help? There's old green. The back door open, letting smoke in and water out. Anyway, after 2.5 hours, a hole in the downstairs neighbors' ceiling to release a bathtub full of water through a fist-sized hole and a walk around the smoky neighborhood to pay homage to the ruins of the store - really just to cool my jets - we had a dishwasher. Just what we never wanted. (I had one too many glasses of wine this weekend and emptied the contents of our dish cabinet into it, giggling all the while. D = not amused).   The morning after the apocalypse (fires, floods, etc.) I looked at the ugly green dishwasher and literally felt like kicking it. (clearly, first world problems). So, later on I received a text from D who was off for the day. I feel like there is probably a lesson or two in here somewhere . . .