Dishwasher Wars: The Utter, Total Collapse of Civilization

My organized, efficient and tidy dishwasher…

…vs whatever my wife calls this.

Picture this: me, a noble champion of order, standing before the open maw of the dishwasher. It’s a warzone. Plates sprawled like fallen soldiers, mugs doing headstands like they’ve joined a ceramic yoga class, and—oh, sweet mercy—a colander just hanging out on top of everything like it owns the place. Enter my wife, the agent of chaos, the dishwasher anarchist, the Picasso of "loading however the hell I feel like."  

Her philosophy? “If it fits, it washes.”  
My philosophy? “This isn’t Tetris, Deborah!”  
(And no, her name’s not Deborah, but it feels appropriately dramatic when I scream it in my head.)

She strolls into the kitchen, holding a cereal bowl like it’s a grenade. Plunk! It lands on a glass, upside-down, trapping water in a way that would make Archimedes roll in his grave. She looks at me, unbothered, like she hasn’t just committed a war crime. “What’s the big deal?” she asks, casually tossing a spoon into the cutlery rack pointy end up, which—let’s be honest—is one missed slip away from turning this into a crime scene.  

“What’s the big deal?” I reply, my voice rising two octaves. “THE BIG DEAL is that dishes need water circulation. They can’t rinse if you pile them like a stack of pancakes at a truck stop!” She shrugs. SHRUGS. As if her apathy hasn’t just set back the dishwasher-loading cause by decades.

And yet—and this is where the universe kicks me square in the teeth—the dishes still come out clean. Clean! That mug she balanced upside-down like a drunken trapeze artist? Spotless. The glass imprisoned under the cereal bowl? Sparkling. The colander chilling like a frat bro at spring break? Not a crumb. And every time, she gives me that look. That “see, it worked” look. The same look you’d give someone who’s still hoarding VHS tapes “just in case.”

Now, I’d love to say I’m the bigger person here, but let’s be real. This is the hill I will die on. The Dishwasher Hill of Righteousness, where plates are vertical, bowls are angled, and justice reigns supreme. So every time she leaves the kitchen, I swoop in, a stealthy dish-ninja, rearranging her mess into art. 

But here’s the kicker, folks. Here’s the zaniest, most infuriating part of all: she knows. SHE KNOWS I’ll do it. Which means this whole thing? It’s just a game to her. A game. And that, my friends, is why the Dishwasher Wars rage on.  

Because this isn’t just about loading dishes. No, no, no. This is about pride. It’s about respect. It’s about the principle that a colander has no damn business lounging on top of my coffee mugs.  

So yes, I’ll keep fighting this ridiculous battle. And when I’m 90, still rearranging her chaos into perfection, she’ll still be there, grinning, plunking a spoon in upside-down just to watch me lose my mind. And honestly? That’s love. Twisted, dishwasher-destroying love.

Dear comrades in the great Dishwasher Wars, Let us unite in solidarity against the tyranny of upside-down mugs, rogue colanders, and that one spoon lying face down in defeat. Share your tales of rack rebellion, your victories of logic over chaos, and, yes, even your defeats at the hands of “if it fits, it washes” warriors. Together, we’ll load on, rinse on, and fight the good fight. Til dish do us part,

Gloria