So I named the dishwasher this morning, too.
And Cheryl doesn’t rate quite as high as Lois does, because Cheryl neglected to tell me at 7:30 this morning that, “Oh, by the way…I didn’t actually wash the dishes you shoved inside of me last night.”
Naturally, I’d unloaded half of the cups and silverware, while I was singing along with Lady Ga Ga’s “Poker Face,” before I came across a soup bowl from last night’s taco soup, which looked like it had been painted with a fresh coat of reddish-orange called Mexican Sunset.
Thanks, Cheryl. Thanks for that. I’ll never love you like I do Lois, the self-cleaning oven.
And I’m pretty sure that Cheryl will say, “Yes, Mama, but it was YOU who neglected to push the button marked Start after you filled my little internal canister with detergent.”
(Unlike Lois, Cheryl the LG dishwasher is always trying to blame things on me.)
People, I’m embarrassed to show you my crazy, but there you have it.
And now, I have to scootch, because we are trying to shove the Squirrel-coated credenza-turned-entertainment-center in place.
And when I say we, I use the term rather loosely. My job is to mainly stay out of the way and shout encouragement to Hubs as I say things like, “Do you think that third drawer handle is crooked, Honey?” and “Are you okay lifting this entire thing alone while I stand here and pet the cat?”