Thank the good lord, it's over.
No, not winter, not some horrible disease, not my diet nor my diet-related sobriety. No, what is over is trivial, luxurious, and a technological product of this century:
Cable installation is complete.
Why, you may ask, was getting cable installed so difficult?
Apparently, this house was built by blind carpenters with dyslexic electricians and designed by an architect who feared that phone and cable jacks might cost thousands, nay, millions of dollars to install. Therefore, we have no cable jack in the office and no phone jack in the family room.
Thus, the computers (per the ignoramus who did day 1 of installation) had to be on a wireless network. Which meant that they approached the neck breaking speed of the Internet in 1997. Honestly, I tried to post yesterday, but the page took so long to load, I forgot what I was going to say.
So, Installer 1, after being no less than 2 hours later than the 3 hour window he was scheduled for (I'll do the math for ya, that's 5 hours of my waiting) shows up and does a half-assed job. He assured us that local hi-def is a futuristic dream, and that the on-screen guide will never advance more than 30 minutes ahead of the current time. The phone jacks are not activated, and he explained that we have to have our phone in the kitchen attached to world's biggest modem whence the faintest of Internet wireless connections emits.
By the time that wireless signal migrated through the walls of my living room and dining room and office, it was as though the Internet was being delivered via camel across the Sahara. Needless to say, M was IRATE.
IRATE called Comcast and spoke to Carla. While I saw that IRATE was curbing his emotion and being pretty calm by IRATE standards, Carla is probably now in work-sponsored PTSD therapy. "Carla, it's just that you, and by you I mean Comcast, not you personally, LIED TO ME!" "Carla, it's just that DirecTV offered these services while you were still an infant and Comcast still doesn't offer them." "No, Carla watching a game in standard definition is like being trapped in the 1980s. I absolutely will NOT do that."
Carla must have flagged our file with every known warning and alert signal: red flags, sirens, klaxons. Wednesday, a nice enough and seemingly competent guy showed up at the house a mere 2 hours late. He assured me that the Internet should be blazing fast and that the TV guide should advance into the future, and that the Brigadoon of hi-def local channels does exist.
I was very excited until he told me that he was a supervisor and that he couldn't actually complete the necessary adjustments. He scheduled a technician appointment window of 4 to 7 PM. Which is fine, because then that guy would get to deal with IRATE himself. Which is good, because it always seems like women are home during these service calls and not able to convince these guys that either a) we know what we're talking about or b) there will be consequence to doing inferior work.
At 6, in the middle of dinner, 2 MORE technicians show up and proceed to actually fulfill the promise of functioning cable-fed media access. It was glorious. The Internet access, while not blazing fast (because we are sharing the router) is indeed peppy, the phone service seems to function, and the television, while not providing all of the hi-def visual orgy that we had anticipated, is slightly above adequate.
Throughout this hellacious experience, my mind kept wandering back to a conversation I had with a painter many moons ago. You'll wonder, when I tell you about this chat, how exactly the topic came up, but it's not what you think.
We were mutually complaining about the vapid existence of the Springhill Women. Their superficiality, their extreme bitchiness toward lesser beings, their unreasonable expectation of being treated as The Only Customer In The World. It's not like we were spooning or anything.
He said that I would not believe the number of Springhill (and other) women who come onto him and people he knows while they were working in their homes. Like, as in aggressive, cougarish, blatantly sexual advances.
Which stunned me. Not because I don't think that Springhill women are normally drunk by 9 AM, lonely, and simultaneously repressed and horny as hell, but because their targets seem so, well, inadequate.
Why would a woman want to throw herself at a man barely capable of doing his job?!? I mean, I'm lookin' at these cable dudes, and thinking, if I could get them to change the oil in my car, that'd be something, but I'm sure I'd not want them up under my hood, if ya know what I mean. The confused look on their faces when confronted by wires of different colors and the total bafflement of getting a phone to ring and the miles and miles of butt crack makes for a far FAR freakin' jump to the ol' sack.
Plus, the total unreliability. Not to be vulgar, but they never come when they're supposed to! Which is why those Springhillian femmes are so uptight in the first place--they have husbands with the same problem. Plus, the technicians need to do everything by committee. At the onset of confusion, which in my last 2 days' experience has been very rapid, they hop on that push to talk Nextel crap and ask for help. Does THAT inspire bedroom confidence? "Um, Joe? I got a problem here. Ima lookin' at a box and UH, I dunno whichaway to install it."
In short, I am amazed that the painter and his home service industry cohorts are in such high demand for extra-marital affairs. It seems that they embody the worst aspects of the worst husbands: they don't care about what you want, they want to do everything in the easiest way possible for them, they want to finish up quick and head home for beer.
I am amazed, too, that these high-falutin' women really do go for the tattooed, cigarette smokin', beer reekin', butt-crack havin' home service technicians. They must really have it bad at home. No wonder they're stoned and walking down the middle of Old Shell Road in their matching outfits. They're commiserating about what a lousy lay the plumber was.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Kids say the darndest things
I have a soft spot in my heart for S's sense of humor. Don't get me wrong, I have soft spots for E, too, but he's just not as naturally funny as the other one.
S's sense of humor can be dry, wry, and altogether in a different league of that of his peers'. It can be goofy and physical like Jim Carrey and it can be annoyed and verbal like a Jewish Catskills bit. Either way, if you're ever one on one with S, and he's feelin' it, you will laugh your ass off.
An example, directly from his teacher, on studying seasons: "S, what a lovely Santa Claus you drew on the white board. He is indeed associated with winter." To me from teacher, "His Santa was like a Victorian version with the long beard and the wire rim glasses, not the plump current version." S, to teacher, brusquely handing her the Expo marker, "not bad for a Jew."
He also has a killer Marvin the Martian impression.
This morning, though, after the alarm went off, and he curled into my bed, we had this conversation. The funniest of all, because it's unintentional:
S: "Mom, I HATE Mondays."
Me: "Good news, then. Today's Tuesday."
S: "What? I thought yesterday was weekend."
Me: "No, remember yesterday was a holiday?"
S: "Right. It was King Arthur Junior day."
Happy King Arthur Junior day, everyone.
S's sense of humor can be dry, wry, and altogether in a different league of that of his peers'. It can be goofy and physical like Jim Carrey and it can be annoyed and verbal like a Jewish Catskills bit. Either way, if you're ever one on one with S, and he's feelin' it, you will laugh your ass off.
An example, directly from his teacher, on studying seasons: "S, what a lovely Santa Claus you drew on the white board. He is indeed associated with winter." To me from teacher, "His Santa was like a Victorian version with the long beard and the wire rim glasses, not the plump current version." S, to teacher, brusquely handing her the Expo marker, "not bad for a Jew."
He also has a killer Marvin the Martian impression.
This morning, though, after the alarm went off, and he curled into my bed, we had this conversation. The funniest of all, because it's unintentional:
S: "Mom, I HATE Mondays."
Me: "Good news, then. Today's Tuesday."
S: "What? I thought yesterday was weekend."
Me: "No, remember yesterday was a holiday?"
S: "Right. It was King Arthur Junior day."
Happy King Arthur Junior day, everyone.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Biological Laws of Chilren
Black and white. Up and down. Tom(eh)to. Tom(ah)to.
Such are my kids. I think part of evolutionary biology should be studying the frequency that siblings are completely different from one another. Many reasons, I suspect ( extremely amateurish and anecdotal "science" to follow):
1. Diversity. If both my kids were total dorks, neither one of them could perpetuate their genetic material. Presumably the dork will attract a dorkette and they will contribute smart nerd genes to the pool. The non-dork might attract a (short) hottie and contribute good looks to the pool.
2. Parental quality. Having children with distinct personalities, polar behavioral tendencies, and requiring completely different discipline methods keeps parents on their toes. Evolution doesn't want you to get lazy and let your second batch of genetic material wind up neglected and unable to cope in the world. We can only hope that there is some health benefit for the parent.
3. Sanity. Perhaps this is the sole health benefit for the parent. If one child enters into a phase of completely irrational, drive you up the wall behavior, the other child generally falls into line. Until he doesn't. Then he's driving you up the wall while the first one moves along without incident. If children somehow synced themselves, then all hell would break out, and parents would be committed at alarming rates.
I announce these non-scientific conclusions based on recent 'spring' cleaning. While I discovered the aforementioned treasures in E's room, I found nothing of the sort in S's.
S's room was much more like him--lacking mystery or a pensive side. It was straightforward, pretty much what you'd expect from a 5 year old boy whose room hasn't been cleaned out for 6 months.
Treasures? No. Contraband. Candy wrappers, lollipop sticks, greasy foil potato chip lunch bags. Even a grotesquely solid sippy cup of milk. (Cringe.)
Well-loved and meaningful books/toys/stuffed animals? No. Legos and Hot Wheels, though well catalogued in the kid's head were stashed, crammed, forgotten under/over/on top of everything else.
Dirty socks? Yes, everywhere. Under the bed, dresser, toys, rug, everywhere.
So different was my experience in both kids' room, that I wandered back into E's room just to confirm that reality. One boy, emotional, sensitive, secretly imbuing objects with meaning and feeling. One boy, straightforward, sneaking that which is forbidden, playing with and promptly forgetting, toys.
While E's bedroom required a special jar of loved things, S's required none. While E's bedroom yielded only a single bag of trash, S's yielded 2. It's not scientific, but it does quantify things a bit.
The most interesting part is which elements of myself I see in each one. Which brings me to evolutionary biology point #4:
4. Murder prevention. If each child retains personality traits or physical resemblance to each parent, each parent is far less likely to strangle that child at any given time.
Such are my kids. I think part of evolutionary biology should be studying the frequency that siblings are completely different from one another. Many reasons, I suspect ( extremely amateurish and anecdotal "science" to follow):
1. Diversity. If both my kids were total dorks, neither one of them could perpetuate their genetic material. Presumably the dork will attract a dorkette and they will contribute smart nerd genes to the pool. The non-dork might attract a (short) hottie and contribute good looks to the pool.
2. Parental quality. Having children with distinct personalities, polar behavioral tendencies, and requiring completely different discipline methods keeps parents on their toes. Evolution doesn't want you to get lazy and let your second batch of genetic material wind up neglected and unable to cope in the world. We can only hope that there is some health benefit for the parent.
3. Sanity. Perhaps this is the sole health benefit for the parent. If one child enters into a phase of completely irrational, drive you up the wall behavior, the other child generally falls into line. Until he doesn't. Then he's driving you up the wall while the first one moves along without incident. If children somehow synced themselves, then all hell would break out, and parents would be committed at alarming rates.
I announce these non-scientific conclusions based on recent 'spring' cleaning. While I discovered the aforementioned treasures in E's room, I found nothing of the sort in S's.
S's room was much more like him--lacking mystery or a pensive side. It was straightforward, pretty much what you'd expect from a 5 year old boy whose room hasn't been cleaned out for 6 months.
Treasures? No. Contraband. Candy wrappers, lollipop sticks, greasy foil potato chip lunch bags. Even a grotesquely solid sippy cup of milk. (Cringe.)
Well-loved and meaningful books/toys/stuffed animals? No. Legos and Hot Wheels, though well catalogued in the kid's head were stashed, crammed, forgotten under/over/on top of everything else.
Dirty socks? Yes, everywhere. Under the bed, dresser, toys, rug, everywhere.
So different was my experience in both kids' room, that I wandered back into E's room just to confirm that reality. One boy, emotional, sensitive, secretly imbuing objects with meaning and feeling. One boy, straightforward, sneaking that which is forbidden, playing with and promptly forgetting, toys.
While E's bedroom required a special jar of loved things, S's required none. While E's bedroom yielded only a single bag of trash, S's yielded 2. It's not scientific, but it does quantify things a bit.
The most interesting part is which elements of myself I see in each one. Which brings me to evolutionary biology point #4:
4. Murder prevention. If each child retains personality traits or physical resemblance to each parent, each parent is far less likely to strangle that child at any given time.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
To toss or not to toss
First of all, as I write this at 8 in the morning, it is dark, dark, DARK outside. Really...all the lights are off in here and it could be the middle of the night. Which I hate, but I do love the rain.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.
I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.
It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)
My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.
I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.
It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)
My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
I can't believe it, but sometimes shopping is NOT fun
You may remember that about this time last year, I was in search of new toilets. At the time, I was shocked and awed by the selection...tall, short, oval round, water saving, rocket powered--many, many options. That was one of life's micro-crises.
Recently, my dishwasher has decided to stop doing dishes. Which would be fine if it had other household responsibilities. I mean, I'd be happy to pick up the slack if the dishwasher still planned to vacuum and cook dinner. But, alas, dish washing is this meager appliance's only responsibility, and it is failing.
Not that I'm sad, mind you.
This is not a loyal appliance that has served me well for an entire appliance-lifetime. Nooooo. This is one that came with the house, and already had a rusted out tine in the upper basket before we even got here. Also, this particular model has the silverware basket in the door, which is annoying a) because you have to slide in both top baskets to get at it and b) the latch doesn't stay caught and all the silverware slides into the bottom. Also, after years of heating and cooling the plastic covers on the buttons in the front are peeling away. Also, it's all stained and rusted inside. Also, did I mention: IT DOESN'T CLEAN THE DISHES!!!
So, onto the computer I go: ratings, features, brands, cost, installation, size....sigh. It's all so much.
I was able to determine 2 things straight off: quietness is of premium importance and quietness costs. A noisy dishwasher, though I'm sure it cleans well enough, was like half the cost of a quiet one.
Behind noise level, efficacy. Behind that, ease of use. Behind that, energy efficiency. Behind that, appearance. The problem is, there's no quantifiable measure of efficacy (until you use it, of course). So, all I can say is product A has x number of jets and y number of cycles. But, honestly, who has ever used multiple cycles on their dishwasher? 98% of the time, we run "normal." So, cycles isn't really a measure of anything except the number of buttons on the front.
Energy efficiency is quantifiable, except for one thing: Bosch, which is a premium brand boasts stupendous, if not unbelievable, energy efficiency. Then I find out that it has no heating element. It doesn't heat-dry the dishes. Well, that explains how it uses crazy less energy. Also, water consumption isn't clearly quantified, either. And, for my dollar that matters more than how much energy I'm using.
Then there's appearance. Currently, my appliances are all white and matched. BUT. The fridge's handles are yellowing with age. I don't think the white is ageing well. BUT, I don't want to clean fingerprints off a stainless steel appliance for the rest of my life, either. I can't commit to a black dishwasher, because it will stick out like a sore thumb. I know, the problems of the bourgeoisie. So, I'm standing in the middle of Sears completely baffled about the possibility of an interracial appliance family.
M weighs in: "I refuse to pay more to have the buttons hidden away to look pretty." BUT you HAVE to tell me what color you want."
Me, fast, breathless, confused: "I don't like the white one, and if I get the white one, then I'll have to get white other appliances as they fail, too. And if I get a black dishwasher, then it's going to not match until something else breaks, and that's going to make me nuts. Plus, I'll be committed to black appliances in the future and maybe I won't want black. BUT if I get stainless, I'm going to spend the rest of this dishwasher's life cleaning up fingerprints and I REALLY don't want to do that. If I get the stainless dishwasher, then I could go ahead and get a black or non-marking stainless fridge down the line, I guess. But I hate to spend $100 on stainless just to make things match. OH MY GOD, I don't know what to do."
M: "Whatever you decide, I'm happy to buy the stainless now, but the words, 'But they don't MATCH' better not cross your lips for the entire lifetime of your remaining appliances."
Me: "But a new fridge is so SHINY."
M: "DISHWASHER. WE ARE HERE FOR DISHWASHER."
Me: "But they're not going to MA--. Stainless."
So, we were able to narrow down to 3 options. In the end, I sat in the furniture section, peering at my iPhone, poring over reviews and comparisons until M had enough. With conviction, he rose, strode over to the counter and bought one.
Leaving me a lifetime to second guess.
Recently, my dishwasher has decided to stop doing dishes. Which would be fine if it had other household responsibilities. I mean, I'd be happy to pick up the slack if the dishwasher still planned to vacuum and cook dinner. But, alas, dish washing is this meager appliance's only responsibility, and it is failing.
Not that I'm sad, mind you.
This is not a loyal appliance that has served me well for an entire appliance-lifetime. Nooooo. This is one that came with the house, and already had a rusted out tine in the upper basket before we even got here. Also, this particular model has the silverware basket in the door, which is annoying a) because you have to slide in both top baskets to get at it and b) the latch doesn't stay caught and all the silverware slides into the bottom. Also, after years of heating and cooling the plastic covers on the buttons in the front are peeling away. Also, it's all stained and rusted inside. Also, did I mention: IT DOESN'T CLEAN THE DISHES!!!
So, onto the computer I go: ratings, features, brands, cost, installation, size....sigh. It's all so much.
I was able to determine 2 things straight off: quietness is of premium importance and quietness costs. A noisy dishwasher, though I'm sure it cleans well enough, was like half the cost of a quiet one.
Behind noise level, efficacy. Behind that, ease of use. Behind that, energy efficiency. Behind that, appearance. The problem is, there's no quantifiable measure of efficacy (until you use it, of course). So, all I can say is product A has x number of jets and y number of cycles. But, honestly, who has ever used multiple cycles on their dishwasher? 98% of the time, we run "normal." So, cycles isn't really a measure of anything except the number of buttons on the front.
Energy efficiency is quantifiable, except for one thing: Bosch, which is a premium brand boasts stupendous, if not unbelievable, energy efficiency. Then I find out that it has no heating element. It doesn't heat-dry the dishes. Well, that explains how it uses crazy less energy. Also, water consumption isn't clearly quantified, either. And, for my dollar that matters more than how much energy I'm using.
Then there's appearance. Currently, my appliances are all white and matched. BUT. The fridge's handles are yellowing with age. I don't think the white is ageing well. BUT, I don't want to clean fingerprints off a stainless steel appliance for the rest of my life, either. I can't commit to a black dishwasher, because it will stick out like a sore thumb. I know, the problems of the bourgeoisie. So, I'm standing in the middle of Sears completely baffled about the possibility of an interracial appliance family.
M weighs in: "I refuse to pay more to have the buttons hidden away to look pretty." BUT you HAVE to tell me what color you want."
Me, fast, breathless, confused: "I don't like the white one, and if I get the white one, then I'll have to get white other appliances as they fail, too. And if I get a black dishwasher, then it's going to not match until something else breaks, and that's going to make me nuts. Plus, I'll be committed to black appliances in the future and maybe I won't want black. BUT if I get stainless, I'm going to spend the rest of this dishwasher's life cleaning up fingerprints and I REALLY don't want to do that. If I get the stainless dishwasher, then I could go ahead and get a black or non-marking stainless fridge down the line, I guess. But I hate to spend $100 on stainless just to make things match. OH MY GOD, I don't know what to do."
M: "Whatever you decide, I'm happy to buy the stainless now, but the words, 'But they don't MATCH' better not cross your lips for the entire lifetime of your remaining appliances."
Me: "But a new fridge is so SHINY."
M: "DISHWASHER. WE ARE HERE FOR DISHWASHER."
Me: "But they're not going to MA--. Stainless."
So, we were able to narrow down to 3 options. In the end, I sat in the furniture section, peering at my iPhone, poring over reviews and comparisons until M had enough. With conviction, he rose, strode over to the counter and bought one.
Leaving me a lifetime to second guess.
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