My husband is gifted. He can fix anything. He can put together anything. He can trouble shoot anything. Just give him a task and leave him alone for a few minutes, and he will figure it out.
He’s the type to throw away the directions that come with unassembled products. He’ll put them together with no more than a glance at the picture on the front of the box. “I don’t need no stinkin’ directions,” he’s fond of saying. (Guess what one of his favorite movies to quote is.)
He can navigate without getting lost (or asking for directions.) No, really, I know most men are like this, but he actually knows where we are at all times. He doesn’t get lost.
He can troubleshoot any computer issue I’ve ever handed him, whether he knows the program or not.
He can assemble anything, fix anything, build anything.
That is why I can’t figure out, for the life of me, why the man can’t load a dishwasher.
To his credit, he willingly helps out where ever I need it. He will walk in the door from work, throw on an apron, and put himself to work if he sees that I need help, and I love him for it. But let the man get within two feet of the dishwasher, and my perfect loading system is instantly kaput.
The stuff that goes on the top is on the bottom and the stuff that goes on the bottom is on the top. Utensils are thrown in willy-nilly. Things that don’t belong in the dishwasher mysteriously find their way inside. It looks like a free for all in there.
I mean, every woman knows there is only one right way to load her dishwasher. Right? Can I get an amen?
I guess this is what makes our marriage work. I instinctively know the most efficient way to load the dishwasher, and he has an internal GPS. Just don’t ask me to find my own way home.
Disclosure: Please don’t think I endorse husband-bashing. I asked permission before posting this. This is a running joke in our home. You know I luv ya, hon – mad dishwasher loading skilz and all.