I hate doing the dishes. I'd rather shove my entire fist up my left nostril than wash a dish.
This arrangement worked out nicely. He got clean underwear and clean toilets. I got to avoid flappy nostrils.
When we moved into an apartment with a dishwasher I was thrilled. Justin was also thrilled. He supported the family and I spent hours upon hours every day loading the dishwasher and surfing Yahoo adult chat. My dishes, repartee and marriage all sparkled. It was a blissful era.
As eras do, it all ended. My dishwasher is a useless appliance. The algae population is booming. That is, the phosphates in detergents are a fertilizer and when they end up in the groundwater, all those algae suffer from obesity and turbo libido. The fix for this is to not feed the animals and remove the phosphate in the soap.
Dishwasher detergents without phosphates are useless. The dishes coming out of my dishwasher look about the same as when I put them in the dishwasher, maybe minus a stuck on Cheerio or two, and this is unacceptable.
It's not like any algae will come along and hand wash my dishes to ensure that they are truly clean so I asked my husband if we could go back to our original agreement. He washes the dishes. I talk dirty to him. Win win.
He cut off my question mid-ask with, "The crux of the agreement is that we have a dishwasher."
At the period on the end of his statement he raised his eyebrows at me and I knew the argument was over.
It's not his fault that phosphates are of the devil. He has provided a home with an adequate dish washing appliance. His part of the deal is did. My part of the deal is to utilize that appliance, or not, and turn dirty dishes into clean ones.
You know what trick I'm going to mystify Justin with next? Not dirty to clean dishes. No. It will be turning perfectly lovely blue striped ceramic dinnerware into these: