Don’t care how loud the dishwasher is…

Our Modern Rustic kitchen, complete.

Like most marriages of any longevity, my wife and I have been through a lot in our 29-year history. We’ve had blazing highs and devastating lows: Family deaths, layoffs, financial hardships, a cross-country move – and subsequent move-back – and most recently the strain of a cancer scare and the adoption of a new puppy. Any of the above can push the limits of any marriage, but my wife and I rarely fight. And if we do? No, it’s not about my obsessive car hobby, or my mess in the basement, it’s about who’s turn it is to do the G-Damm dishes.

We come from different backgrounds and had very different upbringings, but for some reason, we both absolutely despise doing dishes. I would rather clean the basement and the garage than do the dishes. She would rather wash-n-fold seven weeks of camping-road-trip laundry than sit there scrubbing pots and pans for 10 minutes.

The Battle of the Dishes had gotten so bad, Wifey actually created a chart so we could mark down who did the dishes and when, like it was our childhood chore list. And you know what, it worked.

For a while.

When we bought a house six years ago and it didn’t come with a dishwasher. No matter, we said, we have a house! No more apartment living, no more paying someone else’s mortgage. This house is ours!

Time marched on. Dishes piled up. Squabbles happened. “I did the dishes G-Dammit, I just forgot to give myself a checkmark!” Or, “No, I did the dishes last, because I washed this cup and put it in the strainer in such a way I would remember that I did the dishes last!”

So then, one fateful summer nary two years ago, we were passing through a small town and we discovered a Habitat for Humanity thrift store, called ReStore, that sold all things home related. It was like a Goodwill Home Depot for first-time homeowners. It was a gold mine for appliances, tools, construction materials, nails, what have you.

Then we saw it.

A dishwasher.

It was a lonely built-in Kenmore sitting atop a second-tier shelf, obviously overlooked by other dishly-stricken couples. We found a ladder, climbed up and looked in this marvel of machinery. Dirty dishes go in. Clean ones come out. What could be better? Sure, it was second-hand and a little outdated in white, but it was in great shape and would blend in with the white cabinets. And at $60, how could we go wrong?

In way more ways than I thought.

Now my house was built rock-solid in 1942 and all the kitchen cabinets were built in onsite, using real wood and the like. But there was a little pocket available, conveniently located right next to the sink. We just had to sacrifice a little under-counter storage where two doors then stood.

I busted out my measuring tape – which no English major ever should – and measured for the width of the dishwasher and found there was plenty of room.

So I measured again, as they often say, before I started cutting. I used my inexpensive reciprocating saw from Harbor Freight and cut open a remarkably straight hole for our new baby, Kenny. Then, after a little cheery celebration, Wifey and I hoisted Kenny out of the truck, brought him into his new home and tried to slide him into his new nest, which was going great – until the top of Kenny hit the countertop. Apparently there’s a width and height to this measuring business.

Whaaaat?

I pushed again in disbelief. Didn’t work. I tried angling the thing to slide it under the lip of the counter. Didn’t work. Apparently, people were much shorter in 1942. The countertop was a full three inches shorter than standard. Ugh.

This Old House, here we come again. “Oh,” I said. “We just have to pop the counter out, add three inches of sink drain, reinstall and boom, done.”

But that didn’t happen.

The raising of the countertop raised the issue that our kitchen was sadly outdated with a confounded mix of 1942 and 1972 and certainly not in a good way.

So the counter issue turned from raising it slightly to me attempting to craft a custom, concrete countertop after seeing a YouTube video once. I pulled off all of the white, gold-veined-and-glittered countertop veneer to reveal the wood beneath and started building the form for the concrete.

Of course that meant we needed a new backsplash, because it was the same white/gold nightmare. Then when I finished the backsplash, the cabinets looked like H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks. So I repainted those. And the rest of the walls. But then the walls looked like shite with the old yellow and black tiles, so Wifey and I went sledge-berserk one day and got rid of the tile, which then forced me to learn how to drywall. Then I built a breakfast nook. And custom rehabbed our island. And then pulled all the 1972 gold and orange laminate off the floor, where we discovered rare heart pine. Then we had to learn how to refinish rare antique heart pine floors. Luckily, we got some staining advice from our friend Kyle, who just happens to own Dwyer Hardwoods.

Then it came time to re-introduce Kenny to his new home. He came with a cord, but the end was cut off. No worries, I said, we’ll just get one of those replacement thingies and slip it on and plug it in – only there was no plug under the counter.

Oh my.

While the electrician was on his way, I learned how to plumb real quick after getting a few quotes that knocked my first-time homeowner socks clean off. Electrician shows up, turns out he has to add a whole line all the way back to the box in the basement. Left us with a nice four-space receptacle and a $400 bill.

No matter, we have a dishwasher.

A… dish… wash… errr.

I double-checked my plumbing.

I plugged in Kenny.

I pushed his On button.

And after a year of on-and-off kitchen rehab, Kenny sung me his first, sweet, sweet melody. There was some whooshing and swirling and gurgling and it was all so gorgeous. I melted a little inside.

Kenny worked.

Oh, thank you Kenny. Thank you! Welcome to our home!

I’ve seen commercials that advertise the quietness of their dishwashers. You’ll never hear them running, they say. Never hear them running? What’s the point? The sound of Kenny washing all of our dishes whilst we binged Gilmore Girls is almost as sweet as the sound of the pitter-pat of puppy feet!

When all was said and done, after we hoisted our glasses and set them down on our new island, I looked around and said, “That stove has to go.”

“And can you build me a shelf to go over it?” Wifey said. “And we need something for this space. And we have to paint the ceiling fan… and that radiator looks awful…”

Our $60 secondhand dishwasher cost us nearly $3,000 in an impromptu full-on DIY kitchen remodel.

Are we now a fight-less couple? Have we finally achieved marital bliss?

Of course not.

Now we fight about whose turn it is to empty Kenny.

But in the end, he still washes our dishes for us.

We love you Kenny.

We love you.

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