When writer Deryn Collier tweeted a few weeks ago about needing an office so she could escape her laundry, I was oh-so-superior about the idea. I embrace the laundry as my chance to ponder the mysteries of the universe. I think that’s basically what I said in this ridiculous blog post.

Well, friends, karma has given me a big fat kick in the butt.

My dishwasher broke over a week ago and I am NOT ZEN about doing approximately one billion dishes every day. Breakfast dishes, lunch dishes, snack dishes, dinner dishes, and those DISGUSTING dishes that have sat in lunch boxes all day (if you’re lucky) or in cubbies all week (if you have children like mine).

The original installer from Future Shop called to arrange a time LATE THIS WEEK (?!?) and I had what I thought was a rather restrained version of a conniption. He hung up on me. The second installer from Future Shop, who is either wiser or more used to dishwashing angst, is arriving today.

If he doesn’t, I’m renting an office. And I’m going to sleep and eat there, by myself, and clean my dishes by licking them.