someone blows in my ear. Rwowr. And then one day I took a film-ridden cup out of the cupboard and poured a Diet Coke in it and added three ice cubes, and settled down in front of the computer. I slurped my Diet Coke joyfully, because I am a joyful sort of person, and I enjoyed my Diet Coke, because I always do. And when the Diet Coke was mostly gone and I was reading a journal entry – or perhaps an email, I don’t actually remember which – I noticed that my tongue felt odd. Really odd. As if it were going a little numb, but also as if it were growing a thick coat of fur. Not a happy, joyful feeling, as you can imagine. I decided to avoid the filmy cups from there on out, and I hoped that the damn Jet Dry dispenser would soon be empty, and I vowed to never – NEVER! – use the damn stuff again, and I tossed the half bottle that was left over, and I promised myself that I would write an entry detailing the horrors of Jet Dry, the devil’s tool. I mean, really. Just how shiny and spot-free do my freakin’ dishes need to be, anyway?! Who sees the fucking things besides us? It’s not like we’re going to have the president and Laura over to dine, and Laura will gaze down at the spotty plates and shoot me a look full of disapproval. I wouldn’t know what to feed them, anyway. And would I be responsible for feeding the secret service guys, or do they take care of themselves? But most importantly, could I talk one of the secret service into shooting Fancypants? All accidental-like? It would certainly be worth a try, because it’s not like those Bushes are cat people. They’re not, are they? I seem to recall a lot of dogs, but no cats. But I could be wrong. I also digress. So I decided to avoid the filmy cups and just drink directly out of the cans, and for a few days all was well. “Bessie,” Fred said one evening while he was finishing his dinner and I was loading the dishwasher – when he cooks, I clean up, when I cook, he does. I get the better end of the bargain, though, because I use WAY more dishes when I cook than he does. Heh. – “Bessie, what’s up with this nasty, squeaky film we’ve got going on?” “I think it’s that FUCKING Jet Dry,” I said, continuing to load the dishwasher. “I think it’s double-coating the dishes or something, and I don’t think there’s anything we can do until the dispenser is empty.” “What do we do when the dispenser is empty?” “We don’t add more Jet Dry.” Honestly. Do I have to spell everything out? “I wonder if the rinse agent is reacting badly with the powder I use?” Fred said, finishing his dinner. “You use the powder?” I said. We use Electrasol tabs in the dishwasher, but I also keep a box of Cascade under the counter for emergencies, on the rare occasion when we run out of the Electrasol. “Yeah,” he said. I picked up the container the Electrasol tabs were contained in, and I looked at the back. “Hey, look,” I said. “Those little white balls imbedded in the Electrasol tabs are actually JetDry balls. It’s my fault! I’ve been double-rinse-agenting the dishes!” So I flicked the white ball out of the Electrasol tab so there’d be no double-rinse-agenting, and started the dishwasher. The next day, no film. Oh, you can only IMAGINE the joy in BitchyVille, the jubilation, the ecstasy, the thrills and chills. I did a little dance through the kitchen, freaking out the cats, who danced away from me with big, dark eyes and fluffed-out tails. And yet. The next day, film. You can IMAGINE the abject horror. I stared at the filmy dishes with dismay, and I thought about it. The night before, I had cooked, so it was Fred’s turn to do the dishes. And for some reason, he’d decided to use up the powder, he’d told me, and therefore the problem had to lie in some sort of reaction between the JetDry and the Cascade. I looked under the sink for the box of Cascade so I could read the back and see if, perhaps, there was a warning along the lines of “Danger! Do not use with JetDry Rinse Agent!” But, odd. No Cascade. Had he used up the box? I looked in the trash. No Cascade. I looked under the sink again to see if, perhaps, it was hiding behind something else. It was nowhere to be seen. I called him at work. “Where’s the powder you’ve been using in the dishwasher?” I asked. “It’s on top of the container of the tabs,” he said. I looked under the sink once again, wondering how I could possibly have missed seeing a big-ass bright green box of Cascade perched on the container of Electrasol tabs. I saw this: “YOU USED THE POWDER ON TOP OF THE CONTAINER OF ELECTRASOL TABS IN THE DISHWASHER?!” I shrieked. “Yeah,” he said, obviously paying attention to something else. “Is that why we’re having the film on the dishes?” “Yes,” I said. “Possibly the big dose of poison you’re washing the dishes with every time you do them is causing a FUCKING FILM on the dishes.” Of course, this ends up being my fault, because the Oxi-Clean container is very similar to the Electrasol container, thus the small container is obviously the powdered version of what’s in the larger container. Silly me. I thought he could READ. Possibly we’re lucky to still be alive. Also possibly, we’re dying (no, not seriously – it’s been a few weeks, and we feel fine. Apparently the Oxi-Clean (AVOID CONTACT WITH EYES AND MUCUS MEMBRANES OR PROLONGED CONTACT WITH SKIN. DO NOT, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, INGEST!) was diluted enough to not kill us. Because I’m thinking that if the spud went to Maine for the summer and Fred or I died in a freak poisoning accident, she’d probably never want to go to Maine ever again in her life.]]>