It’s 32 degrees outside, sleeting, with a cold wind whistling between my door and the frame. Nevertheless, my toes are toasty. I proudly possess that most wonderous of winter inventions. Oh, yes. I feel like an anachronism in the age of electric blankets and space heaters, but I’m not too proud to admit it.

I love my hot water bottle.

Under the best of circumstances, I’m not good at waiting. My mind won’t let me start anything I feel like I’d have to drop in an instant, so it’s not like I can do anything productive with waiting time. My poor head just dwells on all the things I’ll be able to do as soon as the waiting is over.

I’ve been waiting on a repairman for the last 2 hours.

Now, two hours normally isn’t enough to merit this level of grumpiness, but I waited all afternoon on Tuesday for a dishwasher repairman. Two Good Ole Boys showed up, decided that the dishwasher was irreparably broken, and left a gaping, stinking hole in my kitchen where they spilled the nasty contents of the old one.

Okay. Wednesday, they wanted me here to install the new one. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like I’m secretly a level 6 plumber with a +2 wrench of tightening. I rearranged my schedule so I’d be here when they installed it, only to have them end the process with whoops, sorry, we forgot a part. We’ll be back tomorrow.

Okie dokie. The landlord has a key. Pop in and do it at your leisure.

Oh, no! They can’t do that! I have to be here when they run it for the first time. Why? I don’t understand. I don’t possess any dishwasher magic. I put in soap and dishes, turn a dial, and hope I get sanitary goodness in return. That is the extent of my expertise. It doesn’t matter, though, because they won’t do it without me here. So once more, now with week old dirty dishes stacked all over the kitchen, I’m waiting for a repairman to please finish the job. Three days of waiting, and he’s now over two hours late.

This better be the best darn dishwasher ever.