Washvana

After years of doing dishes the old-fashioned way, we recently had an epiphany. “Let’s buy an automatic dishwasher,” we said to each other not only in unison, but in perfect three-part harmony.  We’re technology-oriented folks, and this particular technology is fairly well established after fifty or sixty years, so what better time?

We hopped in the Monkeymobile with a gleam in our eyes and desire in our hearts, and we drove to the second-nearest Sears and Roebuck. On the way, our minds raced and we imagined a life free from the toil of washing dishes. We pictured a kitchen with no mess, forks and spoons that shone like the sun, and glasses so clean that they were nearly invisible.

We drove faster.

Upon arriving at the appliance department, after pushing and shoving our way through the crowds, and knocking and elderly woman not only to the floor but also into unconsciousness, we gaped in awe and wonder at the veritable cornucopia of automatic dishwasher choices. It truly was Brand Central.

The friendly salesman was quick to present himself and assist us in our quest. We are sure he could smell the desperation oozing from our pores, but it did not matter.  Such was our desire, pent up for so many years, that we went so far as to ask him, “What will it take for you to sell us an automatic dishwasher today?”

He showed us the introductory model, with two important features: on and off.  He was toying with us, like a cat with a mouse before tearing its legs off. We begged for more: “We don’t care about all this penny ante stuff! Show us the top of the range.” We could barely contain ourselves.

The helpful salesman agreed, and led us to the back of the department. There, without any sign or decorations, was a simple brown door. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny gold key on a leather key chain. We’re not sure, but we think the key was labeled, Washvana.  He unlocked the door and we entered.

The room beyond the plain door was unlike anything we had ever seen. The deep burgundy carpet cushioned our steps. The walls were finished in fine mahogany panels. The twenty foot domed ceiling framed a fine crystal chandelier.

In the center of the room, atop a rotating circular platform, stood that object we had been seeking: the Electrawash Super Deluxe 9000. It was truly a beautiful machine, a masterwork of design and engineering, the zenith of the dishwashing art.

Before blurting out, “we’ll take it,” we knew we must at least seem interested in hearing the salesman’s pitch. We asked him as politely as possible, and with our best poker face, “What’s so special about this one?” He began by showing us the platinum-lined interior, with its gold plated wire racks and baskets—all fully adjustable, of course. “Dual eight-way agitating sprinkler heads ensure your dishes will come out so clean,” he said, “that you won’t even recognize them!”

He pointed out the electronic multi-function digital control console on the front panel, armed for every conceivable dishwashing scenario: normal, power scrub, energy saver, water saver, pots and pans, and the revolutionary (and proprietary) plasma dry for when things get really nasty.

We signed the forms, signed our lives over to Sears and Roebuck, and had it delivered the next day. It’s fabulous. The dishes gleam. We can’t afford to eat anymore, but the kitchen has never been this clean.