My dishwasher beeps when she’s finished washing the dishes. Beeps incessantly.

Okay, not incessantly. But five beeps every three minutes or so, until I acknowledge the completion of the dishes. I think she’s emotionally needy. None of my other appliances check in with me; they just do their job.

My happy refrigerator just keeps ticking away, keeping things cold. If she had a name, I think she would be Dinah. She would wear a bandana and push hydration with her ever ready pitcher of red KoolAid. She has a southern accent. She says things like, “Ya’ll doin’ okaaay? Need s’more ice? Ya’ll just let me know, now. S’plenty more where that came from.”

Even the oven is cool about it all. He beeps quietly and respectfully, one time. He’s like the British butler of the kitchen. “All finished, m’lady. Your muffins are complete.”

My coffee pot is like Flo from Alice’s diner. She smacks her gum and holds her carafe just above my cup, ready to refill. She doesn’t even neeed words. She just communicates with the cracks and pops of her gum.

The blender is the jock of the group. He talks tough and likes to show off. He’s flexing his muscles and parading in front of the mirror. “Dude. I can crush anything. Bring it. Bring. It.”

I could go on and on, telling you all about the efficiency of the science professor that is my microwave, the patience of the nurse who is my crockpot, the broken English of my rice cooker, and the cheerful readiness of the coffee bean grinder, like an eight-year-old boy ready for a quick bike ride.

But, oh, the dishwasher. “I’m done! I’m finished! See? Come see how sparkly everything is! Ooh! Ooh! Even the dried, hard mashed potatoes! They’re gone. Come look. Come look. Come. I will beep until you come. Seriously. I’m not above it.”

Yes, dishwasher. I see, dishwasher. Please sit quietly, dishwasher. I know you know the answer, so now you can stop jumping up out of your seat, waving your hand for my attention, dishwasher.

She’s the needy one of the group. Sheesh.

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