When my girlfriends proposed moving into a rental house without a dishwasher, I was appalled. After all white goods had done for feminism, here we were willingly returning to the dark ages. Would I have to quit my job to scour a pullulating pile of dirty dishes?
It turns out it isn’t that bad. I actually don’t mind the time I spend mulling over my day with the warm, soapy water flowing over my hands, for once neither tapping nor scrolling. And it’s all been much easier since my flat-mate brought home a “Scrub Daddy” — not an obliging older boyfriend, but a grinning, all-American sponge.
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