Wash. Rinse. Repeat? Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap. Is the stuff in the dishwasher clean or dirty?

I can 't tell.

I cooked chicken last night, too. Shiz.

What if I put away the cutting boards and then gave the family salmonella? The last thing i need is puking family peeps over the weekend. That would suck -- and blow. Chunks.

I'm in a quandary. I don't want a weekend full of laund-a-ry. (I love rhyming!)

I just ran my hand across a plate to see if there was any residue. It seemed pretty clean, but no squeak. I need a squeak. Mike filled the soap last night and he's a soap-scrooge. He read some NY Times article that said you only need half the amount to do the job. I need a squeak. I wasn't getting squat. Damn you, Mike, you voracious reader smart type of person.

I picked up the plates and smelled them. They didn't smell bad, but they didn't smell lemon-splash fresh either.

Damn it, I thought, we've been prepping too well, rinsing the plates to an almost clean, nirvana state. WTF's a mama to do?

I closed the dishwasher. I opened the dishwasher. I hoped for a miracle. Nothing happened.

I wanted to run the dishwasher again. The angel on my shoulder told me it was the prudent thing to do. Save the family. Spare them from stomach ache and dehydration.

I closed the dishwasher. I thought for a moment.

I opened it and emptied it out.

The devil made me do it.