Scrubbing Bubbles

We've had a string of dishwashers.  The first went to jail, the second went crazy from the monotony and started to rock back and forth.  Humming maniacally as she scoured.  She ran away to the circus.  Our third, Matt, had prolonged bouts of sanity.  I promoted him out of dishwashing to baking assistant to keep it that way.  He also liked to stuff himself into the oven and scrub.   

Our fourth would leave for costume changes, returning in sequins or clown wigs.  The fifth I adored.  She was positive and bubbly.  It turned out she was always funny and happy because she was always drunk.  The sixth cleaned  and organized for three glorious days.  And on the fourth didn't show.  She was in the hospital.  She drank too much punch at a party.  Oh, and she dropped ten tabs of acid.  

And the seventh, bless her heart.  She started her shift by licking the stacked bowls clean, she'd steal the last chocolate chip cookie, sneak into the cooler and grab fistfuls of brie and bacon and then lock herself in the bathroom for hours.

Our latest, she's just lovely.  One of the best workers we've ever had.  Intelligent, fast and thorough.  She's fourteen.  So if you have small children with nice dispositions and can use a sponge, they may have a career waiting for them when they graduate from elementary school.  Just give me a call.

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