In our household the dishes go in the sink because for the fifty-millionth time my dear spouse has loaded the dishwasher completely full of dirty dishes and failed to turn it on. There is no longer room for dishes in the washer, so they go in the sink.
Apparently turning the knob is the trickiest part of the whole operation.
Seriously, I cannot contemplate the kind of mindset that makes this okay. Dirty dishes can be in the sink for maybe one day is my rule. ARGH. I hate living by myself, but I have yet to find a roommate that doesn’t leave dishes to start breeding disgusting things in the sink.
Many years ago as a bachelor, I intentionally cultivated the mindset that the purpose of dishes was to be washed. Getting to eat off of them between washings was a mere side benefit. This was the only way that I could be certain to have clean dishes at all.
One of my neighbors in the apartment complex, a fellow sailor and friend, asked to borrow two place settings, as he was having a girl over and cooking for her. He did not actually own any dishes of any sort. So I loaned him exactly 1/2 of all of my fine melamine dishes for his big night.
About two weeks later, I asked his roommate if I could get my dishes back. It took him about two beats to figure out what I was asking and then a light of comprehension and surprise sort of snuck up on his face. “Oh, dude! Were those your plates and stuff? I threw them out the other day because the stuff growing on them was stinking up the sink.”
In his defense, these apartments didn’t have a dishwasher, so where else would they go?