You know how kids have that one story that they never, ever tire of, no matter if it’s the 5th or 500th time they’ve heard it? When my little sister was much littler, her favorite book was Green Wilma. Wilma was this girl who woke up one morning as a frog, and ran around eating bugs and croaking and such, but then at the end we learn that Wilma was really a frog all along, and her life as a human girl had just been a dream.

It’s very Inception-esque.

Anyway…I read the ballad of Green Wilma to Hannah so very many times that I ended up memorizing it, and could recite it extemporaneously should the situation require, such as during long car rides or the dreaded Hair Washing. Instant cure for the crankies: “One morning Wilma woke up green and much to her surprise, she sat up on the bed and croaked, and started eating flies…”

Now when I was a wee nibblet, one of my very favorite stories was The Little Red Hen. It’s an old folk tale of Russian origin, but all I knew was that the eponymous Little Red Hen was independent and self-assured, and I loved her. Much like Green Wilma’s place in my brain, I’m pretty sure that Dad must have memorized the story for all the times he told it to me over and over again.

And every time the Little Red Hen would have her requests for help rebuffed by the various farm animals, I would proudly (and loudly) recite her response: “Then I’ll do it  ALLLLL  BYYYYY  MYYYYY-SELF!

“And she did.”

Now I’m not gonna lie: I don’t always like doing stuff on my own. I’m not a huge risk taker, and I’m not above asking for help from the more experienced. But sometimes a girl has to look at a situation and say, “I can do this”…and then do it.

Case in point: until two weeks ago, I had no idea how to run a dishwasher.

Now this may not seem like a big deal to, I don’t know, most of America. But for all my familiarity with this particular piece of machinery, running a dishwasher was akin to operating the Mars Rover. Only somehow even more intimidating.

This may stem from the fact that we did own a dishwasher when I was much younger and one night, while my parents were out, the babysitter tried to run a load using regular dish soap instead of dish washing detergent and our kitchen was summarily overrun with a layer of soapy foam a foot deep. At the time I thought it was pretty awesome, like something from a movie, and all we needed was a snappy pop tune to play in the background as we laughed riotously and flung flecks of foam at each others’ faces. But I think it left a far deeper imprint on my psyche: dishwashers are intimidating pieces of technology that you will never, ever be able to use.

We got rid of our dishwasher not long after that, so I never had the opportunity to disprove the theory. We wash all of our dishes by hand here at the homestead, and I’ve even gained an appreciation for the zen-like atmosphere that comes from popping in my earbuds and taking the time to wash a sinkful of dishes.

We don’t have a microwave, either. We’re pretty much Amish.

Last October when I stayed with my friend Kayla and her husband in Austin, I made a point to wash all of my dishes by hand, rather than risk possibly destroying their house and half the city due to my ineptitude with their dishwasher.

I’m only partially exaggerating.

But then I found myself housesitting, not only in a house with a dishwasher, but in a house that didn’t appear to own a sponge. Or a dish strainer. Or any other means by which I could wash all of my dishes by hand. And, much like Kevin in Home Alone confronting the monstrous furnace, that was when I looked at the dishwasher and thought…

And so I operated a dishwasher, for the very first time in my life. It did not explode, and their kitchen floor did not get flooded with soap. Amazingly enough, I didn’t even have to Google the directions. It was nowhere near as complicated as I had expected. The dishes got cleaned and I…I was Mistress of the House.

Boo. Yeah.

And if that was the only thing I accomplished that week, I would have been quite proud of myself. But having risen to one such challenge already, it was hard to decline when another presented itself. Especially one that I would have been more than forgiven for not even attempting…because of my lady parts.

I was having my oil changed (a perfect example of an area where I’m content to let the more experienced take charge), and while I was waiting in the auto bay one of the engine service technicians pointed out that my air filter was getting – to use the technical term – “pretty grody”. A dirty air filter can affect gas mileage, and I am nothing if not frugal.

He told me that they didn’t carry the part, but if I went down to auto parts store and got one there, I could come back and they’d install it for me. This is not the first time they’ve fixed up my car pro bono, and while I’m hesitant to assign intent to their actions, I’m pretty sure that they would not have volunteered to install windshield wipers for my brother, or offered to replace the air filter on his car.

The thing is, having just watched the technician pop the air filter in and out of my engine, it was clear that the job was not particularly complicated. So I smiled, and thanked him graciously, but all the while I was thinking: if I can master a dishwasher, I can sure as heck open a box and pop a clean air filter into it.

And I did.