Bits for Sunday, August 17, 2008

I know you’ve already seen bits and pieces of this story, but this is one that deserves to be told from the beginning, so I’m just going to start at the beginning and work my way forward.

My washer died. Yes, the infamous washer that ate my sheets about a year ago and at a later point in time ripped the ties off one of my long-standing dresses. That washer. I have no idea how old the washer was. It was quietly parked in its corner of the bathroom when I moved into this house eight years ago. It wasn’t anything fancy, and it had been known to cause the entire house to shudder during the spin cycle, but apart from the isolated incidents of clothing sabotage, it had been a good little washer.

The night it died, I planned to do three loads of laundry. Hot, warm, and cold. I put the first load in, went for my walk, came home, put that load in the dryer, put the second load in the washer…and suddenly I was very aware of wet socks. Never a good feeling. I looked down to see a stream of water rushing to the center of the room from underneath the washer. I hoisted myself over the top of the washer to look at the hoses (as though I would even know what I was looking for in this situation…but it seemed the thing to do) and found nothing that looked strange. Nothing spewed water anyway.

So I called Dad. It was that or 911. Dad (who is so good with appliance-challenged-daughter-emergencies) got in the car, toolbox in hand, and drove over to take a look at it. We formed an assembly line with plastic tumblers, emptying water out into the sink while beach towels (that otherwise get little use) mopped up the river that had slowed a bit from under the washer. By the time Dad left, having concluded that a plumber should be called, I was left with one half-soaked load of clothing staring at me from the laundry basket.

You know you have good friends when you can call them at 10:30 at night and ask to use their laundry room. I packed up the load (wet clothes are heavy!) and drove to the other side of town to use Marie’s washer, and then drove home and stayed up until 2 in the morning drying all these wet clothes.

The plumber came a few days later and pronounced the washer dead at an unknown age. Cause of death? Hole in the drum.

While the next step may seem simple, it was anything but. Obviously I needed a new washer…but did I also want to get a dryer? Or did I want a glaringly unmatched set residing in the path of everyday life? Did I want to pursue the idea of getting a space-saving stacked set? (That would require rerouting the plumbing, the dryer vent, and calling the siding boys back to the house for more work.) I spent hours online reading prices, sales, rebates, customer reviews, and appliance specs. I marched back and forth from the computer to the bathroom measuring and re-measuring.

As the dirty clothes piled up, I reminded myself that my mother could not do my laundry forever, so finally I jumped in the car and drove to the store to make “the decision.” I think choosing a husband must certainly be easier than the agony I went through of choosing a new washer (and dryer, since my OCD won out and I knew I could not function in a house of mismatched appliances). As it went, the salesman had an accent like the Geico gecko. He could have sold me every appliance in the store. I paced around in the washer aisle while he watched (with amusement, I might add) from behind the cash register. Finally I summoned him, pointed at the washer and dryer nearest me and turned away before I could change my mind.

He promised me next day delivery, until he discovered that my careful choice was on backorder for another two weeks. I told him I could just turn my underwear inside out for the next two weeks. I think he thought I was serious.

I came home, receipt in hand, much poorer, and spent the days following carefully choosing each day’s clothing, knowing I could ill-afford any spills or mishaps until the washer came.

This week I came home to find a message awaiting me from the automated delivery guy, announcing he had an important announcement for Frellanrebekah. After the second time through the message, I discovered that was their interpretation of my last and first names smashed into one and somewhat re-spelled. They left a toll free number for me to call and confirm, which I did, assuming it would be automated. Oh if only I had been so lucky. Frellanrebekah boy was nothing compared to the man I got live.

His accent sounded like Bella Karolyi's - and probably listening to him so much over the course of the Olympics was what gave me the one thing I did get out of the conversation. The end said “WewilluhcalluhyouondeuhFriday.”

When they “uh called me on de uh Friday” to confirm the two hour window for my Saturday delivery, the magic time fell between ten and twelve. I assumed that meant sleeping until eleven was out.

Or seven. Because that was when the delivery service first called to remind me they were coming. I don’t accept calls at 7 on a Saturday. Or 8. Or 9. Or 10. If you’re going to wake me up on a Saturday, somebody better be dead. I didn’t answer the seven a.m. wakeup call, but I did answer the one at 8. I answered it in my best “you just woke me up and someone better be dead” voice. It was the delivery service. Running an hour ahead of schedule. That okay?

What’s the point in a delivery window if you deliver outside the window? Fine. Whatever. I met them at the door with full bedhead, smeary mascara, and pajamas still on.

But for all my annoyance, I must say that it is nice to have a washer that doesn’t jar the house on spin…a dryer that buzzes to signal it has entered the anti-wrinkling stage…and a floor free of rivers.