Take a washing machine away from a mother of 3 for a couple of weeks, and you’re playing with fire, my friend. We’re talking a whole new kinda crazy.
Yesterday did not turn out as I had expected. The washing machine repair men spent 2+ hours here working on my machine. They lounged around in my kitchen, leaning on the counter tops, talking to each other about their co-workers, their tools, their wives, their snakes. I sat patiently waiting for them to finish. I was starving, but unable to go into the kitchen for something to eat for fear that I would interrupt them or worse yet, slow them down.
Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived! They were finished! I was good to go! I had 3 full hampers waiting in the laundry room, plus more upstairs. I happily tossed in the first load, flipped on a little “Housewives of New York” and waited for the buzzer to buzz. The load went off without a hitch. No more weird noise, no more shaking the house like it’s about to come unattached from the wall. I went in to switch the load and (gasp!) there was water on the floor. It was leaking! My newly fixed baby was leaking. I took a minute to come to my senses. I threw the wet load in the dryer and instinctively reloaded the washer. Then I realized I couldn’t do a second load. So I started the dryer and got ready to call the repair company again. It would be OK. They’d come right back, I reasoned with myself.
As I walked out of the room I realized the dryer was making a peculiar sound. I checked the dryer, and lo and behold, they had unhooked the vent pipe and not re-hooked it. No biggie, I thought, they’ll be right back and they’ll fix that too.
I dialled the 1-800 number and attempted to navigate my way through the computer prompts by shouting “help!” Finally, a real person. With a foreign accent. I calmly told her what happened. She assured me that they would come right back. She’d even have them give me a quick call.
Phew. Back to “Real Housewives” it was. I waited, and waited. No call. No repair guys. I called again, shouted “help” again, and finally got another real person. With a foreign accent. This person did not promise they’d be right back, but he promised they’d call me right away.
Again, I waited. Nothing. I called a third time and got disconnected, twice. I was beginning to lose it. I was already walking a fine line having been without a washer for almost 3 weeks. This time, I requested a supervisor. Certainly that would help. The supervisor also had a foreign accent. I couldn’t quite nail it down, but I was certain I’d been calling a foreign country all afternoon. I demanded that he place me on hold and call my 2 repair guys on the other line. Not possible, he told me. He could only message them. He thought it would be best to schedule another appointment. Another appointment? Didn’t this guy have some kind of psychological training in how to deal with housewives about to lose it ? Apparently not. Because lose it I did.
“Are you even in America?“
Yup, I went there. I said it. Not my finest moment.
He very calmly replied, “Yes, ma’am, in Florida. How does tomorrow between 1 and 5 sound?”
“Oh, that would be fine. Thank you,” I meekly replied.
So here I am, waiting again. But I think that the turn of events yesterday call for the coining of a new phrase. I don’t usually lose control like that, lose my manners, lose my filter. Clearly, I was suffering from weeks without a washer. That’s a form of crazy all it’s own. From now on, when I, or someone else, loses it like that, I’m just going to refer to it as WWWS – Weeks Without a Washer Syndrome.
It can happen to anyone.
Today is Washer Wednesday. The best day ever. My washing machine has been broken for weeks. Initially deemed “unfixable,” it is getting a second chance at life thanks to an extended service contract. My days of sipping wine and reading People magazine at the Laundromat are over. I can finally stop saying “don’t get those pants dirty, you’re probably wearing them again tomorrow.” The idea of hand washing soccer and baseball uniforms once haunted me, and will now no longer be a concern.
Once these guys put that baby back together, I’ll be doing laundry in the privacy of my own home while watching dvr’d reality shows, in which no one ever does laundry.
When did my life get to this place? When a repaired washing machine could make me so happy? I guess when the kids came along and the laundry started reproducing like a bunch of little rabbits.
Sounds like they’re almost finished putting it back together. Time for me to get my laundry on.
If you’re looking for me today, you know where to find me…