The Washer
Psshhhssshhhhsssssssssssshhhhhhhhsssssssssshhhhhhhhhhssss—
Damn that’s a long
wash cycle. Ok, it’s three days later and it’s still washing the same load of
whites. I suppose my trusty avocado-green Maytag clothes washer is having
issues.
Bolting out of Fry’s Electronics one day, thoroughly
disgusted because I couldn’t find anything I wanted and decided to thumb the
place by not spending a dime (haha!), I paused at the appliance department out
of washer-price curiosity. There’s a special and huge display about Maytag
washers throughout the years. The two-story collage mural shows nostalgic
images of washers, suds, and the Maytag Repairman. Around the display are
actual models of Maytags throughout the years. I look down and there’s an almost
exact replica of my washer—avocado, single unassuming dial, simple, nostalgic…
and it’s right next to the mechanical wooden wash barrel model. Ok, so maybe it is time to get a new washer.
But first I have to see if I can fix the old one. My Bay Area Checkbook magazine recommends a
reputable appliance repair place. The technician, whom I trust, let’s call him
Maytag Repairman, determines my timer is sticking and the cost to replace it
would be about $200. I reluctantly decide to give her up and put the money
towards a new one (whereas I usually follow the credo “New isn’t necessarily
better”…).
Meantime, the laundry is getting intrusive. I leave some of
it in my camper because I’m running out of room in my laundry room and bedroom.
“Bob”
I get a recommendation for an appliance place and check it
out. Mega Appliance Store was so busy and large you have to sign a waiting list
to get a sales person, eventually. My guy, I’ll call him Bob, was big, greasy,
homely, and slightly smelly. He didn’t enjoy his job much, and I didn’t enjoy
having to watch him not enjoy his job much. I told him the Maytag Repairman
suggested I get a Whirlpool. Bob reluctantly showed me the Whirlpools… then
after a little prodding, he fairly readily admitted he doesn’t recommend them
because they don’t make any money on them.
Bob shows me some Swedish brand I’ve never heard of that is
several hundred dollars out of my stated price range, claiming they’re the best
thing since automatic washers and he owns a set. But then he calls the dryer
gimmicky because it’s top loader, even though I’m not shopping for a dryer.
Then for some reason Bob shows me a $400 Amana, which meets none of the
criteria I’m seeking. Sales is just not this guy’s calling. And I’m wondering why
he’s in his fifties and isn’t aware of this fact. Maybe he just got out of
prison or something. On the Swedish model, there’s a copy of the Consumer
Reports washer edition because the Swedish model came in third. Of course
I’m interested in seeing what came in first and second, one of which is the
Whirlpool Catalyst. Long after he’s lost interest in me, I thank Bob and
quickly vacate the premises.
Costco.com
Costco.com? Sure, why not. They always seem to have the best
prices, and their store return cooperation level is excellent. The Catalyst is
there with a nice price tag, and it includes delivery and haul-away of the old
one—Maytag Repairman told me Avocado was heavy and he wouldn’t want to
move it. I plop $682 on my Visa and take a deep breath. …But I can’t hold it because
the delivery is going to take two weeks. Jeez, ok. I buy and assemble another
laundry cart, which only fits out on the patio, to accommodate the encroaching cotton and polyester masses.
A week and a half later I'm still waiting, so I check my lesser-used email
account. The first Costco message says there was a problem with my costco.com
transaction and to check with my bank. Scrolling down presents a
second message that says my transaction has been cancelled! A phone call
woulda been nice, m’kay?! Do they not want my money? I start from scratch and
reorder because it was probably just a typo on my credit card entry (sigh), and I mark
the calendar for another two-week wait. (Is this a sign of trouble to come, Washer Girl wonders?)
“HellothisisTinacallingfromQualityExpressregardingdelieryofyourwasher.”
Her low, attitude-laden, absolutely monotone voice is unnerving at best. But
hey, she’s just the messenger. I’ll work from home next Friday so I can be
there during the four-hour window of delivery of my new washer. Yay.
My laundry room
That Friday morning I drag everything out of my tiny laundry
room—18 coats, a laundry basket, a couple pairs of crutches,
college-student-type cinder-block shelving for my laundry soap, other crap that
doesn’t fit in any of the miniscule 1950s closets. Both of my laundry
sorting-bin/rack things are already outside because I’m expecting a new washer
any day now, and why would I want to drag them in and out of the laundry room until
my new machine is in place, right?
My laundry room. Since my garage and parking areas are in
the back yard, I use the back door, which goes through my laundry room. My
laundry room has two visible ankle-level holes in the walls. I'd recently discovered that rats have been
using use these holes to travel from their crib in the attic into the house to throw down on some late-night snacks.
Let’s go back a bit. After a four-month absence last winter,
I returned home and much to my chagrin discovered dozens of candy wrappers
under all the living room furniture. It appeared that at least one rat was
partying every night on a bowl of Halloween candy that Gary (my housemate) kept
filling but didn’t realize was sharing. At night, I could hear the distinctly
unnerving sounds of “scratcha scratcha” in my attic, like they were grating
directly on my brain.
It was time to call a professional. Exterminator Troy soon
succeeded in trapping “two big rats who looked like they were addicted to
chocolate.” Finally, rodents-be-gone! Don’t fear, I only digress slightly. The
rodent legacy in the laundry room remained…
I have a special relationship with
my landlord. He doesn’t do any work on the property, and neither do I. I only
call him when I need to. (More on that soon.)
Well since the rodents had quite a groove going in the house, they in
time generated some offspring. One of these critters fell to one of my attempts
(I like to hope) at making them DIE!DIE!DIE! Actually I like rodents, I really
do, just not in my FUCKING KITCHEN AND GARDEN!! I WANT THEM ALL TO DIE AFTER
EATING MY BEAUTIFUL TOMATOES THE PRECISE MOMENT THEY RIPEN!!!… Ahem, excuse me.
So Junior exacted revenge on me by
dying someplace invisible but acutely pungent. Month after month, the smell of
decaying rodent permeates. Oh boy, the silver lining: I could finally scrape decayed rat remains
from some crevice in my laundry room as soon as the old washer got extricated!
Imagine my anticipation!
Friday
Yes, it’s still Friday, and the
big truck is here at last! We begin the preparations--but delivery dude says
don’t bother: the washer has a big ole dent in the side of it and it’s going
back. The front had a big scratch down the front of it, and when he opened up
the carton and saw the side dent, I didn’t have to toil over deciding whether I
was going to complain about my $682 washer having a big scratch on the front.
Another week, he said, for a new one. Arrrgggh. Well, here was my chance to
really get in there and clean out the dead rodentia, so I get him to take away
the old washer in the meantime.
Man, that was dumb. Knowing it was
going to be another eternity before I was going to be able to do laundry in my
laundry room, I should have kept it. At least I could stand there and crank the
dial around manually if I needed to do laundry, which I clearly did at
this point. (Laundromat? Ew.)
So there went Avocado. Sort of
sad, even though it had been a gift from my friend Darrell and it didn’t work
very well. I don’t like to generate trash, but I’d already made the Commitment
to the Catalyst. (Actually unbeknownst to me, even at this point, it was going
to be more like Committed.)
The empty laundry room waited… and
taunted me. I walked through it several times a day, trying to ignore it. But
the stench wouldn’t let me. I was procrastinating until the deadline loomed…
which somehow never came. The week’s wait for the substitute washer turned into
two. (Quel surprise!)
Finally, Tina’s triumphant voice
appeared on the other end of the line:
“HellothisisTinacallingfromQualityExpressregardingdelieryofyourwasherMondaybetweenthehoursoftwleveandfour.”
“Perfect.”
“Notaproblemandhaveaniceday.”
Monday
Then came Monday, two weeks later.
Monday, Monday, Monday. I worked from home again to be there for the delivery.
Since the potential delivery period began at 12:00 (the aforementioned
deadline), I naturally started cleaning out the laundry room at 11:00.
Despite my relative anxiousness to find the rodent remains, I was relieved to
not actually find them (…sort of).
At any rate, Exterminator Troy
suggested putting wire mesh into the holes and filling them up with canned,
expanding, spray-foam insulation to block them off, which is what he did
outside, poorly. After involuntarily sniffing around whilst cleaning, I finally
decided The Decrepit One was somewhere beyond the large hole where the washer
drain went into the wall. I dashed to Orchard Supply to buy the insulating foam to try
to do this before the delivery came.
At home, I found some wire mesh in
my shed, and since I was in a hurry, I grabbed the only thing I thought would
cut the mesh—my tree pruners. Four tries and some very dull pruners later, I
had a few awkward pieces cut and began (painfully) trying to fit them in the
oddly shaped holes around the two drain pipes. The sharp, cut edges of the hard
mesh dug into my hands. Great—close enough. I tossed the remnants behind me on
the floor.
I started spraying the
triple-expanding foam into the hole, really happy I was finally going to
get rid of that…
FAH-WHOOSH!!!
The foam burst into flames! Then
three things happened simultaneously:
- I thought I had discovered a gas leak behind the wall
(the gas water heater is right next to the washer hookup) and the house
was going to explode. I have a heightened fear ofgas appliances because in high school,
our sweet friend Jeri Lyn and her mother were killed when the gas furnace
in their basement blew up and leveled their house.
- I screamed.
- I lurched backwards, the stool on which I was sitting
bent and collapsed under me, and I fell onto the sharp edges of the
various mesh screens on the floor.
I scrambled out of the room and
out the back door and ran around to the side of the house to turn off the gas.
Proud that I had taken my old boyfriend Paul’s advice and already put a pipe
wrench on the valve, I cranked on it--but it wouldn’t budge. My roommate had
come home for lunch meantime and was in his room, so I yelled to him but he
didn’t hear me. (Wouldn’t he regret coming home for lunch that day?!)
Several seconds had passed and the
imminent explosion was nigh. I ran back into the house, passing the burning
foam in the laundry room, to find the fire extinguisher in the kitchen, which
Paul had also given me (14 years ago). I ran straight past it, skidded back
into the kitchen, grabbed it and tried to figure out how to work it while
running back to the laundry room. I ripped off the ring, snapped off the black
plastic trigger, realized I had broken the trigger, but then figured out where
the button was, and fired, squinting and ducking. To my great relief it worked,
extinguishing the still-burning fire. The room filled with (even more) toxic
gases.
Voice-a-quivering, I finally had
the opportunity to get the attention of my roommate Gary. He came out and
surveyed the wall to see if it was still burning, and we tentatively agreed it
wasn’t. Right then of course the installers arrived.I had to tell them about the fire in case the
room exploded while they were installing the washer. One looked at me and just
said, “Fire?” after which they simply proceeded with their job.
I inspected my new washer to see
it was scratch free and left the guys alone to try to get some work done of my
own. That effort, too, was one disaster after another. I remember for example
my mouse wouldn’t work, and there was a host of other stoppers, but the day was
rife with them and this story is about the laundry room. After about an hour or
two, I stopped trembling from the adrenaline of potentially blowing up the house
with a can of spray foam.
The installers called me in to say
the washer wouldn’t drain and that it must be blocked. That wasn’t their
problem—try some Liquid Plumber--so they had me sign the no-damage
agreementand prepared to leave. I
looked at the hookup and saw a drip of water: the cold water valve at the wall
was leaking. When I asked the installer why, he launched a long explanation ofhow the valve was rusty when they put the
hose on and it wasn’t their problem. I knew Ed my landlord would blame it on me
(which he often later takes out on me financially), and of course the
installers blamed the house. Later I realized he had no intention of telling me
and the leak would have nicely soaked the already skanky-smelling room.
Mushrooms and oh-so-tender rodent—probably a delicacy in some part of the
world. Just fire-roast and you’ve got a real treat.
I dumped a half bottle of Liquid
Plumber down the drain pipe, waited the requisite time, then ran some water
down there. It made a promising gurgling sound like new drainage had been
achieved.
Naturally, I was anxious to begin
chipping away on the mammoth infestation of dirty clothes. Hadn’t I already
bought new packages of underwear twice already? (Never mind the side fact that
I still have a closet full of clothes. Either they didn’t fit right, or I wasn’t
interested in wearing them anymore. Did I take advantage of the situation to
get rid of these unwanted clothes? Of course not. Besides, I needed something
to wear.)
I started a load of underwear and tried to go back
to work. Naturally, I forgot to monitor the drain cycle and returned to a nice
big flood in the laundry room. I dumped the other half of the bottle in the
drain. This time I stayed--to watch the geyser as it shot up out of the
overfilling drain tube. I mopped out the room again. Well I couldn’t let my
underwear just sit in the washer until this mess got fixed, so flooding the
laundry room became a normal part of the day. So far this day I’d spent about 4
hours in the laundry room. Keep in mind I’m still working on the very first
load of wash—the critical underwear element—and since I’m leaving town for a
couple weeks to be with my mom after surgery, I needed to at least get that
done.
Ed, with a side of Paul
It was time to call Ed, my
landlord. Upon any request for help, he would often come over, without the legally required 24-hour notice,
and cheaply hack the job himself. Or
because he lives in Grass Valley, which is a 4-hour drive, he’d usually send over
my next door neighbor Paul (not the ex-boyfriend) because Ed also owns that
property and Paul is a handy sort. However Paul is also a fucked-up sort. Let’s
call him Raging Alcoholic Paul. My former roommate John
used to joke that Paul would get up at 6:00 am and start drinking (just by
hearing him over the fence),but he
wasn’t exaggerating.
For example, Raging Alcoholic Paul
came over once to fix my toilet. Sitting on the floor in front of my (only)
toilet, his face was beaten and bruised, he was drunk (it was 10 am on a
Tuesday), and he was stammering excuses about his apparent entanglement with
The Law. He looked more like he should be praying to the porcelain god, not
“fixing” it. Part of his stammering involved asking me to not tell Ed our landlord
about his latest incident. His history in these sorts of affairs is fairly evident. For example,
I’ve never seen him drive a car in the 12 years I’ve lived here, so apparently he lost his driver’s license a loooong time ago for a loooong time.
So like the love/hate dynamic I
have with Ed, I also have it with Raging Alcoholic Paul because we have a
common enemy in Ed—the guy who sort of controls our lives (a simple way of
saying that if the house you live in costs Ed money, you will end up paying for
it somehow). Nor did I want Ed and the real tenant next door Lori (Paul’s
girlfriend) “snitching” on me for whatever. We would stick together… when
convenient. I agreed to be quiet. But then he said, “I gotta go lay down.” I gratefully pushed him toward the door, he tried to hug me, but I continued to push
him out, nicely encouraging him to get some rest. That’s not the end of the
(looong) toilet story, but let’s leave it that Paul never did anything
threatening to me. However, I sure as hell didn’t want him in my house anymore.
I left a message at Ed’s home, and
to my surprise he called me back in an hour. To my relief, he said he had a new
plumber guy “…not Paul…. Have you seen Paul?” In keeping with my pseudo
agreement with Paul, who I had not seen, I just pleaded the fifth. Of course
part of me wanted to know what Ed knew if anything, but I had more important
matters at hand. He would get back to me about the laundry room.
Later that Monday (yes, it’s still
that Monday) as I mopped out the latest flood in the laundry room, a
truck pulled into the driveway. Surprise! It’s Ed, again skipping the required
24-hour advance notice of showing up a tenant’s residence. My mind quickly
inventories the place and I decide I’ve got nothing obvious to hide (the toxic
burning smell in the laundry room has mostly dissipated). Yes, even though it
might be prudent to notify the landlord of a potential gas leak, I didn’t think
that was the case anymore, and he would surely use any burning foam damage
against me now and/or in the future.
The only thing now is that
technically I’m not supposed to have a roommate. Ed sent me a new lease upon
the departure of my last roommate, and I didn’t agree with the casual omission
of my $800 security deposit. I didn’t sign it, but the implied agreement was
that new tenants would go on the lease. Gary was only going to stay temporarily,
but it worked out for the longer term. It was a quandary I just wanted to
avoid. I hoped he would stay in his room so I didn’t have to explain who this
guy was.
“What’s going on at the school?”
referring the middle school at the end of my street.
“I dunno,” I mumbled, hoping he
wasn’t referring to the two extra cars in front of the house, wondering why I
have five cars.
“I mean is it still a school?”
Happy to change the subject, “Oh,
yeah…”
My conversations with Ed almost
always involve the same topics:
- My father, whom he’s never met
but is the same age. When he found out my age, he said, “Well, I guess I’m sort
of a father figure to ya then…” Um, whatever. He asked, “How’s your father?”
This time I had a different answer: “Well he died in February.” “Oh… how old
was he?” “75.” “Same as me…(some weak joke about being next).” Whatever.
- Dogs. My buddy was Rhia and his
was Snapper. Rhia died in 1996 and Ed was very sympathetic about it. Today I
asked, “How’s Snapper?” “Oh he died a few years ago…” “Oh, I’m sorry.” “Now I
know how you felt when Rhia died…” he said. Back at me.
- The aforementioned Paul. He
looked over the fence at their back yard, and I scolded him for spying. He
threatened me back with something about making my life difficult or expensive
or something. We both smirked at each other.
“Oh you’re cooking.” I’m starved
and I’m not interrupting my pleasant day to accommodate his unannounced visit. He sees the
leaking cold tap and seems to accept it rather readily. He starts to check the
drain and I sit down to eat… I’m trying to ignore him and enjoy my dinner when
something occurs to me: The fire happened before the drain stopped working…
what if I burned or melted something, which is now blocking the drain? It will
still end up being my fault. This day isn’t improving at all.
I go back in and he’s still trying
to unblock the drain. I had recently tossed a broken hose that sprays all over
creation, and I see that he's dragged it from the trash to use it to check the drain. He declares it’s not
blocked and of course blames the lack of drainage on the new, powerful washer.
I get in there, and with the tight clearance, the only way to see into the
drain is to bend in half and shine a flashlight in there. Leaning against the
back of the washer, I felt a shock, or hit my funny bone, which made me jump.
Ed denies I got shocked, so of course it didn’t happen and I’m forced to forget
about it.
Funny… that looks like a garden
hose—in the drain—both a frayed end and a threaded end. What the? We
finally find the right tools, take turns trying to dig it out, and since I’m
the only one who can actually bend down far enough to reach it, I finally pull
out a 3-inch piece of garden hose that was bent in half and well wedged in the
plastic drain pipe. Surprised and patting ourselves on the back for solving the
(bizarre) problem, we boldly fire up the hose to check the drainage—to see
another pretty geyser.
At that point, Ed finally decides
to throw in the towel, thankfully. I re-coil the leaking hose to throw it away,
again, and Ed says, “I left you something in there, for your patience.” I
glance into the laundry room and there’s a bill on top of the dryer. Wow. My
first thought was it’s probably a five—no, maybe a twenty. He leaves. I go
in and pick up the bill and it’s… a $100 bill. I consider stopping him to thank
him but instead decide to eavesdrop on his conversation with the new neighbors
on the other side of me, where I hear him say something like “…well, they’ll
probably just tear all these houses down and put in condos anyway…” Great.
This day has been way too fucking
long. At some point, the underwear made it into the dryer, so there was a minor
victory, this time…
The house didn’t explode. But I’m
basically back to square one.
Kevin
A day or two later, Kevin the
plumber, hired by Ed, cheerfully calls and I dash home to meet him at the
house. Several geysers later, he gives up on the drain but successfully
replaces the cold water valve. He vows to come back tomorrow for more fun and
adventure.
Next day Kevin cheerfully calls me
at work with good news and bad news. The good news is he reversed a previous
guess that he thought I didn’t need a trap (before actually removing it—good
boy), and the drain is finally apparently clear after using—get this—a snake!
In the drain! Dem snakes, juss amazin! The bad news is that several
times when leaning up against the washer, he got a shock from the back panel.
Damn, I knew it… Awwww, goddamnit! The plumbing is finally fixed and I still can’t use the damn washer!
Well there’s no freakin way I’m
keeping a $682 washer that shocks you and potentially leaves large puddles on
the floor that you stand in, not to mention the power is dirty because the light
bulb in the laundry room just blew (as do many of my light bulbs, often) while
potentially flammable material smolders in the wall next to a gas water heater.
At the least, I’m getting that damn washer replaced with a new one! Again.
Costco.com, revisited
There’s no question that Costco is
going to replace this washer. But damn if there is a phone number ANYWHERE on
Costco’s goforsakenmuthafuckin web site or anywhere on their invoice. I’m
forced to send a form email, which requests: “Please submit your name, order
number, date of purchase, product, and reason for return.” I enthusiastically
add demands for replacement and a requirement that they call me and not
respond via email (time is now also of the essence because I’m about to leave
town for 2 weeks).
Soon I receive a (fucking) email from Pat at
costco.com: “Thank you for contacting Costco. “Please reply with your name,
order number, date of purchase, product, and reason for return.” Did I not just: 1. Friggin do that and 2.
Insist they call me and not send email? Ok, so it was an automated response,
but come on. But I do it, seeing no other options. Realize this is happening
over several days because that’s the nature of email.
I get another (fucking) email from
Pat asking, “What exactly is the problem? Have you contacted Whirlpool?” Of
course to which I responded, “Even though I’ve already stated this twice, I’ll
tell you a third time (insert shock details). Why would I contact Whirlpool??
And what’s your number??” Another (fucking) email from Pat offered the reason:
“The warranty belongs to Whirlpool. Here’s their phone number. Replacement
through Costco will take at least 6 weeks.” Whaa? My blood is boiling over this
incredibly shitty service. Ironic they should give someone ELSE’s phone number,
but I’m happy to have any recourse. I schedule a technician to come the next Thursday
and ask Gary to deal with it while I’m in Pennsylvania.
Meantime, I start thinking about
Costco fucking me over. And then I says to myself, No! They are responsible,
and thus far with me they’ve had a very good record of receiving returns. I’m
incensed at their lack of responsiveness, irresponsibility, and other concepts
involving response. I decide to insist Pat replace the washer and cancel the
technician’s appointment because I figure as soon as a technician comes, I will own the
thing and it’s mine, no matter how much it sucks. This debacle started with the
decision not to fix my old, fixable washer, and now that it was gone, there was
no way I was going to compromise on a new unit, even if it did mean it was
going to be three months, if I’m lucky, before I could wash clothes.
Well it’s August 19, and I
originally ordered the washer on June 15. The laundry room still smells like
dead rodent, my laundry is still strewn about the house, backyard, and in
vehicles, and I have no idea when I’ll receive the new washer. We can use the
current one, but at the risk of flooding, electrocution, and death, which I
believe is in the Costco.com contract. I finally get Pat to order a new washer
and he’ll try to shorten the 6-week wait. Sure.
“Hello. This is Margie calling from
Quality Express.”
It’s not Tina. Could it mean a
change is in the air? After all, there’s no other change possible than
“better.”
“I’m calling for delivery of your
washer on a day when you won’t be home, next Monday.”
Gaaa. So I delay it another two weeks
until I return from my trip.
Could it be?
September 12, three full months
after first ordering this washer, It arrives. Third time is the charm. I
carefully screen the installation and make the guy level the washer. I examine
every connection before nervously signing the installation waiver. Could it
really be over? I bravely touch the back panel and don’t get shocked. I run
several loads—massive, huge loads—and not one mishap.
The real glory came a week later
when I could put back the laundry bins, coats, and soap. Oh joy! Here’s what
that looked like.
As I snuggled into bed that night,
I felt happy and content that clean clothes would soon abound in my closet.
But as I drifted off to sleep, I
was jolted awake by the distinctly unnervingsounds of “scratcha scratcha”—
Summer, 2005