Listen to me. And listen well. I. AM. NOT. EDWIN.
I keep telling them I’m not Edwin. But they keep calling. And calling. And calling. They call about the Acura. They call about an extended warranty. They call about Edwin’s inquiry into an online college. And they don’t believe me that I. AM. NOT. EDWIN.
The first few calls were simple inconveniences. “I’m sorry, you have the wrong number,” I would say with Sunday school politeness.
Then it progressed to outright annoyance. “Seriously, this is not his number. Take it off your list.”
While the tendency to lash out grew, I tried to show restraint. The main reason is that I worked as a telemarketer for a brief time in college, and I assure you that the best way NOT to get off a telemarketer’s list is to curse, threaten, etc. Granted, this was before the Do Not Call List, so there was really nothing anyone could do. Dirty little secret: At the place I worked, the numbers of the nastiest callers were kept on a special list that was given to someone to call on his first day. It was an initiation of sorts. Not proud of it, folks. Just telling it like it is.
So I decided I would at least start having some fun with the calls. For example, I took one in the middle of the newsroom:
“Listen, I am not Edwin. I do not know Edwin. I do not have an Acura. I am not sure I have ever even BEEN in an Acura. I will be more than happy to put this call on speakerphone here in this newsroom and you can go around and ask every newspaper reporter sitting here if I am Edwin.” I took the “click” as a decline to be interviewed.
From this point forward, I am going to continue with the fun approach to the calls. I read a funny piece online (at woot.com) that suggested a way to deal with repeated errant calls is to suggest you meet up and show some picture IDs — driver’s license, concealed weapon permit, etc. However, that sounds a little more threatening in the real world, so maybe I could use one of the routes below:
CALLER: Is Edwin there?
ME: Yes, sort of. Listen, bro, I need your help. Do you know the best way to hide a body?
or
CALLER: Hello, Edwin?
ME: Will you marry me?
CALLER: Pardon?
ME: I, Edwin, am lonely. Be my wife. Even if you are a man. Doctors can change that. Let’s wed. Now.
or
CALLER: May I speak with Edwin?
ME: Is this some kind of joke?
CALLER: No, it’s not.
ME: YOU KNOW HE LOST HIS TONGUE IN THE MARGARITA BLENDER INCIDENT!!! EVERYONE KNOWS! IT WAS IN THE NEWS OF THE WEIRD!!!
or
CALLER: I’m calling for Edwin.
ME: No, I called you for Edwin.
or
CALLER: Edwin, please.
ME: In a minute. First, let’s figure out the difference between an emu and an ostrich. I have some guesses, but I want to hear your thoughts, particularly in terms of appropriate saddle size.
or
CALLER: Is Edwin there?
ME: Hard Target. Sudden Death. Bloodsport. Timecop — bear with me, I have a condition in which I have to name all Jean-Claude Van Damme vehicles before I can take any calls — Street Fighter. That “Friends” season finale...
or
CALLER: This call is for Edwin.
ME: Yeah, this is Edwin. I’ll take the extended warranty and, as for the Acura, I don’t think I plan on paying any more on it. You can try and come and take it. I dare ya’! Bring it on, sucker!
Hopefully, it won’t resort to this. Hopefully, the calls for Edwin will simply dry up as I slowly make my way off the various phone lists I have been glued to.
I have been fairly nice so far, so there is no reason to think vengeful telemarketers are out to get me. Perhaps there is a hint of honor among the horde. If not, at least I’ll have a nice emu-ostrich discussion.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Check yourself
As he strode up the driveway, I could tell that he was mad. My neighbor’s jaws were clenched tight. He had that slight twitch of a man who was clearly fighting to overcome the primal urge to bite someone. He pointed at me, shaking his finger and his head simultaneously. “You know what you need to write a column about?” he said through his gritting teeth.
I’ve heard that before. Oftentimes, the column topic is not exactly the type of thing I can write about (“Hey, guess who has a rare disease AND a mistress!!!”). But in this instance, he had a very good angle: “Shouldn’t you have to have a certain level IQ to use the self-checkout line at the grocery store?”
BRILLIANT!
I could not agree more. I love the self-checkout line. I am fairly certain that if we were to have an amateur grocery clerk competition, I would easily be a finalist. I am a flash at taking care of my grocery business. I have even — I kid you not — had the clerk standing watch remark at my amazing ability to get in and get out of the checkout line. (I think his exact line was “Wow, you must have somewhere to be, dude.” But I will chalk that up as admiration.)
So I clearly have proven my ability to make it through the checkout line. Whether that’s tied to IQ or some odd, fairly useless talent I have is for another discussion. But he had experienced the painful and frustrating delay of someone who clearly had not earned the right to check themselves out. There are several categories of these people:
1. People who don’t understand basic quantities. See, if it says you can only bring 15 items to the self-checkout line, and you have three carts loaded to capacity, you are not allowed there. Yes, even if you break them up into 600 piles of 15 items. You are not clever and beating the system. You are defeating the entire purpose, and all it takes is one teensy crack in the dike of civilization to send a flood of inefficiency down on humanity.
2. People who fight with the swipe machine. I will admit that on occasion I have swiped my card, only to realize I had it upside down, backward, was using my library card, etc. Things happen. But if you even consider uttering the phrase “stupid machine” or pause to consider punching the keypad, clearly you should go to a line less designed for speed and efficiency. (On a related note, you may not be aware, but new federal laws require you to be done at a drive-up ATM in less time than it takes to bake an apple pie. Failure to comply will result in your tax rebate being sent to Britney Spears. Also, conducting three separate transactions at one visit to the ATM will get you sent to Guantanamo. I wouldn’t joke about federal laws, so be careful out there.)
3. The produce-challenged. When you go through the checkout line, you have to enter the four-digit code that identifies your fruits or veggies. If there isn’t a sticker on it, you have to look it up on the guide above the scanner. If the preceding sentence was news to you, you probably shouldn’t be going through the self-checkout line. And you probably shouldn’t keep shouting “ASPARAGUS!!!” at the screen, as if it will recognize what you are talking about.
Look, I am not suggesting that folks shouldn’t be at the grocery store. I just think that the self-checkout line needs to be reserved for (a) the fleet (b) the agile and (c) the really-in-a-hurry, which in comparison to everyone will always be me.
While we are talking grocery stores, I need to address one issue that I have addressed in previous columns, columns which I am shocked to see have not been adopted as a guidebook for life by everyone in the community. Folks, those big lines out in the parking lot? You know what goes there? Cars go there. You know what doesn’t go there? Shopping carts.
A while back, I said that there is no justifiable reason to leave your shopping cart abandoned in a parking lot. I would like to alter that slightly. There is only one justifiable reason to leave your shopping cart abandoned in a parking lot, and that is a swift and immediate alien abduction (it must be alien; even a mildly conscientious kidnapper would allow you to put the cart up).
So the next time there is a cart loose in a parking lot, I can only assume that one of our fellow grocers has been whisked away to a spacecraft and will one day be returned to the planet with new and exciting knowledge to share. Such as how to ring up asparagus.
I’ve heard that before. Oftentimes, the column topic is not exactly the type of thing I can write about (“Hey, guess who has a rare disease AND a mistress!!!”). But in this instance, he had a very good angle: “Shouldn’t you have to have a certain level IQ to use the self-checkout line at the grocery store?”
BRILLIANT!
I could not agree more. I love the self-checkout line. I am fairly certain that if we were to have an amateur grocery clerk competition, I would easily be a finalist. I am a flash at taking care of my grocery business. I have even — I kid you not — had the clerk standing watch remark at my amazing ability to get in and get out of the checkout line. (I think his exact line was “Wow, you must have somewhere to be, dude.” But I will chalk that up as admiration.)
So I clearly have proven my ability to make it through the checkout line. Whether that’s tied to IQ or some odd, fairly useless talent I have is for another discussion. But he had experienced the painful and frustrating delay of someone who clearly had not earned the right to check themselves out. There are several categories of these people:
1. People who don’t understand basic quantities. See, if it says you can only bring 15 items to the self-checkout line, and you have three carts loaded to capacity, you are not allowed there. Yes, even if you break them up into 600 piles of 15 items. You are not clever and beating the system. You are defeating the entire purpose, and all it takes is one teensy crack in the dike of civilization to send a flood of inefficiency down on humanity.
2. People who fight with the swipe machine. I will admit that on occasion I have swiped my card, only to realize I had it upside down, backward, was using my library card, etc. Things happen. But if you even consider uttering the phrase “stupid machine” or pause to consider punching the keypad, clearly you should go to a line less designed for speed and efficiency. (On a related note, you may not be aware, but new federal laws require you to be done at a drive-up ATM in less time than it takes to bake an apple pie. Failure to comply will result in your tax rebate being sent to Britney Spears. Also, conducting three separate transactions at one visit to the ATM will get you sent to Guantanamo. I wouldn’t joke about federal laws, so be careful out there.)
3. The produce-challenged. When you go through the checkout line, you have to enter the four-digit code that identifies your fruits or veggies. If there isn’t a sticker on it, you have to look it up on the guide above the scanner. If the preceding sentence was news to you, you probably shouldn’t be going through the self-checkout line. And you probably shouldn’t keep shouting “ASPARAGUS!!!” at the screen, as if it will recognize what you are talking about.
Look, I am not suggesting that folks shouldn’t be at the grocery store. I just think that the self-checkout line needs to be reserved for (a) the fleet (b) the agile and (c) the really-in-a-hurry, which in comparison to everyone will always be me.
While we are talking grocery stores, I need to address one issue that I have addressed in previous columns, columns which I am shocked to see have not been adopted as a guidebook for life by everyone in the community. Folks, those big lines out in the parking lot? You know what goes there? Cars go there. You know what doesn’t go there? Shopping carts.
A while back, I said that there is no justifiable reason to leave your shopping cart abandoned in a parking lot. I would like to alter that slightly. There is only one justifiable reason to leave your shopping cart abandoned in a parking lot, and that is a swift and immediate alien abduction (it must be alien; even a mildly conscientious kidnapper would allow you to put the cart up).
So the next time there is a cart loose in a parking lot, I can only assume that one of our fellow grocers has been whisked away to a spacecraft and will one day be returned to the planet with new and exciting knowledge to share. Such as how to ring up asparagus.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Kidding me
I’m wearing a Dora the Explorer Band-Aid. And I feel no need to explain it to anyone. Should anyone actually say anything about it, I would probably respond with, “Yeah, I cut my finger. Needed a Band-Aid.”
I do not need to justify why it is decorated with Dora. If Dora were not there, Diego would be, or perhaps Spider-Man or Barbie. I’ve been a parent for too long to care about getting my own kind of Band-Aids.
It’s just one of the many things that happens with parents over time. I am fairly certain that when I was in college, I would have been rather self-conscious about a Dora Band-Aid. In fact, I would have probably been self-conscious about a Band-Aid at all; as any early 20-something man-child will tell you, properly cared for wounds are for the weak/intelligent.
There are plenty of other events of parenting that prove you have moved into that phase of parental acceptance. If you are a parent, you can probably relate. If you are considering becoming a parent, I caution you not even to think, “My children will NEVER ...” And goodness knows, don’t utter it out loud, lest there be a tsunami created by the immediate wind surge created by every seasoned parent within a 5-mile radius guffawing at your proclamation that you will NEVER use spit as a facial cleanser.
Among the moments:
1. My response was simply, “Fine, whatever” when Parker asked if he could take his Cheetos to the bath with him. Hey, it had been a long weekend, and let’s be honest — a hot bath and some Cheetos might be relaxing.
2. We let Allie pick out her own clothes every morning. This began when she complained about my choice of outfits for her one morning. I told her there was a simple solution to this. Of course, it is a sad statement when a 7-year-old matches things WAY better than I do.
3. You cannot be too tired to play Monster. Even if it’s for a few minutes, letting your kids crawl on you and maul you as you pretend to be a monster is required unless you have a note from your doctor, in particular your back doctor who advised you against playing Monster.
4. I will now let my children help me around the house. Children are some of the least helpful creatures when it comes to home repair. Asking a 4-year-old to hold a screwdriver for you is the equivalent of saying, “Please hide this screwdriver out back.” But now, I let them help and have Parker distribute tools, parts, etc. around the house while Allie assists by singing, dancing and occasionally hovering right on top of me and asking what every component of the toilet we are working on is. I answer by making up part names. “That’s the Van Buren. That’s the Electrolux capacitor. That’s the Tom Selleck automator. That’s the chimpanzee depreciation nozzle.”
5. I know the laundry will never get done. Ever. Unless I duct-tape the children’s current outfits on them and make them wear them for a week. By my estimate, my children change clothes an average of 42 times a day. And based on a review of the dirty clothes, Parker eats about 14 pounds of oatmeal a day.
6. They’re not going to starve. I actually arrived at the conclusion early on when my daughter was born, but I still would get a little concerned when their eating habits turned finicky. I’ve pretty much gotten to the point where if it occurs to me, “Hey, the last meal they ate was three moon phases ago,” I get worried. They’ll eat.
7. They can drive. Well, not actually drive, but they can sit in my lap and “steer” when I back the car up so that I can blow the leaves off the driveway. And while I am sure there are people who would like to send me countless reasons why this is neither safe nor legal, I refer to the “Being a Normal Dad Manual,” Chapter 6, Section 2, which clearly states: “All normal dads shall let children sit on lap and pretend to drive car when backing it out of the driveway.” For what it’s worth, Section 3 states that doing this on interstates is a bad idea.
8. Fear is not always an option. There comes a point where you have to decide for your children that fear is, well, to be set aside. Our cat, Delilah, is evil. Well established. Yet refusing to enter a room she is in is rather pointless, as she is self-contained evil. Don’t bother her, she won’t bother you. So both my children have had the distinct pleasure of me bringing them into a room and then saying, “And waddya know — Delilah’s in here, and she didn’t bother you.” And before you ask why we keep an evil cat, it’s because she likes me. And because if anyone were to break into my house, I would throw Delilah at them, and they would quickly be sliced to ribbons.
9. We’ll change the toilet paper roll. Apparently, the ability to do that skips a generation. Rather than blow a gasket, I’ll just change it out, and just be glad that they are beyond the Grab It And Start Running phase.
10. The house will be clean one day. And it’s not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next. I’d figure out how many days it will be until Parker leaves for college, but I don’t have the time right now, as I’ve got to go get the Cheetos out of the tub.
I do not need to justify why it is decorated with Dora. If Dora were not there, Diego would be, or perhaps Spider-Man or Barbie. I’ve been a parent for too long to care about getting my own kind of Band-Aids.
It’s just one of the many things that happens with parents over time. I am fairly certain that when I was in college, I would have been rather self-conscious about a Dora Band-Aid. In fact, I would have probably been self-conscious about a Band-Aid at all; as any early 20-something man-child will tell you, properly cared for wounds are for the weak/intelligent.
There are plenty of other events of parenting that prove you have moved into that phase of parental acceptance. If you are a parent, you can probably relate. If you are considering becoming a parent, I caution you not even to think, “My children will NEVER ...” And goodness knows, don’t utter it out loud, lest there be a tsunami created by the immediate wind surge created by every seasoned parent within a 5-mile radius guffawing at your proclamation that you will NEVER use spit as a facial cleanser.
Among the moments:
1. My response was simply, “Fine, whatever” when Parker asked if he could take his Cheetos to the bath with him. Hey, it had been a long weekend, and let’s be honest — a hot bath and some Cheetos might be relaxing.
2. We let Allie pick out her own clothes every morning. This began when she complained about my choice of outfits for her one morning. I told her there was a simple solution to this. Of course, it is a sad statement when a 7-year-old matches things WAY better than I do.
3. You cannot be too tired to play Monster. Even if it’s for a few minutes, letting your kids crawl on you and maul you as you pretend to be a monster is required unless you have a note from your doctor, in particular your back doctor who advised you against playing Monster.
4. I will now let my children help me around the house. Children are some of the least helpful creatures when it comes to home repair. Asking a 4-year-old to hold a screwdriver for you is the equivalent of saying, “Please hide this screwdriver out back.” But now, I let them help and have Parker distribute tools, parts, etc. around the house while Allie assists by singing, dancing and occasionally hovering right on top of me and asking what every component of the toilet we are working on is. I answer by making up part names. “That’s the Van Buren. That’s the Electrolux capacitor. That’s the Tom Selleck automator. That’s the chimpanzee depreciation nozzle.”
5. I know the laundry will never get done. Ever. Unless I duct-tape the children’s current outfits on them and make them wear them for a week. By my estimate, my children change clothes an average of 42 times a day. And based on a review of the dirty clothes, Parker eats about 14 pounds of oatmeal a day.
6. They’re not going to starve. I actually arrived at the conclusion early on when my daughter was born, but I still would get a little concerned when their eating habits turned finicky. I’ve pretty much gotten to the point where if it occurs to me, “Hey, the last meal they ate was three moon phases ago,” I get worried. They’ll eat.
7. They can drive. Well, not actually drive, but they can sit in my lap and “steer” when I back the car up so that I can blow the leaves off the driveway. And while I am sure there are people who would like to send me countless reasons why this is neither safe nor legal, I refer to the “Being a Normal Dad Manual,” Chapter 6, Section 2, which clearly states: “All normal dads shall let children sit on lap and pretend to drive car when backing it out of the driveway.” For what it’s worth, Section 3 states that doing this on interstates is a bad idea.
8. Fear is not always an option. There comes a point where you have to decide for your children that fear is, well, to be set aside. Our cat, Delilah, is evil. Well established. Yet refusing to enter a room she is in is rather pointless, as she is self-contained evil. Don’t bother her, she won’t bother you. So both my children have had the distinct pleasure of me bringing them into a room and then saying, “And waddya know — Delilah’s in here, and she didn’t bother you.” And before you ask why we keep an evil cat, it’s because she likes me. And because if anyone were to break into my house, I would throw Delilah at them, and they would quickly be sliced to ribbons.
9. We’ll change the toilet paper roll. Apparently, the ability to do that skips a generation. Rather than blow a gasket, I’ll just change it out, and just be glad that they are beyond the Grab It And Start Running phase.
10. The house will be clean one day. And it’s not today. Or tomorrow. Or the next. I’d figure out how many days it will be until Parker leaves for college, but I don’t have the time right now, as I’ve got to go get the Cheetos out of the tub.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Washed up
So I was taking the trash out the other night when I walked into my garage and said, “Hmm. Standing water. That’s weird.”
Most people would have immediately sought out the source of the problem. I am not most people. I backed my wife’s van out of the garage and used a shop broom to sweep the water out of the garage. This was a logical course of action, as I was taking the denial approach, banking on the belief that if I simply escorted the water out of the garage, whatever created it would magically disappear.
So the next day, I went into the garage and saw more water standing. Clearly, magic had not occurred. I walked over to a storage closet in the garage and saw another small pool. I looked up at the ceiling. The drop of water that smacked me in the forehead clued me in that maybe, just maybe, there was a problem.
The leak was coming from where our washing machine lives, which is upstairs in our bonus room. Over the years, several people have commented that having a washing machine upstairs would be a big problem if it ever leaked. Glad to know I would finally find out if they were right.
My first step was to go upstairs and poke around the back of the washing machine with a flashlight. And one thing became very clear in short order — behind a washing machine is the nastiest place in a home, easily trumping under the fridge or that little u-shaped bend under your kitchen sink that, should you accidentally hit it when putting up a pitcher, will spew gobs of nasty stuff onto the cabinet floor.
Once I got over the ick that was behind my washer, I continued to search for the source of the leak. I didn’t even bother to hope for some simple solution, because the last time I hoped for a simple plumbing solution, I ended up with my entire water line having to be rerouted to my house. So I opted to assume catastrophe and warn my family that it was a distinct possibility that the side of the house was going to fall off any minute now.
Eventually, I decided to call a plumber as it was clear that unless the beam of a flashlight fixed things, I was out of luck. The plumber came out and told me there were two options: Cut open the wall and look for a leak or cut open the ceiling and look for a leak. Not exactly the greatest options in the world.
I was pretty much resigned to having him cut the ceiling, since it was in a closet and would not really matter aesthetically. I went downstairs to take a last look at the ceiling to make sure this was the right decision. He was upstairs and filled up the washer just to poke around and see what was what. He came down a few minutes later. “Uh, it’s your washer, not the pipes.”
Sure enough, the machine was leaking and was filling the drain pan and then overflowing, leaking through the ceiling. Now you may wonder why I had not noticed this. And the answer is twofold: (1) By the time I had seen the leak, it was already on the garage floor and (2) I can diagnose home repair problems about as well as I can diagnose a parrot’s illness.
So the next step was to call someone out to repair the washing machine. (Yea! More service call fees!) I called the department store where I bought the washer 15 years ago. I was told someone could come out in two weeks. I told them I would probably want clean underwear before then and called a local company.
The local company was out there in about an hour. In about four seconds, he had the washer completely disassembled. It was like a Transformer unfolding. He turned on the water and we had this conversation:
ME: So what do you think?
HIM: I think you need a new washing machine.
ME: You can’t fix it?
HIM: Yeah, but it will cost more to fix than to buy a new one.
ME: Hey, how come water is spewing out of the sides of it?
Apparently, one basic function a washing machine is supposed to do is keep the water in the barrel, which mine no longer did. With the front cover off of the machine, it was pretty easy to see that my washer was failing Being a Washing Machine 101.
At that point, I rolled the dice and took the following gamble: I asked him how long it would take to get a new washer. He told me they could have it installed after lunch. “Let’s do it,” I said.
Now, the reason this was a gamble is because my wife loves her some research. She will check the web, read reviews, talk to friends. She knows every fact about every appliance that comes in our house. We were about to buy a TV one time when – I kid you not – she left the store to drive home and look up something on the Internet, because she had this nagging suspicion she had failed to check out one particular component of a TV. (She called me from home to tell me to buy a different one.)
When I told my wife that I had bought a new washer, she stared at me for a half-second, and maybe even had a minor facial twitch. Realizing this had been a rather stressful episode for me, she opted to allow my impulse buy to be my therapy, I guess.
The new washer seems to be working fine, and hopefully this one will last 15 years, too. I guess the upside is that I now know what happens when I get a leak upstairs. Oh, the price of knowledge.
Most people would have immediately sought out the source of the problem. I am not most people. I backed my wife’s van out of the garage and used a shop broom to sweep the water out of the garage. This was a logical course of action, as I was taking the denial approach, banking on the belief that if I simply escorted the water out of the garage, whatever created it would magically disappear.
So the next day, I went into the garage and saw more water standing. Clearly, magic had not occurred. I walked over to a storage closet in the garage and saw another small pool. I looked up at the ceiling. The drop of water that smacked me in the forehead clued me in that maybe, just maybe, there was a problem.
The leak was coming from where our washing machine lives, which is upstairs in our bonus room. Over the years, several people have commented that having a washing machine upstairs would be a big problem if it ever leaked. Glad to know I would finally find out if they were right.
My first step was to go upstairs and poke around the back of the washing machine with a flashlight. And one thing became very clear in short order — behind a washing machine is the nastiest place in a home, easily trumping under the fridge or that little u-shaped bend under your kitchen sink that, should you accidentally hit it when putting up a pitcher, will spew gobs of nasty stuff onto the cabinet floor.
Once I got over the ick that was behind my washer, I continued to search for the source of the leak. I didn’t even bother to hope for some simple solution, because the last time I hoped for a simple plumbing solution, I ended up with my entire water line having to be rerouted to my house. So I opted to assume catastrophe and warn my family that it was a distinct possibility that the side of the house was going to fall off any minute now.
Eventually, I decided to call a plumber as it was clear that unless the beam of a flashlight fixed things, I was out of luck. The plumber came out and told me there were two options: Cut open the wall and look for a leak or cut open the ceiling and look for a leak. Not exactly the greatest options in the world.
I was pretty much resigned to having him cut the ceiling, since it was in a closet and would not really matter aesthetically. I went downstairs to take a last look at the ceiling to make sure this was the right decision. He was upstairs and filled up the washer just to poke around and see what was what. He came down a few minutes later. “Uh, it’s your washer, not the pipes.”
Sure enough, the machine was leaking and was filling the drain pan and then overflowing, leaking through the ceiling. Now you may wonder why I had not noticed this. And the answer is twofold: (1) By the time I had seen the leak, it was already on the garage floor and (2) I can diagnose home repair problems about as well as I can diagnose a parrot’s illness.
So the next step was to call someone out to repair the washing machine. (Yea! More service call fees!) I called the department store where I bought the washer 15 years ago. I was told someone could come out in two weeks. I told them I would probably want clean underwear before then and called a local company.
The local company was out there in about an hour. In about four seconds, he had the washer completely disassembled. It was like a Transformer unfolding. He turned on the water and we had this conversation:
ME: So what do you think?
HIM: I think you need a new washing machine.
ME: You can’t fix it?
HIM: Yeah, but it will cost more to fix than to buy a new one.
ME: Hey, how come water is spewing out of the sides of it?
Apparently, one basic function a washing machine is supposed to do is keep the water in the barrel, which mine no longer did. With the front cover off of the machine, it was pretty easy to see that my washer was failing Being a Washing Machine 101.
At that point, I rolled the dice and took the following gamble: I asked him how long it would take to get a new washer. He told me they could have it installed after lunch. “Let’s do it,” I said.
Now, the reason this was a gamble is because my wife loves her some research. She will check the web, read reviews, talk to friends. She knows every fact about every appliance that comes in our house. We were about to buy a TV one time when – I kid you not – she left the store to drive home and look up something on the Internet, because she had this nagging suspicion she had failed to check out one particular component of a TV. (She called me from home to tell me to buy a different one.)
When I told my wife that I had bought a new washer, she stared at me for a half-second, and maybe even had a minor facial twitch. Realizing this had been a rather stressful episode for me, she opted to allow my impulse buy to be my therapy, I guess.
The new washer seems to be working fine, and hopefully this one will last 15 years, too. I guess the upside is that I now know what happens when I get a leak upstairs. Oh, the price of knowledge.
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