Who You Gonna Call?

It started out like any other day. Gather the socks that missed the hamper while playing dirty laundry basketball, towels that smelled like the junior high locker room, jeans that could stand up on their own, and head for the washer in the garage. Fill the tub, add soap and color-fast bleach (I have well water and everything takes on a rusty tinge otherwise), switch on, and it's back to coffee and waking up.

I was halfway to the kitchen when the washer started to squeak. Not once, not twice, but again and again, regular as a heartbeat. But instead of lup dup, as we're taught in cardiology, it was squeak, squawk, squeak, squawk. Okay, back out to the garage, this time to get the can of belt dressing, a slightly oily mix of anybody's guess, to spray on the belt slipping with each turn of the tub. That done, return to business as usual, right? Wrong.

Thirty minutes later I'm in the garage again thinking it's time to put the clothes in the drier. Except for one thing: the washer is still full of water and I can smell burnt rubber. Oh, great, I thought, the belt's broken. Time to call Beggar's Appliance Repair and see if the budding physician can actually fix something.

A hurried trip to the supply store for a new belt was followed by a herculean effort (at least that's what I told myself it was) to roll the washer out of its cupboard and turn it on it's front (following directions for a change). Five minutes prowling through the bowels of the washer motor convinced me this was a task for a qualified surgeon, not a would-be psychiatrist. I mean, I could have offered therapy since it was already laying down, but with no couch, it seemed futile.

So, now I'm waiting for a house call by a real repairman, hoping he doesn't look at my attempt at self-help, shake his head, and tell me it was a job for a professional. I thought about that but you know guys (and I'm one of them for sure), if we can't fix it, well, then we know who to call.

(Image by Henna Lion via Flickr)