The past few weeks have been formed mainly of good ideas that have gone awry, easy choices that have morphed into complicated schemes resembling plans for achieving world peace, and simple decisions that have entered the never-ending loop of doubt (where no choice will ever be made.) At various moments, my pendulum of emotions has swung from laughter to verge-of-tears; passing defeat, anger and despair along the way. The icing on the proverbial cake was provided compliments of our washing machine.
For those who haven’t surmised as much, procrastination is a member of our family. If we ever got around to clearing out some of our stuff, we could set up a cozy place for it to reside. We talk about things that need to get done, we make lists, we remind each other of the items on the list, but nothing gets accomplished right away.
A couple months ago, our washing machine began making a wretched noise during the spin cycles. Hubby and I talked about digging out the paperwork because we had purchased the extended warranty. Neither one of us would make a move to do it. So the next week over the noise of the washer, we would have the exact same conversation. After seven or eight such conversations, my hubby found the paperwork and called to schedule service. Here is the conversation he relayed to me:
Hubby: I need to have someone look at my washer.
Repair: What is the problem you are experiencing?
Hubby: When the spin cycle runs, it sounds like a jet engine in our laundry room.
Repair: I’m sorry, but we can’t schedule service just for noise. Is it holding water?
Hubby: Yeah, sure. It’s holding water. When can they come out?
The repairman came on Saturday morning. He opened the washer door and spun the drum. He closed the door and wrote some notes. Yep, in fifteen seconds, he had a diagnosis and it wasn’t good: the bearings were bad. Instead of opening his toolbox and getting busy, he informed us that nothing would be done that day. I was thrilled to find out we waited around all morning for nothing.
He couldn’t start the repairs because the repairs would be much higher than his authorized amount. In fact, he doubted they would authorize the repairs, and instead, opt for replacement. (A brand-new washer would make our dryer look like it belonged in the Smithsonian.) Since they weren’t open on Saturday, and Monday was a holiday, we likely wouldn’t hear anything from them until later this week.
With another week of increasingly noisy laundry, I’m not sure I’ll hear anything from anyone by the end of this week.
I am armed with a large spoon, fighting the urge to take an extended break from life and hole myself up with a 1.75 qt. container of double fudge ice cream. (Yes, ice cream companies, I have noticed that you skim off the top of my half gallon and charge me more for less. Thank you for that privilege.)
Writing this post has provided some clarity. I think I’ve realized why things must be so difficult: whatever doesn’t kill me will make me crazy. When I’ve reached the right level of crazy, frustration won’t phase me a bit.
Must. Have. Chocolate. Now.
How do you get from Crazy Town back to Normalville? Would love to read your tips in case my GPS fails me (again).