We said goodbye to a longtime member of our family last week. We'd been preparing for the end for nearly a year, but this this past Sunday, departure became imminent.
That's when our washer of nearly eleven years decided to stop working. Of course, it did this with a washer drum full of water (and, therefore, of sopping wet clothes) and on a day when 1) we had a ton of laundry to do, and 2) very little free time to figure out what to do about a broken washer. Plus, one of the kids was complaining of a stomach ache.
|So long, farewell, alverderzane, good night...|
Months ago, when the ball bearing started to go, I looked into having the washer fixed and quickly realized it wouldn't pay to have it repaired. People told me the end could come in a matter of days, weeks, months, or even years, so we decided to wait. And watch. (And listen -- since the machine screamed every time it drained, sounding vaguely like a room full of 12 year-old girls at a Justin Bieber concert. Or, a dying cat. Or, some combination of both.)
We listened to the machine scream for months and months and eventually got to the point where we could ignore it completely. I suppose we could've sent the washer to the appliance graveyard earlier, but, you see, we just weren't ready to let it go. Before you imagine this is due to some sense of nostalgia associated with washing newborn baby clothes or something equally sweet and noble, I feel I should be honest here. We didn't want to replace the old washer because we were still trying to recoup our losses from paying to store and/or move the darn thing so many times. Even though the washer was 11 years old, we'd only used it for 8. The other three years (first while we lived in Japan and then when we moved into a rental that only had room for a stackable washer/dryer combo), we paid monthly storage fees for it. We also paid to move it four separate times. To get that money back, we needed to use the machine for at LEAST another half a century.
|Stow saying goodbye.|
It wasn't meant to be, though. So, we scooped out the water, wrung out the clothes, and said farewell to our not-so-trusty old machine. We also learned that sometimes it really is better to just sell something instead of lugging it here and there and everywhere, especially if you're leaving the country for a spell.
Normally, Ren and I go through a long, ponderous process before we make any major purchase. But, Stow had a tummy ache, and with midterms and parent-teacher conferences on the horizon, I knew I had a very narrow, 90-minute window in which I could get to the appliance store and purchase a new one before having to wait for at least two weeks. So, I did something I never do--within minutes of learning the washer had washed its last load, I left to buy a new one.
In the end, we got this:
***Ren told me I shouldn't tell you about how we bought the floor model in order to save a little extra money only to have the delivery guys accidentally drop it off the back of their truck and then try to convince us to take it by saying it looked fine and that they didn't have any more in stock anyway. I guess he didn't want me to tell you that story because he was afraid I'd brag about getting a brand-new-straight-from-the-box machine for the price of the floor model when the manager learned his guys were trying to convince us not to worry about a little four-foot drop to the pavement. Ren thinks you will all be annoyed by our dumb luck, but given how things tend to go for us, I figure it's safe to assume that no one reading this blog will accuse us of being too lucky.