Home Appliance Repair

As our increasingly disposable society races into the future, more and more of our labor-saving devices edge closer to complete disposability. Automobiles are now not so much repaired, as have this or that sub-assembly or circuit-board replaced. And even major home appliances teeter on the economic edge: when a new washing machine can be had for $300, what is one to do when the Maytag Repair Man says that it will cost $100 for him to appear at your front door (more if he actually DOES anything)?

We discovered last Friday that the washing machine didn’t work: no cold water. Thus, cold water washing didn’t happen at all, while warm water washing was transformed into hot water washing, with alarming results.

Now, to tell the truth, The Farmer has recently been on something of a tear regarding the sexist allocation of ordinary household and family tasks. There is a list maintained somewhere or other that apparently keeps track of jobs that husbands must do, because wives don’t do them: mow the lawn, take out the garbage, talk to the mechanic, clean out the drain, unclog the toilet. You get the idea. Then there’s the list of things that wives must do, because husbands don’t do them: bear children. That’s the only one I’m familiar with, and, however fundamental, it’s really only relevant for a limited span.

Home appliance repair is clearly a task assigned to husbands.

I shouldered my duty with as much good humor as I could muster (that is, none) and confirmed that the spigot was turned on, the hose wasn’t blocked or kinked, and that the filter screens weren’t clogged. Nope. None of the above. Time to bite the bullet, and call the repairman.

This news was delivered to the Farmer’s Wife with all the condescension and fatuous certainty that only a half-century of testosterone poisoning is known to produce. And, in order that a positively razor-sharp point be put on it, was tossed over my shoulder as I departed the house on a multi-hour series of manly tasks. I am an important fellow, and have important things to do.

I returned home several hours later to find this sitting on the kitchen counter:

As the icy fingers of realization gripped my heart, I summoned every ounce of command voice and inquired "What the heck is that?"

I knew exactly what it was . . . .

"That’s the water inlet valve assembly," the Farmer’s Wife responded sweetly, "one of the solenoids is jammed or frozen. The parts outlet is closed until Monday, but I can order it over the Internet, and they’ll send it out right away."

"Uhh . . . , well . . . , that’s just great," I bravely retorted.

"It would have been easier if we had a proper set of screwdrivers," she added.