It started with a weird sound. Instead of the background thrum the dishwasher usually made as it lightened my daily task, I heard a harsher mechanical sound. Imagine a grinding angry sound instead of a happy hum, and you’re close. Hmmm. A few days later, although the dishes were still coming out clean, I noticed the dishwasher was not fully draining. I mentioned it to my super-duper “I can fix anything…sorta” husband, and he took apart the appliance. He was convinced it was plugged somewhere but could not find the source. As dishwasher parts and tiny screws waited impatiently to get lost on the kitchen counter, my husband sucked in his ego and called a repairman. He was very sad, but big enough to know when to cry defeat.
The young man arrived and went to work. I was amused at his methodology and at my paranoia at what he would find. I try to keep a reasonably clean home—at least it looks decent if not closely dissected—and wondered if he would pull out the mother of all dust buffalos beneath the appliance. Why did I care? Beats me, but I did. His mind flitted from one mental check-list to the next. He pulled out the equivalent of a metal-melting spot light posing as a flashlight and started looking under the dishwasher. I winced, but he did not sit up gagging with disgust at what he saw under there. Good, I passed that test. Then he wanted to see where the hose connected under the kitchen sink. Oh oh. I hadn’t thought about that. Sometimes opening the cabinet door unleashes an avalanche of cleaning supplies and sticky rubber gloves. He pulled it open—nothing fell on him—and he stuck his head under the sink. Again, no judgments or body shivers. Yea! He started taking apart the dishwasher’s filter and motor and did find some slimy wads of ???, but discreetly placed them in a paper towel and moved on. I was really starting to like this guy. Finally he discovered a small pit—olive? cherry? Brad?—in a teeny tiny valve that was keeping the dishwasher from draining. He dislodged the offender and put the parts back together. Seventy dollars later he waved goodbye. I learned a lot about my insecurities during that visit, and decided it was probably cheaper than therapy. Knowing life is a bowl of cherries—with pits—that sometimes cause the dishwasher to growl which makes my husband throw his hands in the air and call a repairman who doesn’t judge me on my housekeeping skills was the best part of my day. Whew.
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