The dishwasher is fixed...

Friday November 4, 2011, 8.30 am and the phone rings.  I am still in bed in that transitional phase of wakefulness.  It is late for me to still be in bed, but I had had a bad night arthritis-wise and needed to rest a bit longer.  I am informed by hubby’s tinny voice on the line that his 8-hour shift has just been extended to 12 hours and is that alright by me.  I grunt “No problem” and he hangs up with a ‘go back to sleep hun.”

I hang up and roll over to let the morning breeze waft through the curtains onto my face.  I wonder how much longer I can lounge there before getting up to shower and wait for the dishwasher guy.  My caffeine deprived brain is not very cooperative.  But I figure another half hour in bed should do it, after all, he said he would be here at 10.00am.  Past precedent dictates that service guys NEVER show up on time.

I harrumphed to myself in righteous indignation and of course that’s when the doorbell rang!  “Shit, shit, shit!” I hissed to myself and jumped out of the bed onto knees that just weren’t ready.  With a couple of clicks and cracks I got upright and grabbed my robe.

As I waddled and jiggled my way towards the stairs I had only one thought – please don’t let it be the dishwasher guy.  “Coming” I croaked with my dry pre-coffee morning throat.

Approaching the door I so hoped it was the delivery man bringing me my new ahhh/genie/wonder bras – the name depends on which infomercial you bought them from.  3 bras, 3 colours, guaranteed for comfort and support.  I’ve been waiting for 4 days.  They better work!  At least the courier only gets to see my arm as I reach through the crack in the door to take my package from him.  Although I realise at the same time that he too has seen me countless times in my nightie and robe when I have to sign for a package – what must these guys think?

There I was in my fleecy bathrobe over my old lady knee-length, unshaved-legs-revealing cotton-but-looks-like-flannel nightie, schlumping my way down the stairs sideways like a crab.  

At the door I batted down my sleep sculpted Mohawk and the next words out of my dry mouth as I opened the inner door and saw who was there were, ‘You’re early’.  Actually I think I kinda screeched the words, but no matter, I was doomed to look like a grandmother with bad hair. 

As I pushed open the security door my portly 60ish dishwasher repairman bounded into the house – he bounded I tell you, I can’t bound at 52 but he did – and he arrived at the Kitchen before I had even closed both the doors behind him.  With the speed of light, because that is how fast thought travels you know, I wondered how the hell he could remember where the kitchen was.  My paranoia kicked in.  

Unlike my visitor I waddled to the kitchen using the shortcut through the formal living room.  When I got there he had already unwrapped the replacement cutlery drawer and opened the dishwasher.  I silently gave thanks that I had remembered to turn the wretched thing on before heading to bed last night.  A pleasant lemony fragrance wafted out of it making me feel like a good housewife, even though I didn’t look like one.

I rushed over to unstack the top shelf, so he could swap it out and I coyly asked him how he could possibly remember where the kitchen was since the last time he was here was 2 months ago and he must have been in hundreds of homes since then.  He didn’t even blink.  “Well”, said he of the beer gut who must surely moonlight as Santa Claus at Christmas time, “I find that kitchens are usually at the back of the house so I just head in that direction”.  Well, Duhhhhhh to me.

As he was packing up the dud cutlery drawer to take away, I felt safe that he could not possibly remember me or my house.  That was until he reached down and jiggled the new cutlery draw baskets to show me they would not fall out like the original ones kept doing, thus spilling the dirty cutlery all over the other dishes, when he says “see you weren’t crazy after all”.  I burst out laughing.  “You do remember me” I said.  When he first came out to check the machine I had said to  him“is there something wrong with this or am I crazy?”  I asked him how he could possibly remember that.  “Well”, says he of the jovial face, “you look the same as the last time I was here.  I woke you that time too.”  Boom! Boom! rang the punchline through my still groggy head.  I must have been quite a sight.....both times.

I thank him and he tells me I can go back to bed now.  Gee thanks!  Before I can think of an appropriate and dignified response he is out the door and gone.

I turned on the kettle for coffee.  As I sat at the kitchen table slowly sipping the black manna from heaven I remembered all the abuse I was supposed to heap on my pseudo Santa when he came today.  For one thing he had ordered the wrong part the first time so 2 weeks became an 8weeks wait.  At the 6 week mark I called their office to ask what the hell was going on and the young lady on the line very calmly explained to me that she could report the item was in transit and was coming via air.  So, says she as if this is a triumph, it will be here in 2 weeks.

I am sure that, wherever you are in the world, you must remember a day about 2 weeks ago when you heard a blood curdling screech permeate and shatter your peace.  No it was not a bird outside, it was me.  “TWO WEEKS?” I screeched.  “Are you fucking telling me a plane from New Zealand takes 2 weeks to cross one third of the Pacific Ocean?”  All credit to her she did not react and calmly explained that the part was in transit and would take a total of 2 weeks to arrive in Australia, at which time the service guy would contact me to come and install it.  I just couldn’t help myself and said that I could row from New Zealand to Melbourne in 2 weeks.  I even went so far as to ask her whether it was coming via the moon.  She didn’t laugh.

I hung up thinking I was NEVER going to get a new cutlery drawer now.  But 2 weeks to the day I got the call from Santa advising he would come by tomorrow at 10.00 a.m. 

 

So, now you are up to speed with my little dishwasher adventure AND my washing machine adventure.

Three hours after the dishwasher is fixed my delivery guy arrived and I was still in my nightie and robe.  I mean how much crap luck can one woman have? 

Stay tuned for the story of the wonder bras that ruined the middle of my day and then later the story of the loss of internet access in the late afternoon that ruined my evening.

November 4, 2011 was a crap day for service.