Do-it-yourself appliance repair

Yesterday Couponman had already left to get a jump on the market bargain bins, so thought I’d get my own kind of jump on my day by sticking a load of bathroom rugs in the washer before heading out.  Like the “jump” part is ever gonna happen for me. 

As abruptly as the spin cycle began, it stopped.  I could barely make out an F02 from the glare on the high-tech LED screen.  I have no idea what “F02” means.  On second thought, I have an idea what the “F” stands for, but the “02″ is beyond me.  Google offered a translation.  It’s a draining problem.  No, duh.  The washer had stopped and it was full of water. 

The instructions, without supporting graphics, continued — Step #1:  Unplug the washer.  I couldn’t reach the plug.  Instead I turned off the power in the house.  Step #2:  remove the washer’s kick plate.  Based on how high I can get my foot, I assumed the plate was near the bottom of the washer.  I did what its name suggested and gave the plate a good swift kick.  It didn’t budge.  It looked the same with the exception of a small dent.  With my head lying on the floor, I saw three screws holding the stubborn plate in place.  They had a star head.  What kind of screwdriver is that?

Lo, and behold, first miracle of the season.  Last year’s Christmas gift from Hot Wheelz, my new drill, had a bit that fit.  It’s good the drill was cordless and doesn’t require electricity.  I got the cover off with the whirl of the drill and a little tug. 

Step #4:  Remove the pump filter cover.  What’s a pump look like? 

When I was a single mom, I once took off the front of the dishwasher and, admittedly tinkered with a few parts, thinking naively the bad part would somehow reveal itself to me.  It didn’t.  At least I got it back together.  But it didn’t work.  Afterwards every time I washed dishes, I’d experience a painful sensation similar to electrocution. 

I ended up calling a repairman.  “You left a hot wire pressing against the front panel,” he’d said coldly. 

What d’ya know?  The pain wasn’t an allergic reaction to dishwashing.  “You should think about buying a dishwasher,” he said.  “How old is this one?”

“Ten years.”  I’d felt accused of a criminal offense.

“The frame is mangled,” he’d stated.  He pointed to the bottom of the dishwasher.  The legs were bent under and the metal torn.

“It must have happened when I tried to take it outside down the steps,” I explained.  “I wasn’t going to bother having it repaired, but then the car wasn’t working right and I couldn’t afford both…”  No sense explaining.  He was busy writing his evaluation —making sure to underline “machine was disassembled by the owner.”

“You have to fix it,” I demanded. 

“Okay,” Bob relented.  His name was embroidered on his shirt.  He handed me the estimate — $165, then added, “It only needed a seven dollar switch.  But you lost some parts.”

You would have thought this experience might have curbed my curiosity.  Obviously, it didn’t.

I twisted a tempting plastic grip handle until it loosened.  Water drizzled out, then a plug of crumbled bathroom mat backing popped out, and the drizzle turned into a torrential flow.  I’d forgotten to pay attention to Step #3: be ready with towels for LOTS of water.  Following the debris came two pennies, a dime, a dismantled pen, and a small sea shell.  Looks like someone had washed Nemo.

I closed everything back up and called Hot Wheelz.  “I fixed my washer,” I said proudly.  “Know what I want for Christmas?  One of those black and white stripped repairman shirts with my name embroidered over my heart.”

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