Dishwasher Safe (Finally!)

I interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you this important announcement. Ladies and gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. K now have a working dishwasher. Or at least, so it seems. Perhaps I ought not jinx it by sharing this momentous achievement in the midst of a wash cycle, but I can scarce contain my glee. Then again, you will not be able to share in my joy if I don’t first share the preliminary tale of woe. And so, let me digress…

Although it has been just over a month since Melanie and I took possession of our new apartment, we have only been living here for about a week and a half. That’s because we spent October moving stuff in and getting the place ready for our post-honeymoon occupancy. Now that the honeymoon is over, we’re finally attempting to live life as normal. And, blessed as I was at my previous residence, life as normal has always included a dishwasher. Like many people, I hate washing dishes more than any other household chore (perhaps because it’s one of the few chores I’ve spent much time doing, but still). When we found this apartment, we were wooed long (or at least a few seconds) before spying the dishwasher, and it was with sincerest gratitude that, last Friday, I finally loaded it up and took it for a test spin.

Perhaps I should have been more suspicious when the appliance sounded more like a garbage disposal than any dishwasher I’d ever known. But, after checking to see if a spoon had somehow dropped down into a gear or something, I was convinced it must just be a quirk unique to our particular model. Sure, it was obnoxiously loud, but at least it was working. And who knows, maybe it was just working out a few kinks after going unused for a while. It’s not like I had any idea how long our apartment had been vacant before we nabbed it. Maybe the dishwasher just needed some time to “wake up” and get back to its normal routine.

Fast forward thirty minutes. Journeying to the bathroom, I suddenly notice a large circle of wet carpet smack dab in the middle of the hall, just below the closet that houses our water heater. More skeptical than panicked at this point, I open the closet door and inspect the tiles directly surrounding the water heater. They’re completely dry. Odd. I return my attention to the carpet and follow the swelling expanse to its only possible origin—the heater vent. Peering closer, I find a thin stream of water trickling from the metallic slats. It’s as though the Hoover Dam has been miniaturized and jokingly transported to my hallway by an evil genie. Hmmm.

With a sickened sense of expectation, I look to the kitchen door. A tiny peninsula of dampened carpet smiles back at me. Moving closer, I find in place of my kitchen a linoleum lagoon. Instinctively, I claw for the lever on the dishwasher door and pull it towards me, stopping it in its soggy tracks. I pull open the door, as though discovering some obvious problem (that I’d somehow missed before) will magically turn back time and prevent the partial soiling of my home. And what do I find? A quiet, undisturbed sanctuary of dry, dirty dishes. In stark contrast to my newly acquired wetlands, there is not a drop of precipitation to be found inside the dishwasher. I’m bugged. I’m befuddled. I’m balding – which has nothing to do with a broken dishwasher, but since I’m complaining anyway….

Needless to say, I head straight to the phone and dial up the main office of my corporate landlord. In what I’m quickly learning is an unfortunate set of circumstances, my landlord does not live on the premises. Rather, my building is owned by a corporation that owns dozens (if not baker’s dozens) of rental units across the city. I was hoping that such a situation would ensure professionalism, but so far it has only made me feel detached. And so it was when I told them of the partial flooding of my apartment. I was politely informed that, because it was after 3pm, chances were slim that somebody could come over that same day. Instead, I should expect the problem to be fixed sometime on Monday.

I was exasperated, but ultimately helpless. I mopped up the floor, sopped up the carpet, and plopped myself onto the couch. Sure, the water had been taken care of, but what about the smell? An overwhelming stench had accompanied the flood and was beginning to permeate every room of the apartment. I thought it was the unavoidable result of dampened carpet, but I quickly learned the smell was much worse in the carpetless kitchen. Could it be the wood of the cabinets somehow? No matter. At least it would be gone by Monday afternoon.

When Monday afternoon had come and just about gone, we had not yet heard from anyone regarding the dishwasher. I called our landlord. I was told that someone would check on the status of the work order and get back to me shortly. By Tuesday afternoon, when still no one had gotten in touch with me, I called again. All I got was an answering machine, assuring a prompt reply. I left a message explaining the situation, making it clear that I expected a fixed dishwasher sometime that day, and informing them to call me back as soon as possible. When an hour and a half had passed and still no one had called me back, I tried again. Once again, I got the answering machine. I regurgitated the same information from my previous message, hung up, and waited just over an hour before giving them yet another call.

This time I spoke to a real (supposedly) human being. I was told that my being ignored was a total surprise, as someone should have responded long ago. Nevertheless, she would make sure someone came over within the next couple of days and get the problem fixed. Nearly ready to scream, I told her that I was guaranteed a working dishwasher on Monday, not Thursday, and that I had already had to call numerous times just to get nothing done. She promised she’d see what could be done and, feeling hopeless, I hung up.

Much to my surprise, a repairman showed up at my apartment not much later. He only tinkered around for about ten minutes before pronouncing his victory over the machine’s maladies. Excitedly, I re-started the dishwasher. It was still loud and grinding, but—perhaps due to my wishful thinking—it did sound a little bit better.

But it wasn’t. Ten minutes later, a small pool of water was spreading across the kitchen floor. Furious, I immediately called the landlord and, yet again, was forced to leave a message. Desperately I pleaded with the non-existent entity on the other end of the line. I begged that, if it were at all possible, the repairman be contacted before he was out of the vicinity. I hung up the phone, willing the slackers at the corporate office to turn from their computer solitaire just long enough to hear my one message. Now. Now! Now!

But my efforts were in vain. Nobody called back. It would be the middle of the next morning before I’d get in touch with a live person. And much to my depleted delight, they did get somebody out here right away. And a different person, thankfully. Of course, all this person did was assess the problem and tell me it would be fixed the next day, but at least he seemed competent. And at least I wouldn’t have to call anyone again (knock on wood).

Thursday morning, the repairman showed up just as he promised. He dislodged the dishwasher, revealing the source of the horrific odor. Sludge of some unknown source had completely coated the floor beneath the appliance. As I sat in the corner and choked, the repairman/hero used a snow shovel to remove the grime. It took a staggering two trips to the garbage can to completely rid my home of this foe. This placated me enough that, when the repairman announced he needed yet another part and would have to return tomorrow, I was more than grateful. Apparently, they suspect a mouse had chewed through some of the pumps and seals and whatnot. Who knows for sure.

Today, as I got home from school, I noticed my dishwasher had a new appendage—a button offering me the option to “temperature boost” my wash cycle. The repairman had promised me that, if he couldn’t obtain the necessary part for my dishwasher, he would replace the entire unit with a dishwasher from another (presumably vacant) apartment. The new button tells me this is what happened. And I couldn’t be happier. Praying for divine intervention, I started my new dishwasher and began writing this post. As it turns out, the cycle is already complete and the dishes are sparkling. The floor is dry, but my eyes are flooded with tears of joy. Finally, I can get on with my life.

Finally, my life is dishwasher safe.