I have a washing machine that wants to be on “Dancing with the Stars.”
At various times during laundry day, it’ll scoot across the floor like it’s moving with Cheryl Burke.
When it really gets worked up, it unplugs itself, halfway onto the basement floor.
On those occasions when I suspect it’s ready to samba, I’ll run downstairs and try to head off the rinse cycle. If I’m lucky, I can keep it in place and get a workout. Lean up against the thing and you vibrate like the space shuttle about to lose its tiles.
Granted, it’s a bit off balance. But that’s just because it constantly feels the beat. If I’ve got a load of towels, it’ll move in place, like a giant shake weight. If I’ve got jeans, it’s going to do a full production number and end with a big finish – complete with sound effects.
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Sure, I’ve checked the adjustable feet underneath. I’ve shimmed things up with wood. I’ve even contemplated building a corral so it can’t leave the farm.
But, as a good friend said, “Nothing looks like it could help that machine. Maybe it’s time to get a new one.”
Convinced that’s true (“nobody’s going to put Baby in a corner”), I started my quest to find a replacement. After one stop, I realized washers no longer come in “ballroom only” style. Now, they have yoga moves and an uncanny ability to do a load of shirts without breaking a sweat.
“How old is your current machine?” a clerk asked me. Mentally calculating the years, I realized it was about 23.
“I’m going to tell you something right now,” he said. “A new one is not going to last that long.”
Too many dance competitions, I assumed.
Settings have changed, too. Mine has two – fast and slow. The first new machines I looked at are capable of dozens. (Two hand towels and a hankie? No problem!)
They also don’t have agitators, which could explain the angry sound I hear from mine now. Apparently, the HE (or “high-efficiency”) washers can do a better job without twisting shirtsleeves into knots and jeans inside out. They also like to clam up and lock their lids, thus preventing a stray sock from making it into the big “T-shirt choice” dance.
The new machines’ control panels look like they come from an IT department. I don’t think any of them had passwords that needed to be changed every three weeks, but I wouldn’t be surprised. There were so many buttons on those things I started to fear I’d need to consult the operator’s manual on a daily basis, then log in to complete my washing machine operator’s degree.
Although my dryer doesn’t stray, it has a tendency to think towels are best left damp. It’s 23, too, and it probably has created enough lint to fill hundreds of quilts. Two hour-long sessions usually do the trick. But it has been known to surprise me from time to time with its ability to shrink anything at will.
“You know you could get a dryer that talks to your washer,” the expert told me.
Yup, those computer panels have a way of coordinating their efforts so you don’t need to keep a single hand towel in either one a second more than necessary.
I glazed over when he started talking about the water I’d be saving and I openly said I didn’t care when he brought up the “exact” measuring device included for detergent.
I did, however, gulp when we got to price (those computers aren’t any cheaper here, either) and I started to sound like my dad when the idea of exterior colors was broached (“Millers are just fine with white appliances”).
Now, as I get closer to deciding what it is I really need, I’m sure I’m going to have to make a spreadsheet and inventory everything I own that can be washed. As soon as I figure how many settings I’ll need, I’m going to take the leap, get a new washer and dryer and enjoy the good life.
Of course, this probably means I’ll have to buy a treadmill. But I hear settling on one of those is a snap – once you’ve figured out how to install it on a level surface.
