There's a swamp in my home, or: How my washing machine betrayed me.

Is it a dead opossum?
Maybe rotten eggs?
How about a swamp?
Yep, that's it, it smells like a swamp in my apartment.

And you ask, what is causing such a foul odor in my home? Well, my washing machine of course; because it has decided to stop draining water.

(Hmm, "getting rid of the dirty water," kind of a crucial step in the clothes-washing process, wouldn't you say?)

Now, despite my attempts to make the drain hose as straight as possible (never mind that it wasn't kinked in the first place), shaking the machine with all my fury and might, and promising the machine that I will always use "the good stuff" (i.e. Tide, not Purex), my washing machine still refuses to drain the water. I'm still wondering if there's a Catholic patron saint for victims of modern technology; and if so, how a Protestant like myself can get in that saint's good graces.

At this point, you're probably wondering why I said my washing machine smelled like a swamp. Well, (as you may recall from school) "standing water" harbors bacteria, and the bacteria in my washing machine's tub are--in a word--rank. No lie, open up my washer and the pleasant aroma of roadkill on a hot summer day fills your nostrils.

So, with a blitzkrieg being waged against my sense of smell anytime I am near the washer, the machine needs to be fixed post-haste...with the quickness...asap...quick, fast, and in a hurry. And so today, the repairman was to come out and operate on my ailing home appliance--and his estimated time of arrival was the incredibly helpful "sometime between 8am and 6pm."

Now, even though I had to stay indoors all day and wait on the repairman, I was able to use the day productively: I signed on to facebook about 18 times, caught up on the Voltron episodes stored on my DVR, watched The West Wing on DVD, cleaned my bathroom; you know, the uber-important stuff.

Well, as the afternoon turned into nighttime, and the repairman had yet to arrive, I called my appliance company. "Don't worry," they said, "he's at your apartment complex right now."

Thirty minutes later, with the repairman still M.I.A., I got the "we'll have the dispatcher call him and see where he is, and the dispatcher will call you back."

An hour later, with the repairman still a no-show, no call from a dispatcher, and water still in my washer, I called the company again, and got this response: "um, my system shows that the repair job has been completed."

[dear reader, please insert your favorite expletive here]

Suddenly, righteous indignation and I became fast friends, and I was a wellspring of rage, disparaging remarks, and sarcasm. I also think I may have made ample use of the words "incompetent" and "ridiculous," but I'm not positive.

And why am I not sure of my choice of words at that point? Well, after the customer service rep gave me the cliché and perfunctory, "I understand you're frustrated," my memory of events gets a little fuzzy. However, I do recall a lot of me waving my finger around in the air.


I have to call later today to see how soon they can get a repairman out to actually fix my washer; meanwhile, I've realized that customer service in America continues to get worse.

That, and my washing machine still smells like the elephant cage at the zoo.