Our new dishwasher is making very horrible noises. It shouldn’t be making ANY noises—it’s a Quietpower3! Three! You’d think by the third draft they’d of gotten the QUIET and POWER parts down-pat and while I’ve got no beef with the latter, the former is a fat f’ing lie, people: my dishwasher is not quiet—my dishwasher dies a horrible shrieking death every time I turn it on. It sounds like a giant cheese grater grating steel and because I am so very intuitive, so tuned into the needs of my appliances I said, “This dishwasher is NEW, it shouldn’t be dying!” and then I called GE.
I should preface this by saying this is the first time I’ve ever owned anything with a warranty, because it’s the first time I’ve owned anything new (except shoes, and probably some of those should’ve come with warranties. Dear Fashion World: insure my shoes. Those are LOUBOUTINS, people! They should TOTALLY come with a 24-hour service hotline!)—HOWEVER, with the exception of shoes (and also high-end bourbon) I’m a secondhand girl (how else do you afford the shoes and the bourbon? Come ON, people, keep UP!): thrift stores, Craigs List, garage sales, used bookstores, used cars, yes I save coupons, yes I buy bulk blueberries off the side of the road in Michigan in July and freeze them all winter and YES I prefer the word VINTAGE so ANYHOW, my appliances? My appliances are all new which is something I can’t quite wrap my brain around. Like when we moved in there was this huge stack of warranties on the counter for the oven and the microwave and the washer/dryer (Al Gore-inspired, thanks very much) and the fridge and I saved them all in quart-sized Ziplock baggies not ‘cause I thought I’d ever NEED them—like, this stuff is NEW! It’s not going to break down! Used stuff is what breaks down! And then is replaced with NEWER used stuff!—but because Real Simple magazine told me to and who am I to argue with Real Simple? (plus they have such lovely Daily Thoughts. The one today is something like, “I don’t just CARRY my handbag, I AM my handbag.” Isn’t that LOVELY?)
So anyhow. I got the dishwasher warranty out of its Ziplock baggie and there’s an 800 number you call for the technician to come to your house (COME TO YOUR HOUSE! The only time any corporation has ever sent someone to my house [re: to make my life easier, as opposed to my having to wait in line somewhere for five hours or fight with an automated voice on the phone] is when I was getting health insurance through some new place and they sent a guy to my house so I could pee in a cup. He came over, gave me the little plastic cup, and sat at my dining room table while I went into the bathroom. Can you imagine the STORIES that guy must have? His JOB is Mobile Urinary Transport!) so ANYHOW, right next to the 800 number it says, “Please be ready with your model # and seriel #—
Sidebar: I’m an intelligent girl. Seriously.
—so I look all over the paperwork and there’s no model or seriel #’s anywhere, just these fill-in-the-blank lines on the front where you’re supposed to put them in yourself, like this—
Model # _________________
Seriel # _________________
—so I got over to the dishwasher to try and find the model and seriel numbers and people, I ask you, why do we have to make everything in life so f’ing complicated? Why can’t the model and seriel numbers just be, like, there? instead of me having lay on the kitchen floor and look up my dishwashers butt, I’m telling you, I am now INTIMATELY INVOLVED with my dishwasher. My dishwasher should buy me DINNER—and all in all it took like twenty minutes to find the damn #’s on this itsy-bitsy sticker just inside the dishwasher door, meanwhile it’s still shrieking the shriek of death and of COURSE the dog is all excited ‘cause me laying on the floor is a game that involves him jumping on my head and when I go write them down on the appropriate lines I see that very neatly just below the—
Model # _________________
Seriel # _________________
—it says: “you can find them on the tub wall just inside the door,” and the message of all this people is BE YE NOT AN ASSHOLE AND READ THE INSTRUCTIONS.
So I call GE and the very nice guy takes all my in formation and says, “What kind of noise is the dishwasher making?”
“The noise of death,” I tell him.
“Could you be more specific?”
“More specific than death?”
This man deserves a prize of some sort. I am not easy to deal with when I’m all worked up (who am I kidding, I’m not easy to deal with stone-cold-calm). “Is it a grinding sort of death or a grating sort of death?” he asks—and he’s not being sarcastic, he’s actually trying to use language he thinks I’ll understand (this language is called CRAZYSPEAK) and thus excel at his customer service position.
“Well,” I say, “I think maybe grinding, but I can’t be sure. Here—you listen,” and then I hold the phone up to my dying dishwasher and let him listen for a while, the same way that sometimes, because we’re dorks, I talk to the dog while Christopher holds the phone to his ear and did I just actually say that out loud? I think that was one of those things I meant to think inside my head, not actually admit to you people, but seeing as this whole post is revolving around my ineptitude and subsequent humiliation, a little more can’t possibly break the play, right?
“You’re right,” he says, when we’re back on the phone. “Definitely grinding. I’ll get someone out tomorrow morning,” and I’m like, TOMORROW? You mean I don’t have to wait three weeks til the next appointment? Who ARE you GE? Where have you BEEN all my life!
“Just doing my job, ma’am,” he says, and I imagine him tipping his cowboy hat before he rides off into the sunset.
