I knew I was a grown up when my reaction to getting a new washing machine was eerily similar to my reaction to getting an American Girl doll for my 11th birthday. You may remember buying a washing machine was on my summer “to-do” list. Really it was a leftover from my winter to-do list that dribbled over into my spring to-do list, then bled over into my summer to-do list. You might have thought that six months of hauling my laundry 20 miles down the road once a week to my mother’s house would be enough of an incentive to find a new washing machine, but after a week or two it didn’t seem all that bad.
It wasn’t until Michael threatened to go out and find a washing machine himself that I got my act together and started diligently searching Craigslist once a day. There are many things I’m happy to delegate to Michael – bathroom cleaning, trash duty, poop duty (hehe) – but I’m a lot more invested in finding just the right washing machine than Michael who, when he was just my boyfriend, called me after I gave him a beautiful J.Crew wool sweater for Christmas to ask me if, once you shrink something, can you stretch it out again?
So on a Friday about two weeks before we left for Texas and England, I found a posting for a barely used Bosch washing machine, purchased in January at Lowe’s with a five-year extended warranty, that the owner didn’t want anymore because she decided she didn’t like front loaders. I spent the next 24 hours negotiating price, calling Lowe’s to find out if the warranty transferred, having some detailed email exchanges, followed by a visit to the washing machine. By Sunday night, I had a new washing machine and saved about $250.
It is a beautiful, beautiful machine. Sleek, energy efficient, quiet and really listens to you. I hugged it at least once a day for a week and fed it every scrap of dirty laundry I could find in the house just to listen to it purr. I hope we can grow old together. I’d keep going, but I can feel you getting sick.
I questioned for a while if I should devote blog space to the washing machine. It reveals a lot about my slow march toward becoming a 1950s housewife. But then last week Dooce posted about washing machines – and my beloved Bosch made a heroic appearance toward the end – and now here we are. Excuse me while I put on my girdle and find the keys to my station wagon.