Yesterday, after enduring too many days of chapped hands and fogged up glasses, I put down my dish soap and rag and exited my role as a 1950's housewife. That's right, I loaded up and started my new dishwasher. I haven't had one in a while but I don't ever remember them running a wash cycle for 4 1/2 hours. Strange, I think to myself, but maybe I pressed the wrong button. I'm not sure why there would be a day long wash cycle button but anyways...let's try again. Oh wait, the door won't stay closed. Even when I slam my entire body weight against it and hold it shut, it mocks me and pops right back open the second I back off a fraction.
I call what should be my private line to eventually make my way through to the service department. Although I can barely speak through my clenched teeth, I manage to convey that yes, I have had the dishwasher for over a week but no, I haven't used it until now. No, I didn't buy the extended warranty but I was under the impression that if it comes to my house broken, that's not really my fault. She promises to send someone over tomorrow who will call me to give me my own personal "2 hour window".
Larry, the fixer guy/Jack Daniels afficionado, later calls and leaves a message that he will be here today between 2:30 and 4:30 which is exactly when I need to go pick up my little niblet from her day of schooling and sledding. I call the service department and ask for a different time. The comotose "Service Specialist" says she will get in touch with Larry and call me right back. 2 1/4 hours later I phone Sleepy back. She's slightly unsure she ever actually spoke to me but tells me "LOOK, let me just talk to Larry and I'll call you back when I know what's going on, OK!!??" Apparently, I've angered her by insisting she provide me with some sort of mediocre service. If she doesn't call me back in the next hour, I'm getting out my voo-doo doll.
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