Retirement...the appliance version...

It was bound to happen.  We are having a little domestic dispute on the subject of retirement.   I’d like to retire a couple of appliances, and my husband, who has been longing for retirement for himself, has no such liberal view for our hard working, but dysfunctional washer dryer and dishwasher.

“They aren’t ready to retire,” he says, “they still work.”  If by that he means that they still make noise, consume vast quantities of hot water, and jiggle about, then yes, they still ‘work’.   But if work means actually producing clean items according the manufacturer’s instructions, then I beg to differ.  The washing machine has decided it doesn’t want to bother with cold water, so everything is washed and rinsed in the entire contents of our hot water tank, and, while I don’t mind rewashing all the glasses and cups when I take them from the dishwasher, because the dishwasher’s idea of getting rid of food scraps is to spray them in a fine mist back into all the drinking vessels…no…that’s not true.  I do mind.  I want new appliances, I tell him.

  

“There’s probably a kink in the hose,” says my doughty, appliance-fixing husband, as he dives behind the washing machine to have a look.  “Have you got a safety pin?” he calls out.  I read that the 2010 version of washing machines is 83% more efficient than the 1990s version.  I tell him this.  “What?” he says irritadely from behind the machine.  Maybe it’s the violent bang on the head when he tries to stand up to hear what I’m saying, but he’s not receptive.   He goes back down with the safety pin in his mouth.  He comes back, more carefully.  He has a new solution. He doesn’t see what’s wrong with it.  No, true, he hasn’t been able to fix the problem, even with the safety pin, but he’ll wash all the hot water items first, and when the tank is empty, we can wash all my sweaters in the nice cold water, which is all that’s left.  “You can have a bath tomorrow,” he says cheerfully, wiping his hands on his pants and pushing the machine back into place.

He knows he’s fighting a desperate rear guard battle, so he calls upon the ghosts of the Greatest Generation.  “My parents never threw anything away,” he says.   

   “We don’t throw things away, nowadays,” I remind him.  “These appliances will be recycled and become Ferraris.  In fact that’s probably all they want.  You’re keeping them from retiring and becoming something fabulous.  You want to retire and become an artist.  Why shouldn’t these machines have the same opportunity?”

    “I tell you what,” he says, now grabbing at straws,  “we don’t know if we are going to stay in this apartment when we retire.  Let’s give it a year or two, and see how we feel.”

     I know how I feel right now.  “Really?  Really? You’re so determined to prove a point that you’re moving us out of our apartment now?  I tell YOU what.  I’m not moving.  Your parents never threw their house away because your dad couldn’t fix the dishwasher.  And if you decide to move, I’m replacing you with two Yorkshire terriers and some new appliances.  Now where’s my wallet? There’s a sale at Sears…”