The Washing Machine and I

We are having. . . issues. It's complicated, as they say. You see, my washer insists on disgorging itself of water through the drain-pipe as though it's running a turbine on the Hoover dam. I could probably sell my washer to the Greenville Fire Dept, and they could mount it in a pickup truck and have a cheap, second pumper.

Oh, it looks innocent enough, just sitting there. Trust me, it's quite guilty. The drainpipe behind the washer likes to drink it's water at roughly the rate of an IV drip. As you might imagine, the washer and the drain don't get along. We would regularly find water running across the basement floor. Some folks have water in their basement when a hurricane comes through. We have water in our basement when we do laundry.

Like most good husbands, I sort of figured if I pretended not to notice it, the problem would simply go away. After it became clear that this was not an acceptable solution (Doris made that clear to me), I tried the good husband's next ploy: the minimal effort solution.

See that orange thingy? Its the handle of an in-line valve. I could throttle that baby back, and what was once the Hoover Dam turbine room at flood stage became a good, well-behaved washing machine once again. No more water on the floor. Dor's happy, the drainpipe's happy, I'm happy, and I get to wear clean clothes again.

There's just two minor problems with it. First, the lint continues to build up in the old drain pipe, and that stinking thing starts to overflow again (in case you're wondering, this little saga spans about two years). No matter how many bottles of draino I feed it, it reclogs in a matter of weeks. Nor does it respond to my handy-dandy little snake, or eel, or whatever plumbers call it.

Second, when I throttle it back farther (the good-husband-minimal-effort solution applied with a vengeance), the washing machine gets confused. The timer dial gives it only so much time to get rid of the water before it goes on to the next cycle. For some stupid reason, it thinks that three days is simply too long to be pumping the water out of the basket.

So, I'm faced with a dilemma. No longer am I able work a compromise between the washer and the drainpipe (I imagine that this is somehow vaguely analagous to the impasse between Republicans and Democrats on the budget committee). I have no more good-husband tricks up my sleeve. This calls for some actual work.

Notice the requisite speakers in the tool box, for listening to political talk radio whilst pretending to be a plumber.

I've got to get through this wall. . .   to this side, where a larger drain awaits. . .

And I need to do it without bringing the house down, flooding the basement with sewage, or destroying the washing machine. All in all, it's a tall order (hey, it's me!).

After a trip to Lowes that included much head-scratching and cogitating, I managed to find my way back home (Dor was with me), with the requisite pieces of plumbing paraphenalia, and I dove in. Well, not literally, as I had thought to turn the Hoover Dam off before leaving the house.

Hours later (many, many hours), I stand back and admire my handiwork.

What's amazing is that I still have my sanctification, all ten fingers, and a washer that works at full throttle. . .

and an oversize hole in the wall, but I won't worry about that; maybe if I pretend not to notice, it will go away.