So when I was a girl scout, we used to sing this song that drove everyone in my life crrrazeee. It went like this:
You get the point.
I started thinking about this song when the repairman, who was supposed to fix my washing machine, arrived at my house for the third time in two weeks. Upon verifying that my machine, in fact, still did NOT spin on the spin cycle, he saw fit to offer laundry advice in lieu of making the actual repairs he was hired to do.
So, according to Mr. Repairman (who had yet to prove that he could repair anything), socks should be washed in a bag of some nature. That is what Mr. Repairman does in his house after all. He washes socks in a bag. Right. Okay. Congratulations. Why were we talking about how to wash socks?
Then, my eye spied the culprit.
A black sock sat crumbled on the floor in the corner by the washing machine. Evidently, his theory was that my machine ate its mate and the indigestion halted the operation of the spin cycle. Without even opening the machine, Mr. Repairman had the ability to predict the cause. He is a maintenance psychic .
I was supposed to be impressed.
I derived from his long-winded laundry advice that his hypothesis as to why my machine was broken has MORE do with the fact that I clearly did NOT know how to do laundry and LESS to with the fact that the machine was a piece of crap. While I appreciated his insult for moment, I reminded him that I hired a repair man to repair a machine that is not in fact repaired yet. So as long as we were exchanging "advice" I gave him a piece of my own- If I were a repair man- I would REPAIR the machine.
Just sayin'.
After a spirited debate, he agreed to service machine for a king's ransom, and I agreed to get my husband involved. I warned him before I did so. If he thinks, I'm a tiger... he will not like dealing with my husband.
Fine, he says. Get your husband involved.
So I did.
A day later, a very agitated Mr. Repairman returned to fix the machine for FREE, and when he begrudgingly opened up the machine, you will never guess what he found halting the spin cycle....
Wait for it....
Wait for it.....
A black sock.
Blaaaaack Socks, they never get dirty the longer you wear them the blacker they get.
Oooooone day, I think I shall launder them but something inside tells me don't do it yet.
Not yet....
Not yet...
Not yet...
Not yet....
Not yet....
Not yet...
Not yet...
Not yet...
I started thinking about this song when the repairman, who was supposed to fix my washing machine, arrived at my house for the third time in two weeks. Upon verifying that my machine, in fact, still did NOT spin on the spin cycle, he saw fit to offer laundry advice in lieu of making the actual repairs he was hired to do.
So, according to Mr. Repairman (who had yet to prove that he could repair anything), socks should be washed in a bag of some nature. That is what Mr. Repairman does in his house after all. He washes socks in a bag. Right. Okay. Congratulations. Why were we talking about how to wash socks?
Then, my eye spied the culprit.
A black sock sat crumbled on the floor in the corner by the washing machine. Evidently, his theory was that my machine ate its mate and the indigestion halted the operation of the spin cycle. Without even opening the machine, Mr. Repairman had the ability to predict the cause. He is a maintenance psychic .
I was supposed to be impressed.
I derived from his long-winded laundry advice that his hypothesis as to why my machine was broken has MORE do with the fact that I clearly did NOT know how to do laundry and LESS to with the fact that the machine was a piece of crap. While I appreciated his insult for moment, I reminded him that I hired a repair man to repair a machine that is not in fact repaired yet. So as long as we were exchanging "advice" I gave him a piece of my own- If I were a repair man- I would REPAIR the machine.
Just sayin'.
After a spirited debate, he agreed to service machine for a king's ransom, and I agreed to get my husband involved. I warned him before I did so. If he thinks, I'm a tiger... he will not like dealing with my husband.
Fine, he says. Get your husband involved.
So I did.
A day later, a very agitated Mr. Repairman returned to fix the machine for FREE, and when he begrudgingly opened up the machine, you will never guess what he found halting the spin cycle....Wait for it....
Wait for it.....
A black sock.
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