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Fuck this 'Little House On The Prairie' bullshit.

Submitted by skrapmetal at 2013-09-09 09:04:38 EDT
Rating: 1.85 on 7 ratings (9 reviews) (Review this item) (V)

In my household, we like to think of ourselves as capable, reasonably smart, problem solving types that don't flinch in the face of adversity and who can rise to any challenge without becoming discouraged. Thusfar that'd pretty much proven out to be the case. Until last night, that is, when we realized how soft and dependent on contrivances we had both become. See, what hap'm was... the clothes washer failed.

The washer didn't fail in a catastrophic way, with water and suds spewing everywhere like some bad TV sitcom. Nope. It just got to a point in it's cycle that it was supposed to move the drum, and it didn't. It behaved like it was doing so as far as the timer knob was concerned, it just didn't move. As you might expect, the failure of the washing machine occurred when there were clothes in it. And as is often the case for some unknown reason, they were particularly important clothes. And there they were, sitting in the detergent and water, not rotating even a little bit.

The ASKO W6221 washing machine is a fairly decent device (when it is working properly, obviously) that does a fine job of cleaning the clothes witout damaging them. It's a front-loader and the thing I like about it is that it makes it's own hot water so I don't run out while doing laundry and taking a shower. More convenient than you might guess. I do my laundry and MLW does hers and we both like a front-loading hot-water-making quiet washing machine. Replacing it would be spendy so I decided to fix it. An hour's work with hand tools and a voltmeter, and I determined that the problem was that either the motor brushes were worn out (likely as the thing is 8 years old) or the motor had gone in some other manner. An internet search or two, a few clicks, a credit card number entered, and the replacement motor is on it's way. That's not the story. The story is what happened in the meantime.

In the meantime, those items of MLW's ridiculously overpriced show riding clothes that could be gentle-washed before being hung to dry for days were sitting in the detergent and water, not being washed. The ASKO people, loveable Swedes that they are, provided a method for draining the washer. It's a hose at the bottom that you can unplug and point toward a low-walled pan. Fill that pan a few times and the sensor that prevents you from opening the door if the water level is too high stops doing that, and you can open the door and remove the sopping wet soapy clothes.

We brought the clothes to the bathtub. She filled it with cold water and, kneeling side by side next to the tub, we started swishing the clothes around to agitate them a little. Wring them out and drop them back in for a repeat. And another. And another. Horses, it turns out, are dirty creatures. Drain the dirty water, and refill it to rinse away the soap. More wringing and rerinsing and wringing and rerinsing. One final wring and up on the line over the tub to drain. It took about an hour to do all that for 10 items of clothing and two saddle pads, at the end of which I was bored, wet, annoyed.

I remarked that I rather appreciate the washing machine now, and MLW's response was that not long ago we'd be smacking the clothes on a rock down at the creek a mile or so away from the log cabin. I reminded her that *she'd* be schlepping the clothes back and forth to the creek for rock-smacking as I would be out behind the mule tilling fields or off in the woods hunting or some such, since laundry back then was work for the womenfolk. We agreed that the people who today have to do that sort of labor to accomplish the (until yesterday) practically invisible task of cleaning clothes have it harder than we do, and these mechanical contrivances and devices we think we just use but really rely on are actually sort of a blessing. I would not choose to wash clothes by smacking them on a rock. I can do it, but I'd rather not. We also agreed that ordering the motor with overnight shipping was a good idea.

Quasi-related pic below (not MLW riding).


Review This Item




Submitted by FALLEN at 2013-09-16 09:46:22 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by Poots at 2013-09-15 21:34:00 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

You kicked my ass. Not with the story. The review about the unicorns and the 4th Buddha. That made me happy. Thanks, eh?

Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB at 2013-09-10 16:23:48 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by Tom Sorrell at 2013-09-10 03:29:58 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

Submitted by Shlongy at 2013-09-09 14:51:10 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

LOL, below.

Submitted by OathMeal at 2013-09-09 11:25:58 EDT (#)
Rating: 1

I really dislike doing laundry. It's boring, repetitive and sometimes smelly.

...kind of like Shlongy.

Submitted by RoadSong at 2013-09-09 11:13:22 EDT (#)

Saddle pad in the pic: practice pad.
Ah So

Submitted by skrapmetal at 2013-09-09 11:08:25 EDT (#)

They are very fancy saddle pads. Not the usual quilted cotton everyday saddle pads, not even the regular practice saddle pads or even schooling show saddle pads, no. These are full-on show saddle pads that are Australian sheepskin-lined with hyperwhite fleece and spider (not chintzy worm) silk and free-range unicorn mane fur and they're lovingly form-fitted to the contours of both the horse and saddle using an arcane mystical process involving hooded chanting and distilling nectar from a night-blooming fern that only grows in Huanchica Chile, and have strategic padding to position the saddle precisely in the five dimensions of space, time, and casuality, and are blessed and sanctified to be the physical manifestation of saddle pad perfection in every conceivable and inconceivable way by none other than the 4th Bhudda Himself. Or they should be for what the investment was. She has four of them. I thought race cars were expensive, but I was ignorant.

Saddle pad in the pic: practice pad.

Submitted by RoadSong at 2013-09-09 10:46:43 EDT (#)
Rating: 2

It took about an hour to do all that for 10 items of clothing and two saddle pads, at the end of which I was bored, wet, annoyed.


The saddle pads and riding outfits were in the same load?

Jeez. No beer ... no opera dogs ...

-- Homer Simpson
Bart the Genius